“What do you want me to say?” He tilts his head back, eyes half-lidded. “Couple of our guys have been ghosting supply duty. Got rolled on a traffic stop, sat in county for two goddamn weeks. Walked out Friday.”
“Fascinating,” I mutter. “Incredible how this is brand new information even though it concerns me.”
“Relax.” Baker flicks his wrist like he’s brushing crumbs off a table. “Fisher’s already on it. And we’re not exactly broadcasting intel these days. Word spreads too fast. Especially through you.”
My jaw works. “Through me.”
He shrugs. “You know how you get with the circuit girls. We prefer not to threaten them afterward. Hard to get pussy later.”
I drop the bills on the table with a flat smack. “So you just cut me out.”
He leans across my couch like it’s his, smile lazy, eyes mean. “Listen, man, it’s either you or the pussy. Easy math.”
“Fuck off.”
Baker’s grin widens, just for a flicker, before he slouches deeper into the couch. “Not everybody’s got it easy with them, dude. The rest of us gotta do what we gotta do. Besides, you’re better as Fisher’s pretty face anyway. Prettiest face in the crew. That’s your lane.”
Pretty face.
I don’t react. I never do. They think it’s a dig, Baker especially because they don’t get it. People talk around a pretty face. They hand over information without realizing. And still, I’m much more than that. Fisher just wants to undermine my value so I don’t go driving the getaway car for anyone else.
I’m too fast to get caught.
I’m the best driver he’s got.
“Did you even work this week?” Baker asks after a beat.
“Uh-huh.” I keep my tone flat. “Got the flu. Coughing up blood. You should’ve seen it.”
He barks a laugh, but his eyes flicker, the way they always do when he’s trying to read me. He never can. I say things the same whether they’re true or not; makes everyone keep guessing. That’s the fun part.
Ididwork. Not for the crew, but for myself. Did a few side gigs: trailed an old Camaro that’s got ‘easy take’ written all over it, moved a set of tires nobody asked questions about. Crew cash covers the rent; side-hustle cash buys me nights when the crew decides their “Easter supply run” is more urgent than my roof.
“Guess I’ll see you Sunday, then,” Baker says, pushing off the couch. “Don’t be late. Those uppity rich kids pay good for a little holiday…spirit.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He doesn’t need to know I’d crawl there half-dead if I had to. Nothing moves cash faster than college brats who think snorting powder off a pastel plate is the height of rebellion.
“Wear something nice,” he adds, hand on my door. “Holiday and all.”
I flip him off lazily. Legend has it the man’s never met a shirt with sleeves. He wouldn’t recognize nice if it slapped him in the face.
He leaves, footsteps fading down the warped hallway.
Good. I’ve got bigger priorities than Baker’s attempt at cheer.
The Camaro.
Time to move.
Territory lines say Fisher’s ground stops one block before that garage, Rey’s boys claim the rest, but Rey’s ghosts don’t show their faces around there anymore. And the Camaro is parked behind our convenience store. Backyard law: if it’s in our yard, it’s practically mine already.
Still, no reason to take the scenic route past anyone who might get nosy. I cut through back alleys, keeping parallel to the street until I can slip around behind the store. Hop the fence. Land in a puddle. Cold water floods my sneakers.
Perfect.
I shake it off, put a hood up and walk the last bit.
