SEX, LIES & BLACK MAIL
It’s a hot summer evening in New York, the tail end of the type of stifling day that makes shirts cling to backs. But that’s not the only reason Herman Weisberg is uncomfortable. He has arrived early to the restaurant where they’ve agreed to meet, a Mexican dive in one of Brooklyn’s tougher neighbourhoods, to find she’s already waiting. It’s a surprise, and Weisberg hates surprises.
He nods hello and reluctantly slides into the seat opposite – the one with its back to the door – before offering to buy her a drink. She accepts – they always do. Margarita on the rocks, no salt. She’s curvy, with fake lashes and inch-long nails, but even in the dark he can see the faint shadow of facial hair.
Once the drinks arrive, he cuts to the chase. He’s not here to make a deal for sex, he’s here to help her out of a situation. She’s been harassing his client in New York, demanding money in exchange for keeping a secret is extortion, a criminal offence that carries jail
