Head swiveling, he veers into the crowded food court. To follow, I have to jump over a toddler smearing strawberry ice cream on the ground like finger paint.
Fuck, this is unbelievable! It’s as if the whole mall is conspiring against me. Am I unknowingly starring in an action comedy and all these people are paid actors hired to sabotage me?
At least the teens with their phone cameras have gone, but turkey man is offering a new batch of samples on a silver tray.
I fear I’m too far behind to catch up to the blackmailer. But then, as if by divine intervention, he is struck down.
His Crocs in sport mode can’t save him as he slips on something. My bet is spilled salad dressing from the nearby buffet. Like a screaming human bowling ball on two legs, he hurtles forward at a breakneck speed.
Turkey man tries to dodge him.
Emphasis ontries.
The men collide like two cars on black ice. It’s a full frontal crash with absolutely devastating results.
Turkey guy tumbles to the ground while the world’s worst blackmailer somehow manages to stay on his feet. It’s almost theatrical. Elegant. His waving arms. The involuntary pirouette.
But his balance comes at a painful price.
He lets out a blood-curdling scream as he touches his tomato-sauced chest. A dozen or so toothpicks stick from it,withthe meatballs still on them. But he limps onward. His commitment to escape is unbroken, even with a twisted ankle and free lunch embedded in his flesh.
I apologize profusely as I weave through a familycarrying food trays. For good measure, I throw a smile and an ‘Enjoy your meal!’ their way. I’m gaining on the blackmailer, but he reaches the foodcourt exit before me.
He hobbles into the elevator and slams his fist into the button panel. The doors close at a snail’s pace. His chest heaves as he mashes the buttons repeatedly.
I slow to a provocative stroll.
He’s trapped. Even if he makes a break for it now, he can’t escape fast enough with his ankle and the escalator is too crowded.
The elevator doors are about to close. He smirks triumphantly and shakes the paper bag at me—right as I put my foot in the door. The safety alarm dings and it opens again.
I grin. “Howdy.”
All color drains from his face as I step into the elevator.
“So much for the boomerang bit, buddy. If I could give you some advice, I’d look for another job. You’re the worst at this.”
“I’m usually more of a behind-the-scenes and in-the-shadows kind of guy,” he grumbles.
I press the ground floor button. The elevator doors close before it starts moving down. The man winces as I pluck a meatball from his chest and put it in my mouth.
“Hmm, these are pretty good. Tender with a tangy, slightly sweet tomato sauce.” I take another and offer it to him. “Wanna try?”
He doesn’t find it the least bit funny. I do, though, smirking as I chew. My foot taps in rhythm with ‘The Girl From Ipanema’coming from crackling speakers.
“What are you going to do to me?” he asks.
“Ain’t decided yet. If I had my way, I’d put a bullet in your head as soon as we’re outta here, but it’s up to Tally. You better try to get in hergood graces.”
A shiver runs through him. “Any chance you’ll let me go if I give you half of the cash in this bag?” He makes the creepiest attempt at puppy dog eyes. It makes him look like a serial killer with rabies who should be wearing a muzzle cause he likes to bite.
“You didn’t take a proper look in that bag, did ya?” I ask.
He opens the paper bag and lifts the bills on top, pulling out the shredded copies of ‘Gossip Grove.’
“Foiled by my own articles?” he asks, disbelief thick in his voice as he stares at the piece about Tally’s canceled tour.
The elevator dings and the doors open, but my body goes rigid as my head whips around.
