The short heavy bellied man ran his sausage like digits through what few strands of greasy black hair clung to his splotched pate. His dull green eyes never wavered from their predetermined target, that being the monolithic oaken door at the back of the luxurious space he and his partner had haunted for the last three hours. A door that hadn’t opened once, he grumbled under short breaths as he tugged with his free hand at wrinkles in the rumpled lavender suit coat that barely contained his burgeoning abdomen. “Too many witnesses.” “Don’t matter,” the thin, angular bald fencepost of a man standing back to back with his beer barrel of a partner squeaked. He was thankful that he had the more active view, even if it was more to take in. The Morriston Room, a millionaire’s bawdy version of a local watering hole replete with mahogany tables, authentic crystal chandeliers, and gold inlaid handcrafted paneled walls that rose from imported marble floor tiles, took up almost the entire first floor of Morriston Plaza.
