The crowd spilling from the bars and restaurants was below the normal level of intoxication as Marcus walked down Bourbon Street in the French Quarter. He wasn’t really paying attention where he was going. Preoccupied, his phone pressed to his ear, he rolled his eyes, sighing as the man on the other end of the line spoke. “Mister Rutherford, we understand your frustration with the situation and would like every opportunity to make things right.” “Look.” Marcus snarled, his patience had worn thin about three minutes into the now ten-minute call. “I don’t have time for the runaround. Can you get the shipment here tomorrow or do I cancel my contract and find a new supplier?” Marcus’s anxiety drained away as a strange feeling washed over him. Stopping to let the crowd continue to flow around him, he didn’t even respond to the few drunken insults thrown his way. The man on the phone cleared his throat and made a couple of false starts before he managed to spit out, “We will have a replacement shipment delivered to your bar tomorrow.”
