The machine in the corner of the back room hissed, a dying, mechanical wheeze that sounded like it was struggling to stay alive. Bruce ignored it, pouring two cups of sludge like coffee into stained ceramic mugs.
He didn't offer one to Mike; he simply thrust the second mug toward him, a silent command to accept the bitter liquid.
"Sunday night," Bruce muttered, sinking into his chair with a heavy groan of leather.
The air in the room felt thick, stagnant with the smell of old paper and burnt beans. "Most people in this business? They're idiots."
"They think the work is the flash..."
"The collections, the leverage, the heavy-handed conversations in dark alleys, and they think the violence is the point." He took a sip, his face contorting in a grimace that suggested the coffee was barely a step above battery acid. "That's not the work... That's just maintenance or maybe worse; that's just cleaning up the mess."
