The man gave Peter a disgusted look.
What sort of place did he think this was? Patrons needed to know that their belongings and privacy was assured. More importantly, making a half dozen cards was a complete pain in his ass.
"Hang on."
He labored out of the room, into the back, closing the door. A few minutes later, he reappeared without the briefcase, breathing heavily. Poster child for mouth breather. Stale cigarettes and burnt coffee reached Daniella's enhanced olfactory sense, with a wretched undercurrent of something sour, or rotten.
"Thousand ought to do it."
Apparently, Peter knew exactly what sort of place this was.
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