“Don’t worry, Landy. We got your six.” Suds shakes his head, sharing my displeasure. This is our first employee, and we want her to be happy.
Done saying goodbye, I look out, surprised at the SUV, idling in front of the Park Slope safehouse.
“She’s all gassed up and ready for you. Call me.” Slate nods at the driver who jumps out, circles the vehicles, and opens our back door. Eyes on the street, he guards us until we’re safely behind bulletproof glass.
Before I can ask our destination, my phone rings and I pull it out of my purse. “It’s Dash. Should I answer?”
“Go for it but don’t let him know we’re onto him.”
Under my husband’s watchful gaze, I swallow hard, and swipe. “Hey. Wazzup?”
Despite trying to remain calm, my voice sounds strained and why wouldn’t it? If I could, I’d reach through the airwaves, grab our client by the collar, and shake the truth out of him.
He responds so fast, I doubt he noticed my nervousness. “We need to talk. Can you meet me in the city?”
Not sure it’s a great idea, I glance over at my partner and when he nods, I respond. “I guess. Where are you?”
“Stuck in traffic, near the airport.”
“Hold on.” Putting him on mute, we pick a bar halfway between our two locations, and after confirming the time and place, hang up.
My hubby shakes his head as he maneuvers through the creeping line of cars. “Who the hell pays an insurance company so they can pretend to work for them?”
“Someone trying to hide his identity. He could be working for the Chinese, The Kings, CIA, FBI, ABC, DEA, Holy shit, the list is endless.”
Suds glances over at my mini-freak-out. “Calm down, sugar. You’ll figure it out.”
As he slips behind a pickle truck, I slam my foot on the passenger side brake. “But what if he’s looking for dirt on us?”
“Then we hire a lawyer. I happen to know one who’s fuckin’ incredible and owes us a favor.”
I ease my instep off the carpet, lift my palms off the glove compartment, and switch on an oldies rock station. He’s right. I need to chill.
When we arrive at the bar, we circle the block a couple times, and find a spot directly in front of a red neon Miller Lite sign.
Inside the dark space, we’re led to a booth near the back where Montclair nurses a beer. “Want to tell me why you blew up the container truck?”
“Dunno what you’re talking about.” My spouse motions we should go but our client tugs on his arm.
“Hold on. Sit down. We’re on the same side.” He pushes a couple glasses of foamy amber liquid to the other side of the booth.
“And what side would that be?” Not one to ignore a free beer, I slide in first.
Watching my husband follow suit, Dash puts both elbows on the table and lowers his voice. “The side of someone who wants these drugs off the street and tired of the FEDS not being able to stop them.”
Whoa, this is news.“So, you don’t intend to sue us?”
“Hell no. If I could, I’d give you a medal.” At his honest surprise, Suds, scratches his head.
“Damn. You sure had us flummoxed.”
To give him some time to recoup, I poke my southern rambler in the ribs and ask, “Is that even a word?”
Our client leans back in his chair, and chuckles. “You two, by far, have been my greatest challenge.”
“Wait. You’ve done this before?”How had I missed it?
“Many times.” The dark-haired man shrugs.
