waiting for, the key revelation in the case. But I was hoping it wouldn’t be the end, but rather send things in a new direction. I was enjoying this job too much for it to finish so soon.
As I moved through the crowd, I kept my eye open for thugs from the Syndicate, European hitmen, and Ninja assassins, because that’s what Joe Mannix would do. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if I spotted any of them, though, since, unlike Mannix, I don’t carry a gun and hadn’t been in a fistfight since the fourth grade. Luckily for me, they seemed to be busy elsewhere that day.
She took a seat at a table in front of a hot dog place. A moment later, a guy sat down across from her and she seemed to recoil. I couldn’t blame her.
He looked like the kind of character Martin Sheen used to play on “Cannon” and “Barnaby Jones” before he became the President of the United States on TV. The guy had a thick, bushy mustache on his thin face that hung over his leering grin and must’ve got stuck in everything he ate. His deep-set eyes and sunken cheeks made him look older than he probably was, which I pegged at around thirty-four. He let the stringy, black hair on the back of his head grow over his shoulders in a botched attempt to make you forget his receding hairline.
She wasn’t fucking this guy, I was certain of that. Her whole body screamed out her repulsion. He had this relaxed, cocky air about him. I wanted to beat the shit out of the guy and I didn’t even know him.
I snapped a bunch of pictures and, since I couldn’t hear what they were saying, I tried to read their expressions and body language instead. It was like watching one of those soap operas on the Spanish channel.
I could tell she was angry, but pleading at the same time. He was enjoying himself way too much. He liked looking at her, but he liked torturing her even more, which is why I knew even before she gave him the bulging envelope from her purse that this was about blackmail.
The package was a half-filled manila envelope folded over itself and taped together that I guessed held about thirty thousand dollars.
He stuck the money inside his shirt, said something, and grinned.
“You promised!” she yelled in fury, startling me.
But he didn’t even flinch. He kissed the air between them, stood up, and strode off, relaxed and happy with himself.
Lauren Parkus stayed there, staring at the space where he’d been, tears streaming from beneath her dark, impenetrable glasses.
Chapter Eight
I was right about food getting stuck in his mustache. From where I sat, a couple tables away from him in the food court of the Santa Monica Place mall, I could see the grains of fried rice getting trapped in the tangle above his lip as he stuffed himself with Chinese food.
Back on the pier, I had five seconds to choose between staying with Lauren or following her blackmailer. I figured since her business was done, I wouldn’t miss anything if I left her.
Lauren’s blackmailer strode up the pier to the mall, patting his stomach every so often to feel the thirty grand underneath his shirt. I’d probably have done the same thing, if I was him. As soon as he was in the mall, he went straight to the food court and got himself the three ninety-nine combo plate at the Wok Inn.
As long as I was there, I bought myself a slice of pizza and a Coke, got a table where I could see him, and thought about things. I wondered what he had on Lauren, and if there were pictures or recordings somewhere that Cyril Parkus might pay me to get back. And if I did get hired to do it, I wondered how the hell I’d pull it off.
Things were getting complicated and scary and exciting, words I never could have used before to describe my life. I liked it.
He finished his lunch and got up without bussing his table. I thought about snagging his fork for fingerprints, but I realized I didn’t have an irascible friend on The Force to run them for me. I made a mental note to myself: if I stayed in this
As I moved through the crowd, I kept my eye open for thugs from the Syndicate, European hitmen, and Ninja assassins, because that’s what Joe Mannix would do. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if I spotted any of them, though, since, unlike Mannix, I don’t carry a gun and hadn’t been in a fistfight since the fourth grade. Luckily for me, they seemed to be busy elsewhere that day.
She took a seat at a table in front of a hot dog place. A moment later, a guy sat down across from her and she seemed to recoil. I couldn’t blame her.
He looked like the kind of character Martin Sheen used to play on “Cannon” and “Barnaby Jones” before he became the President of the United States on TV. The guy had a thick, bushy mustache on his thin face that hung over his leering grin and must’ve got stuck in everything he ate. His deep-set eyes and sunken cheeks made him look older than he probably was, which I pegged at around thirty-four. He let the stringy, black hair on the back of his head grow over his shoulders in a botched attempt to make you forget his receding hairline.
She wasn’t fucking this guy, I was certain of that. Her whole body screamed out her repulsion. He had this relaxed, cocky air about him. I wanted to beat the shit out of the guy and I didn’t even know him.
I snapped a bunch of pictures and, since I couldn’t hear what they were saying, I tried to read their expressions and body language instead. It was like watching one of those soap operas on the Spanish channel.
I could tell she was angry, but pleading at the same time. He was enjoying himself way too much. He liked looking at her, but he liked torturing her even more, which is why I knew even before she gave him the bulging envelope from her purse that this was about blackmail.
The package was a half-filled manila envelope folded over itself and taped together that I guessed held about thirty thousand dollars.
He stuck the money inside his shirt, said something, and grinned.
“You promised!” she yelled in fury, startling me.
But he didn’t even flinch. He kissed the air between them, stood up, and strode off, relaxed and happy with himself.
Lauren Parkus stayed there, staring at the space where he’d been, tears streaming from beneath her dark, impenetrable glasses.
Chapter Eight
I was right about food getting stuck in his mustache. From where I sat, a couple tables away from him in the food court of the Santa Monica Place mall, I could see the grains of fried rice getting trapped in the tangle above his lip as he stuffed himself with Chinese food.
Back on the pier, I had five seconds to choose between staying with Lauren or following her blackmailer. I figured since her business was done, I wouldn’t miss anything if I left her.
Lauren’s blackmailer strode up the pier to the mall, patting his stomach every so often to feel the thirty grand underneath his shirt. I’d probably have done the same thing, if I was him. As soon as he was in the mall, he went straight to the food court and got himself the three ninety-nine combo plate at the Wok Inn.
As long as I was there, I bought myself a slice of pizza and a Coke, got a table where I could see him, and thought about things. I wondered what he had on Lauren, and if there were pictures or recordings somewhere that Cyril Parkus might pay me to get back. And if I did get hired to do it, I wondered how the hell I’d pull it off.
Things were getting complicated and scary and exciting, words I never could have used before to describe my life. I liked it.
He finished his lunch and got up without bussing his table. I thought about snagging his fork for fingerprints, but I realized I didn’t have an irascible friend on The Force to run them for me. I made a mental note to myself: if I stayed in this
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