"Sit him down and get him a drink. I'll be with you soon."
Morné let the music wash over him for a few more bars before he turned away from the balcony. He approached a round table surrounded by four chairs.
As he stepped closer, the music suddenly stopped. The private table was in full view but surrounded by an acoustic field. No sound passed in or out. He carried out his business in full view of the club, but needed the privacy. Morné could beat a man half to death in full sight of his own establishment and there would be no repercussions.
"Morné."
"Filbin."
Morné slid his jacket from his shoulders and handed it to one of his people. He sat down opposite Filbin. The 'union' leader had a shaved head and a closely cropped grey beard.
Morné didn't shake hands. That was the first warning sign. The second was when he removed his cufflinks and set them down on the table.
"I have come to understand that you've been allowing Soot to be sold on your patch?" Morné asked. He continued to roll his sleeves up to his elbows, which should have been a second warning.
Filbin, however, had never been all that bright.
"Yeah.
My patch. I don't have to come to you for permission," Filbin replied.
Morné felt one of his people bristle just over his left shoulder. He held up his hand and leaned forwards.
"Yes. Your patch. You're a leader, you need to own your space. I appreciate that," Morné said. He leaned forwards across the table and continued. "But if you speak to me like that again, with such
fucking disrespect, you'll found out what that power counts for right here. Remember you who put you where you are now."
Filbin didn't bring himself to outright apologise. He glanced down at Morné's clenched fist and gave a slow nod of acknowledgement.
"Now Soot is nasty stuff," Morné continued. "You know the life expectancy of someone who starts on it?"
"I...don't," Filbin shrugged.
"Four years. It's nasty stuff. How many death sticks do dead people buy Filbin? Come on, you can fucking count that high."
"None."
"Exactly. And it's worse than that. It breaks up families, it ruins communities. It gets the attention of Alliance law enforcement and that comes from you to me. So, you clear that shit off your streets. You understand?"
"Yeah, yeah alright Morné. Sorry."
There was a pause. The understanding between them allowed to settle.
"How's your son Filbin? The one in district six?" Morné asked.
"Yeah, yeah he's good..." Filbin replied tentatively.
"He still like cars? I'll drop him off something nice. Been moving some imported goods. Calf leather white seats, corellia engine. Make sure he enjoys it," Morné said.
It was important to deploy the carrot and the stick to inspire loyalty.
"Thanks, he will."
"Enjoy your night. Get Filbin a glass of the sixty eight, yeah?"
Morné leaned forwards and picked up his cufflinks. He put them in his pocket, but left his sleeves rolled up. He turned from the meeting and headed to the stairs down to the club floor. He headed for the main bar.
Adrenaline had nowhere to go. At least he hadn't been forced to follow through with any threats; his current husband got upset when he came through with bloodied knuckles. His hands faintly trembled.
He would be free if anyone else had business. Or he would drinks and dance until the adrenaline was gone.
