I glare at her, then back at ourguest. “Finally, you havenothingI want, Mr. Green.”
He doesn’t look as dejected as he should.
Figures.He’s one of those guys who hits on anything that moves, figuring the numbers are on his side. Even a broken clock is right twice a day.
I feel sorry for the residents of Shearwater, Georgia, because once we turn him loose in his new digs, Griego - a.k.a. the newly-minted Mr. Felix Green - is their problem.
Sheila pulls into the driveway of the modest bungalow that is Mr. Green’s new home, courtesy of the U.S. Government. The white clapboard siding and ocean-blue shutters send thoughts of chocolate chip cookies and children’s laughter through my mind. I shake it off as Sheila puts the car into park.
“Here we are,” I turn toward our prisoner. I meanguest. He’s a guest.
“No,” he folds his arms across his chest. “No fucking way.”
Felix Green is a 52-year-oldformerweapons dealer who avoided prison by testifying against his brother. The very brother in charge of the Griego crime syndicate in New York. These greaseballs didn’t even attempt to hide what they were doing because nobody ever testified against them.
It probably would have stayed that way if the brother hadn’t moved in on Felix’s stripper girlfriend.
“Yes, Mr. Green,” I point at him.
I’m about to say something else when the hair on the back of my neck goes up. Sheila is eyeing the front door, which is cracked open.
“Get him out of here,” I’m out the car door, pulling my weapon loose in a maneuver I’ve practiced a million times.
Sheila peels out of the driveway with Felix. I tap the Archangel Michael medallion around my neck for luck, then approach the front door. I cautiously step across the front porch and am about to reach for the door when it swings open. I pull my weapon straight into the face of someone’s grandmother.
“Oh, my stars!” The woman shoves both hands up into the air. “Are you robbing me? Is this a stick-up?”
I squint at her. She’s about my height but has a good 50-pounds on me. “Name.”
“What?”
“What. Is. Your. Name?”
“Irma - Irma Jacobsen,” her plump grandma arms shake. “Why do you need my name if you’re robbing me? I’m just the realtor. I’m supposed to meet the new occupant of the house. I only have about twenty dollars on me because I’m supposed to stop at the market for bananas, but take it if you need money that bad. Take it.”
“Do you have identification?”
The gray eyes that were wide in fear now narrow. “Maybe you should showmesome identification, missy.”
Pretty ballsy for a woman with a gun in her face.
I do not point this out to her.
She’s in her 70s, and I could take her if she tries something funny. I roll my eyes and re-holster my weapon. “Name’s Saber. Cat Saber. I’m with Saber Security. We’re here to make sure Mr. Green’s house is secure before he moves in.”
Mrs. Jacobsen lowers her arms and clasps her hands together. “Oh, a female security guard. How progressive! Mr. Green must be one of those self-made billionaire types, trying to be on thelow-down!”
I wince at the wordfemale.I also don’t correct her that the term she’s looking for isdown-low,and it doesn’t mean what she thinks it means. She reminds me of my Mama, and I didn’t want to spark a conversation about sex with a senior citizen today.
“Something like that,” I smile.
“Does your husband know what you’re doing?”
My smile turns into gritting my teeth. I won’t have any enamel left after today. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t have one of those.”
Mrs. Jacobsen tilts her head and clucks her tongue. “Well, there’s still time for you. Dame Helen Mirren - an international treasure if I do say so myself - didn’t get married until she was in her fifties, either.”
My mouth drops open. “I’m not in my fifties!”
