Wheels
If this was the Middle Ages, she’d be burned at the stake. Hells balls, her black magic almost made me come during a goddamn hair wash. Sure as shit, she didn’t learn those skills in a magazine. Her fingers might as well have been caressing my cock. Thank God, she spread one of those aprons over my lower half. Otherwise, her mom, her sister, and a couple of elderly ladies would’ve noticed my battle of the bulge.
I’ve had sex less sensual than what this woman did to me. I’ll be lucky if I can walk when she’s done shaving my head. While she fusses, I work to disarm my torpedo. Usually, picturing my fucked-up leg does the trick but no matter where my thoughts wander, I end up with the image of her straddling my lap.
C’mon, c’mon. Think of something disgusting.
“All set.” She faces me toward the mirror and my mouth drops open.
“Thank you.” She left just enough hair to make me appear badass, the way I like it.
“You’re welcome.” As she unties my bib, I pray Harry Hotdog has simmered down so I can exit without embarrassing myself.
Figuring I could use some fresh air, I head out but not before an elderly woman, slathered with blue goo, pinches my ass. “Looking good, young man.”
“I’m just going to…ah, grab a smoke.” I haven’t had a cigarette in years but it’s as good an excuse as any.
Shit. Once I’m outside, I sense someone watching the salon and duck into the hardware store. From next door, I study the rotating camera over the sign and note the Patten logo.
I call our communication center, half expecting Hands to pick up until I recall he’s probably close by, keeping an eye on Mia.
“What’s up?” A voice I don’t recognize answers.
“It’s Wheels. I’m at Morelli’s hair salon in Bensonhurst. I don’t suppose you can identify the guy across the street?”
“He’s not in view. Why? You got trouble?” His keyboard clicks about a hundred times faster than my hunt and peck method. He was probably born with a silver mouse in his hand.
“Let’s just say I don’t like his looks.” The bump in the man’s jacket could be a gun, and the twitch in his finger, for all I know, is early onset Parkinson’s. There’s no point in listing my reasons. I just know he’s up to no good.
The millennial at our city desk stops typing. “Take his picture and send it to me. Better yet, why not use Jason?”
I’m familiar with the artificial intelligence application but being the new guy, don’t want to rock the boat. “Yeah… I’m not working for Patten. I probably shouldn’t charge my account without Slate’s approval.”
“He’d okay it in a heartbeat but if you’re worried, Dr. Jenna Jones is giving away a free version of her AI program.”
“Good idea, send me the link.” I reach into my wallet, finger her card, and recall the moment Rose and I met.
I wish I could go back in time and start over. While I ponder how I would change the past, a female meme, wearing thick glasses blinks out from my cell phone. “Good morning. I am Jasonelle one-point-one. How can I help you today?”
I zoom in on the red-headed, sunburned guy across the street, snap a picture, and hit upload. “Can you identify him?”
“Yes. He is Lenny Lipinski, otherwise known as The Lobster.”
“Don’t you mean mobster?” Maybe this female beta version of Jason is buggy.
“No, I meant the crustacean. Do we have a bad connection or are you hard of hearing?” If she wasn’t a computer program, I’d swear she copped an attitude.
Being a reasonable guy, I ignore her tone. “And who does Lenny work for?”
“Vincent Vitale.”
With the dots connected, I make a video of people walking up and down the street in front of the salon. “Do you detect any more of his employees?”
“I see Karl the Klutz and David D’Angelo.”
“What? No nickname?” Snickering, I wonder if the AI unit is programmed with a sense of humor.
“No. Should I give him one?” The meme’s lids open and close in wait mode.
