Chapter 7: The Butcher’s Block and a Sharper Edge
The scent of sawdust, aged blood, and spiced sausages usually filled Leclerc's Boucherie. The next morning, however, the dominant aroma was fear. Henri Leclerc, a portly man whose jolly demeanor had been leached away by months of dwindling custom and mounting debts, was visibly trembling as he tried to arrange a meagre display of pork chops. His hands shook so badly he nearly dropped one.
Thomas MacIntyre entered the shop quietly, the bell above the door giving a nervous tinkle. He wasn't wearing his usual groundskeeper's overalls, but a simple, dark woolen jacket that did little to hide the sheer bulk of his augmented physique. He moved with a quiet deliberation that was more intimidating than any overt threat.
"Mr. Leclerc," Thomas said, his voice a low rumble.
Leclerc jumped, spinning around, his face pale. "Ah! Mr... MacIntyre. Good morning. C-can I help you? Some nice chops today? Very fresh." His forced cheerfulness was pathetic.
Thomas ignored the offered meat. He walked slowly towards the counter, his gaze sweeping the small shop, lingering for a moment on a newly cracked pane of glass in the display case – a likely souvenir from Scarelli's thugs.
"I heard you had some unwelcome visitors yesterday, Mr. Leclerc," Thomas stated, his pale blue eyes fixing on the butcher.
Leclerc's attempt at a smile crumbled. He wrung his apron in his hands. "Visitors? Oh, just a couple of... uh... gentlemen inquiring about... deliveries."
"Gentlemen who seem to have a reputation for inquiries that leave folks short of breath and lighter in the pocket," Thomas continued, his tone flat, implacable. "Lou Scarelli's men, weren't they?"
Leclerc visibly deflated. He sagged against the counter, the fight going out of him. "Yes," he whispered. "They... they want a 'contribution'. For their 'patronage'. Said they'd be back today for their first payment. I... I don't have it, Mr. MacIntyre. Business is terrible. I barely have enough to feed my own family." Tears welled in his eyes.