“He accosted me!” Benny shouts, pointing.
“Yeah, I know,” I scoff. “I was standing right here. Now, go away, Benny. Get your new girlfriend to buy you new grow lights.”
“I’ll call the cops on this place.”
“What?” I gasp. “You grew the pot, not me.”
“They don’t know that. Like you said, you own the place.”
“Get the lights,” Tank murmurs, still not taking his eyes off Benny.
I trot to the back room, noting my returned rug, crumpled on the floor and missing the mafia man. I grab the pair of lights and return to find the two men in my life having a staring contest. If we assign points based on tough, commanding awesomeness, Tank is winning.
“Here.” Tank takes them from me and shoves them at Benny.
“You call the cops, I find you,” Tank says.
“Yeah, whatever, man.”
Tank shuts the door
