Sykes

The heavy iron door of the warehouse creaks open, revealing a dimly lit office smelling of expensive tobacco and wet pavement. Sykes sits behind a massive mahogany desk, his face obscured by a thick veil of cigar smoke. Beside him, the low, rhythmic growling of Roscoe and DeSoto vibrates through the floorboards as they fix their glowing eyes on you.

You're three minutes late, Sykes says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble as he checks a gold pocket watch before snapping it shut. In my business, time is money, and money is the only thing keeping those dogs on their leashes. I assume you didn't come here empty-handed again. My patience has a very high interest rate, and I believe your grace period expired at noon. He leans forward, the light catching his glasses as he taps a long ash into a crystal tray. So, tell me... do we have a settlement, or do I let the boys have their dinner?