time as I was getting shot down in Florida because of Sophia. Anyway, Roth kept her in a hidden room in his basement for over a week. The bastard raped her repeatedly until, one day, she miraculously escaped. Made the news even where I was convalescing in the Bahamas. Most thought he’d fled into Canada through upstate New York. Not long after all legit leads on Larry dried up, I got the call. People knew how to get in touch with me ... or rather the person or persons they thought I was. Few know the true me.
And as one in my past found out, to truly know me is to hate me.
I’m paid to destroy people’s lives, but this job was slightly different.
A life had already been destroyed by that monster back there, a white man pretending to be a brown man so as to hide in plain sight. Desperate, depraved motherfucker.
Who knows how many others had run into him before Arturo’s sister?
No child was safe.
They were the only ones worth saving.
I would’ve done this job for free.
Maybe.
But one month’s work for a cool million upfront wasn’t too shabby.
I texted Arturo the address where Larry Roth was hidden, completing my end of the deal. His people would swoop in to exact revenge for innocence stolen and the world would be none the wiser that a sick man no longer dwelled among the living.
From out of a nearby storm drain, I fetched a waterproof bag I’d stowed that held a pair of Under Armour running shoes. An idiosyncrasy I’d developed in the town that gave me my name. Had been caught off guard that time in the desert. Had to run for my life barefooted. A bad time.
But never again.
Ditching my old, worn props, I quickly donned the comfortable shoes then set off on my trek, the neighborhood bum suddenly darting and dashing like someone ten years his junior. I ran as fast as I could, taking a shortcut through Saint Raymond’s Cemetery en route to the Public Self Storage on Bush Avenue. Inside one of their prepaid storage units, a motorcycle, ID, and change of clothes awaited.
And just like Larry Roth, a cheery, snaggletoothed homeless man would never be seen again after today either.
For not only was I patient.
I was prepared.
7
Freshly shaven and sporting a designer suit, I walked briskly through Midway. I’d just touched down in Chicago from Newark and taken a cab over from O’Hare. Another airline, another identity. While heading toward my gate for the Southwest flight to Oakland, I reached into my jacket pocket. Sifted through my multiple SIM cards and retrieved the carefully marked one I was looking for. Not breaking my stride, I switched it to my other pocket where I swapped it out with a different SIM card inside my cell.
When I stopped to review the overhead departure schedule, I placed a call.
“Yo. Who this?” Francis Martin Quinones, the head valet attendant at the Stratus hotel in Las Vegas, answered. Two hours ahead, so probably hadn’t left for work yet.
“Uptown callin’,” I replied, donning the voice I used whenever I dealt with him. Francis not only funneled business my way, like he did with the Arturo Diaz job, but had helped me on a previous job in Vegas. Dude really thought I was from Harlem. And with him being from Queens by way of the Bronx, it didn’t hurt to keep up the illusion.
“Hey! What’s goin’ on, my man?” Frankie the valet enthusiastically responded. “Thought something had happened to you ’n’ shit.”
Ignoring his concern, I pressed on. “Nah. I’m good. Hey. That key I left you. Greyhound bus station on South Main. Locker number 237. Got it?”
“No shit?”
“Yeah. I’m serious. A token of appreciation. You deserve it for makin’ that connect. Looks like you might be outta the valet business, son.”
“Furreal? Thank you! Thank you! Thank you for takin’ this job. You’s a bad motherfucka, yo! Off top! We need ta go out fer drinks or somethin’, my man. Or at least let me take ya to the strip club. When you comin’ back to
And as one in my past found out, to truly know me is to hate me.
I’m paid to destroy people’s lives, but this job was slightly different.
A life had already been destroyed by that monster back there, a white man pretending to be a brown man so as to hide in plain sight. Desperate, depraved motherfucker.
Who knows how many others had run into him before Arturo’s sister?
No child was safe.
They were the only ones worth saving.
I would’ve done this job for free.
Maybe.
But one month’s work for a cool million upfront wasn’t too shabby.
I texted Arturo the address where Larry Roth was hidden, completing my end of the deal. His people would swoop in to exact revenge for innocence stolen and the world would be none the wiser that a sick man no longer dwelled among the living.
From out of a nearby storm drain, I fetched a waterproof bag I’d stowed that held a pair of Under Armour running shoes. An idiosyncrasy I’d developed in the town that gave me my name. Had been caught off guard that time in the desert. Had to run for my life barefooted. A bad time.
But never again.
Ditching my old, worn props, I quickly donned the comfortable shoes then set off on my trek, the neighborhood bum suddenly darting and dashing like someone ten years his junior. I ran as fast as I could, taking a shortcut through Saint Raymond’s Cemetery en route to the Public Self Storage on Bush Avenue. Inside one of their prepaid storage units, a motorcycle, ID, and change of clothes awaited.
And just like Larry Roth, a cheery, snaggletoothed homeless man would never be seen again after today either.
For not only was I patient.
I was prepared.
7
Freshly shaven and sporting a designer suit, I walked briskly through Midway. I’d just touched down in Chicago from Newark and taken a cab over from O’Hare. Another airline, another identity. While heading toward my gate for the Southwest flight to Oakland, I reached into my jacket pocket. Sifted through my multiple SIM cards and retrieved the carefully marked one I was looking for. Not breaking my stride, I switched it to my other pocket where I swapped it out with a different SIM card inside my cell.
When I stopped to review the overhead departure schedule, I placed a call.
“Yo. Who this?” Francis Martin Quinones, the head valet attendant at the Stratus hotel in Las Vegas, answered. Two hours ahead, so probably hadn’t left for work yet.
“Uptown callin’,” I replied, donning the voice I used whenever I dealt with him. Francis not only funneled business my way, like he did with the Arturo Diaz job, but had helped me on a previous job in Vegas. Dude really thought I was from Harlem. And with him being from Queens by way of the Bronx, it didn’t hurt to keep up the illusion.
“Hey! What’s goin’ on, my man?” Frankie the valet enthusiastically responded. “Thought something had happened to you ’n’ shit.”
Ignoring his concern, I pressed on. “Nah. I’m good. Hey. That key I left you. Greyhound bus station on South Main. Locker number 237. Got it?”
“No shit?”
“Yeah. I’m serious. A token of appreciation. You deserve it for makin’ that connect. Looks like you might be outta the valet business, son.”
“Furreal? Thank you! Thank you! Thank you for takin’ this job. You’s a bad motherfucka, yo! Off top! We need ta go out fer drinks or somethin’, my man. Or at least let me take ya to the strip club. When you comin’ back to
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