I look at Tommy's friends watching us with wide eyes. Four rich college kids, terrified out of their minds. The two girls clutch each other's hands. One of the guys looks like he might throw up.
"Well, Tommy," I say, keeping my voice casual. "You put us in a difficult position. My boss isn't going to be happy if we come back empty-handed."
Sweat beads on Tommy's forehead. "I swear, man. I don't keep cash here. I promise I'll get the money tomorrow."
I need to intimidate him without actually hurting him. Violence leaves evidence, creates witnesses, attracts police. But if I back down too easily, word will spread that Vargas's crew is soft, and collections will become impossible.
"Let me think," I say, standing up and pacing the room.
My eyes scan the bedroom, taking in the details I missed during the initial confrontation. On a shelf against the wall sits a small bar setup, crystal decanters filled with amber liquids, high-end bottles with names even I recognize.
"Nice collection," I comment, picking up a bottle of cognac. "Hennesy, huh? This stuff costs what, two hundred bucks?"
Tommy shifts uncomfortably. "It's my dad's."
"Your dad's," I repeat, setting the bottle down with exaggerated care. "So you're telling me you can afford to drink your daddy's two-hundred-dollar cognac, but you can't pay your gambling debts?"
"I told you, I don't have cash here!"
I consider my options. Dislocating his finger would send a message, but it might be too severe. A gun would definitely scare him, but pulling a weapon you're not prepared to use would be wrong.
Then it hits me.
A smile spreads across my face, and Tommy visibly recoils.
"Come here," I say, grabbing his arm and pulling him to his feet.
"What are you doing?" he protests as I drag him toward the balcony doors.
"Taking you for some fresh air."
Ricky catches on immediately, moving to block the doorway so Tommy's friends can't interfere. "Y'all just stay put now, this is between your buddy and us."
I push open the glass doors and force Tommy onto the balcony, the same one he'd jumped from minutes ago. The ornamental bushes below look significantly less inviting from this angle.
"You know what happens to people who don't pay their debts, Tommy?" I ask, positioning him against the railing.
"Please," he whimpers, "my ankle's already hurt."
"Those bushes saved you once," I say, leaning in close. "But what if you missed them next time? What if you landed on the concrete instead?"
His face goes pale. "You can't—"
"I can't what?" I push him a little further, making him lean backward over the railing. "Can't help you practice your flying? Because I think you need the practice. First attempt was pretty sloppy."
Tommy grips the railing with white knuckles. "Jesus Christ, man!"
"Tell me again how you don't have any money," I say, increasing the pressure just enough to make him feel unbalanced.
"OK! OK!" he shouts, tears forming in his eyes. "I have a bank card!"
I ease the pressure slightly. "A what?"
"A bank card! For the ATM! I can withdraw cash!"
I pull him back from the railing but keep a firm grip on his arm. "Now we're talking. Where is this card?"
"Wallet. In my wallet. Front pocket."
I reach into his pocket and pull out a leather wallet. Inside, alongside a stack of credit cards, is a blue plastic card with "Miami First" printed on it.
"This?" I ask, holding it up.
Tommy nods frantically. "Yes, that's it. You can use it at the bank machine. Take out cash."
I hand the card to Ricky, who examines it with childlike fascination.
"Well, I'll be," Ricky says, turning the card over in his hands. "I've heard about these things. The automatic teller machines. Never actually seen one."
I turn back to Tommy. "Anything else you want to tell me? Any other details I should know?"
Tommy stares at the floor, saying nothing.
"No? Nothing at all?" I guide him back toward the balcony. "Maybe another trip over the railing will jog your memory."
"Wait!" Tommy yelps. "You need a code! A PIN code!"
I stop, pulling him back inside. "That's better. What else?"
Tommy hesitates again.
"You know what?" I say, smiling coldly. "Why don't you just come with us to the ATM? Show us how it works."
"No! Please!" Tommy's composure finally breaks completely. "The code is 8791! Please don't empty my account. My dad will kill me if he finds out."
"How much is in there?"
"About ten thousand," Tommy admits. "But please, if you take it all, my dad will notice when he checks the statements."
I pretend to consider this. "Here's what's going to happen. We're taking five thousand, the two you owe, plus three thousand for interest, making us chase you and for wasting our time with this 'I have no money' routine."
Relief washes over Tommy's face. "Okay. Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," I warn. "If this card doesn't work, or if the code is wrong, we're coming back. And next time, we won't be nearly as understanding."
I pocket the bank card and nod to Ricky. "Let's go."
As we head for the door, I turn back to the group of shell-shocked college kids. "Oh, and if any of you call the police, or try to warn Tommy's parents, just remember we know who you are and where you live."
It's a completely empty threat that has nothing to do with reality, I wonder if I've overplayed. But looking at their wide eyes and trembling lips, I see no disbelief, just pure fear. These sheltered kids probably think the "Cuban mafia" has special operatives for information gathering.
Better to leave it as is. Sometimes the most effective intimidation comes from letting people's imaginations run wild.
I follow Ricky out, Tommy's card secure in my pocket.
The threat hangs in the air as we leave, Tommy slumped in his chair, defeated.
Outside, Ricky wanted to look at the bank card again. "This is the future, man. No more carrying cash around. Just plastic and a number."
I nod. "Let's find an ATM and get our money. I hope Miguel will be pleased."