�Then we have a problem,� Lindani said, leaning in just enough to make it feel personal. �My girlfriend�s quitting drinking. Only thing she touches is Heineken Zero.�
�Sorry, sir, we don�t stock it.�
�I really like the atmosphere here,� Lindani pressed. �Any chance I could buy some elsewhere and drink it here?�
That was the throw of the dice. He kept his face unreadable while silently willing the man to say yes. The pause stretched like wire. Finally, the manager shook his head.
�Sorry sir, against policy.�
�That�s a pity. We�re only in town a few weeks� this is the closest club to where we�re staying.�
The manager�s tone flattened. �Sorry, sir, we don�t stock it.�
Lindani played his last card. �Well� could I speak to the manager?�
�I am the manager.�
�Okay,� Lindani said smoothly. �Could I speak to the owner then?�
He let the question hang. The manager�s eyes flicked�just briefly�toward the cold room. A fraction of a second, but enough to confirm the hook was set.
The man disappeared into a reinforced room behind a steel burglar door. Minutes ticked by. When he returned, there was a subtle shift in his demeanor.
�The owner will see you in a moment,� he said.
The plan had worked�better than they�d dared to hope.
Emmanuel Adedeji had a presence that seemed to fill the room before he even stepped into it. He was a towering six foot nine�a height that made even the tallest men shrink in comparison. His frame was long-limbed, almost disproportionate, moving with a slow, deliberate gait that carried an odd spring, as though each step was being measured for effect.
The reinforced door swung open, and he emerged with an easy, almost regal composure. Without a word, he crossed to the counter, eyes fixed on the bartender.