Tim gets to his feet, sniffling, and limps after Frankie, gun shoved in his neck.
What a disappointment. I had hoped Tim the manager would’ve put up more of a fight, but, oh, well.
I type the license plate number into the company software manager. It whirs for a second, thinking real hard, before returning the last ten customers who rented the car.
At the very top: Bobby Smith.
The fakest fucking name ever.
But underneath that is a real address on a small street near South. I write it down and call for Frankie. He returns a minute later, whistling like he’s out for a casual stroll.
“Our friend?” I ask.
“Hiding under his desk.”
“Footage?”
“Cameras don’t even work.” He shakes his head. “Pathetic.”
“Come on. We have one more stop.”
The address takes us to a boring row house on a packed residential block. There’s nothing special about it. Black bars over the windows, but those aren’t all that unusual in the city. There’s no decoration on the door and no indication that anyone lives inside, but still, also not that surprising.
Frankie goes around to the alley behind. I give him a twenty count before I head to the front door. I’m not sure what to expect, but I’ve got my gun ready, just in case. I knock and ring the bell before standing with my back to the building so whoever’s inside can’t see my face.
I hear shuffling around beyond the door. There’s definitely somebody inside. I knock again, still not turning around, just rapping my knuckles behind me, until a voice calls out.
“Who’s that?”
“Food delivery.”
“I didn’t order anything.” He sounds annoyed, but I noticed he didn’t saywe. Which means he’s probably alone.
“Look, man, I don’t care. I got Chinese out here. You can send it back or keep it, but this is the address in the app.”
“Like I said, I didn’t order shit, so fuck off.” Another lock clunks into place.
I sigh, already thinking I’m going to have to break my way through, when there’s a sudden yell of panic. Glass breaks, something hard thuds, and a few seconds later the door yawns open.
Frankie looks very pleased with himself.
“Took you long enough.” I push past him and step into a musty, simple house. The living room is furnished with thick rugs, old furniture, and dozens of photographs on the wall. Old radios fill the shelves and there’s a bunch of soccer memorabilia scattered all over.
I close the door and face our friend.
He’s dark-skinned. Blood trickles down his face where he slammed into the edge of the entertainment console. The TV’s cracked and pieces of the screen glitter on the floor. He’s glaring up at us, hate in his eyes.
“Let me guess.” I crouch down in front of him. “You’re Bobby Smith.”
Recognition flashes across his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I gesture at Frankie. “Make sure we’re alone.”
He ghosts past me, gun out, to check upstairs. I watch Bobby Smith, not saying anything. Interrogations like this can be very delicate. It’s best to let his mind do all the work. I don’t knowwhat scares him, and it would take me a while to figure it out the hard way. Better to let him conjure a thousand different ways I can hurt him, all tailored to exactly what he hates. Sometimes waiting really is the best torture.
Finally, he scrunches back from me. “What do you want?”
I wonder what he imagined. Broken fingers? Twisted joints? Maybe just some classic knife play. Doesn’t matter though.
