"You don't have an accounting department, Arthur," Vincent interrupted, finally turning his head to look at him. The look in Vincent’s eyes made Sterling step back again, right into a waiter holding a tray of martinis. Glasses shattered across the floor, the ice scattering like white teeth. "You have a cash register and a gambling habit at the underground track on Cicero Avenue. I know every dollar that passes through this zip code. Every single one."
Vincent stood back up, towering over Sterling. He signaled with a slight tilt of his chin.
Two men moved from the shadows of the hallway—clean-cut guys in dark suits who didn't look like bouncers; they looked like federal auditors with guns.
"Take Mr. Sterling's car keys," Vincent ordered quietly.