I’ll want to soften her up so she can let those loose lips of hers sink ships.
When I pull up to the prison right before dusk, she’s not there. No one is waiting out front. Perhaps I overestimated my “pull” on her—my being Mitch’s hold on her. Maybe she’s not moonstruck by Mitch after all, or she found another ride.
What if Mitch already got to her, and I’ve hit another dead end?
I’m not going to let self-doubt creep in and forego the advance my client, a prominent but dirty state politician, paid me.
Nope. The guards may offer a clue. I park the car and head for the visitor’s area.
“We’re not open for visiting,” a buxom guard says, eyeing me up and down. “Although I get off at six.”
“I’m looking for Samantha Reed. She was released today.”
The washed-up blond exchanges glances with an older guard who says, “You the ride she called? Or are you the boyfriend?”
I narrow my eyes and wonder how much Sammie told them about Mitch. Since he’s my quarry, I play along.
“Former boyfriend. I’m the guy she was seeing before she ended up here.”
“Funny, she never let on what a hottie she had.” The stout younger guard flutters her hand over her purposely heaving chest. “Care to have a drink with me, and I’ll tell you everything she did in prison.”
“I’m more interested in finding her.” I take the offered card with her phone number on it just in case. “It’s too bad I missed her. Did someone else pick her up?”
“Nope. Sad puppy, that one.” The wiry crone well past retirement age cackles. “She confessed all her crimes. Didn’t even cop a plea deal. But at least you showed up.”
“How romantic,” the hefty milkmaid-type blinks, eyelashes fluttering and sighs as if I’m a superhero. “You came to pick her up from prison.”
I flash her an encouraging smile. “Did she talk a lot about me?”
One thing I’m good at is eliciting information from complete strangers. That and keeping them from finding out anything about me.
“Not that much,” the geriatric guard says. “Never had visitors. I felt sorry for her. Anyway, I win the bet because you didn’t show up.”
“Actually, he did,” the bosomy guard says. “He’s standing right in front of us.”
“He didn’t show up in time,” old prune-face says.
“Where did she go?” I ask, but the two Tweedle Dees and Dums are doing the “did not,” “did too,” back and forth.
Not that they’re of any use. It’s obvious Sammie didn’t talk about Mitch, because I don’t look a thing like that douchebag—pale, milky guy with a surplus of body hair, weak flaccid muscles, and bloodshot eyes, and if I were her, I wouldn’t be bragging about a milquetoast who let me take the rap sheet while he partied on yachts and hobnobbed with senators and congress critters.
I amble back to my car and text Sammie.
Where the hell are you?
She texts back a few seconds later.Sorry, I don’t talk to strangers.
Ha, ha. I feel like congratulating her. I wouldn’t have respected her if she didn’t pick up that I’m not exactly Mitch.
I thumb back a message.Don’t worry. I’ll find you. I always get my woman.
She has the cheek to reply.I’ll never be yours.
My last offer.Will you settle for a steak dinner?
She doesn’t answer.
~ Sammie ~
