Dirty Deeds by Armand Rosamilia

in place a long time before I got here, and it would evolve as we progressed. Marisa had made vast improvements in the network over the years, too.
    “She’s just turned fifteen. High school student. She’s a cheerleader. Stays after school for practice and walks home. Three blocks. Easy,” Marisa said.
    Marisa liked to downplay how hard this was, as if I’ve ever complained or said I couldn’t do a job. I’d take the money and do this because I could only imagine what the alternative would be. I guess a legitimately dead kid somewhere.
    “What timeframe are we talking?” I asked. I could feel a headache coming on.
    The ride from Manhattan to Pawtucket had been wonderful. I’d figured out how to use the satellite radio and found a decent hard rock station, singing along to Led Zeppelin and Motley Crue. Sue me. I’m old.
    “Within the week. Obviously Monday through Friday so she’ll be in school and you can get her. Tell me what you need,” Marisa said. She liked to play this game whenever we got a new job. And it wasn’t just me. It was a we when it came to making these successful.
    I’d been in Marisa’s shoes for a few years until my boss had retired and handed me the reins to this business. It had been in the eighties and I had to scramble to do everything the old fashioned way: putting dimes in a payphone booth. For the younger generation feel free to Google it and see how they used to work.
    I was formulating a plan in my head. “I’ll need a beat-up white van. A work van. A good disguise and something to render her unconscious in seconds before she screams,” I said. I wanted to create the perfect illusion of a pedophile grabbing a pretty teen girl off the street and getting her into his van. I’d need an escape route and a safe place to switch her into another car and away before the cops showed up.
    “I’ll need to talk to the father or whoever is paying me.”
    “No way. We’ve been over this before. Look what happened in Philly. Don’t you get it? There is absolutely no good reason to meet anyone, and they don’t want to meet you. They just want to wire the money to an account and act surprised when their little princess is abducted,” Marisa said.
    She was right, but it still felt odd to not see this horrible person eye to eye.
    An older teen was also a gray area for me, as there was obviously no way to simply hand the kid over to a new set of parents to raise as their own with no questions asked. I’d need to put this girl away for awhile until I could figure out what to do with her, and killing wasn’t an option.
    The easy part was the kidnapping. Getting her unconscious into the van and speeding away was exciting, and the adrenaline rush was going to keep me wired and going until I got to the safe house.
    When she woke up, though, would be where the hard part began. I couldn’t just keep her on ice indefinitely. I could waste my time trying to convince her she was safe now, but there was no chance in hell she’d believe her kidnapper. If I told her what had really happened she’d think I was lying. I’d think I was lying if I were in her shoes. Her shoes probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, and I owned two dozen pair of jean shorts and more black t-shirts than was sane.
    I tried to remember the last time I’d had to do this with an older subject.
    “Boss. You still there?” Marisa asked over the phone.
    “Huh? Yeah. Just daydreaming again. I’m trying to recall the last teenager job.”
    “It was July of 2005. Harry something or other. Remember? He was fifteen. You did the job in Portland,” Marisa said.
    “Portland? Yeah, I remember. It was cold in Maine, right?”
    “Who knows? You grabbed Harry in Portland Oregon . You really should see a doctor about your memory loss. I worry about you,” Marisa said.
    “I’m playing with you,” I lied. “Didn’t he end up in foster care? He got sent to the weird doctor in Dallas to brainwash him or something.” I’d