The tone could be read as clipped, or it could be desperation.
But either way, it relights my desire to find the ring that started all this. I have a buyer on the hook, which would solve my credit card issue, and it’s someone who has a heartfelt attachment to it, which is always good for an emotional boost. It’s also a very welcome and needed distraction from trying to figure out what’s going on in my head—and farther south—about Griffin.
I need to find the ring. I have to find it. And get it back.
I’ve talked to several pawnshop owners. Now it’s time to talk to the even seedier fences and see if anyone has tried to sell them the ring. My ring.
Gulp.
“So, Mr. Mad Dog, have you seen this?” Trying to keep my hand from shaking, I hold up my phone to show him the picture after I finish explaining why I’ve approached him on what’s apparently his street corner. “It’s very important, and I promise I have no interest in however you might’ve come into the ring’s possession.”
I can’t see Mad Dog’s eyes behind his dark sunglasses, which he’s wearing despite the spring sun being mild at best, but I hope he’s looking at the picture of the ring.
“It’s possession? Like by a demon? Or bad juju?” Since the question is asked in complete seriousness, like we’re on the set of the latest horror film, I decide to roll with it.
Nodding, I lean in close enough to smell his Old Spice and the underlying body odor he was likely trying to cover with the generous dousing of cheap cologne. Lowering my voice, I confide, “Yeah. The ring’s possessed. If you’re not the rightful heir, it’s ...sccchrrrrit—” I draw my finger across my throat to make sure he understands how serious the situation might be. “Only the family can wear it without deadly consequences, and anyone who keeps the ring from them will be cursed for eternity.”
He lowers his sunglasses down his nose with one finger, revealing dark eyes filled with doubt but also a fair amount of consideration as he stares at me. But then he chuckles, the disbelief winning out. “Girl, you’re crazy as hell.”
Shit. I thought I might be getting somewhere with the fence from Paul’s list.
But I can’t give up, so, unwilling to let go of the one possible path to Mad Dog admitting he has the ring, I dig in my heels and go harder. “No, really. A few days ago, I was totally happy, my life was great. Now, I’m in financial ruin, I’ve got a weird crush trying to develop on a guy who basically hates me, I’m out of Thin Mints, and ... and ...I got hit by a car.”
Okay, that’s a stretch. I feellikeI got hit by a car, but despite there not actually being any car-to-body contact, I’m willing to lie my way into getting the ring if that’s what it takes.
Mad Dog’s eyes drip over me. “You don’t look like you got hit by a car. You seem fine to me.”
“Well, I am ... this time,” I intone cryptically. “But there’s no telling what could happen next time. That’s why I need the ring. You gotta help me. Please!” I grab his arm, shaking it in desperation, and suddenly realize that beneath his designer tracksuit, Mad Dog is jacked. His bicep is so large that my hands don’t fit around the muscle.
He jerks out of my grip with a grunt, his whole vibe changing. Looming over me, he has me attempting a backbend to get away from his finger, which is pointed right in my face. “Bitch, don’t you fucking touch me. Nobody touches Mad Dog.”
My heart racing and my breath stuck in my throat, I hold up my hands in surrender, realizing how severe of a misstep I’ve made. I mean, approaching a criminal named Mad Dog was scary enough to have me second-guessing my life choices, but he’d seemed nice enough to listen to my story, and my hopes had risen exponentially that, while the pawnshops had been a strikeout, this was going to work.
I was wrong. Dangerously wrong.
“Sorry. Sorry, Mr. Mad Dog, sir. I just really need the ring. My bad. Sorry.”
He takes a slow breath, and I can virtually see him packing the threatening aura back behind his facade of chill. When he leans back, giving me some space, I feel like I can breathe again. Shallowly, but at least my oxygen isn’t being choked by fear.
Mad Dog glances up and down the street, then pins me with a look. Or I assume he does, because he’s pushed his sunglasses back up his nose, and I can’t actually see his eyes, but I freeze all the same. “I don’t have your ring. Honestly. It looks like more than I’d handle from an unknown source I haven’t personally vetted, you get me?”
I nod. He doesn’t know the thief, so he wouldn’t trust him. My hopes dash into ruins again.
“Not everybody has the same scruples I do, though. Who else you got on that list of yours?” He jerks his head toward my phone. When I first approached Mad Dog, I showed him the picture I sneakily took of the list Paul gave us to explain how I found him. He hadn’t been happy about it, but it’d at least gotten him to talk to me.
My eyes widen and a smile blooms on my face. “Really?” I quickly pull up the picture again and show him.
Mad Dog isn’t nearly as forgiving as I am, though, and warns, “Don’t get your hopes up, girl. None of these guys are gonna want to talk to you, but if you’ve got balls enough to hit me up, I think you’ll be all right.”
I should take the compliment, but my mouth does what it does best—talk shit. “I don’t have balls. Those sensitive, useless little things?Pshaw.I’ve got ovaries. Tough as a mother, explode on a monthly basis, and like a Timex or a bomb, keep on ticking.” I tap my hips with my hands liketake that. “Tick, tick, boom!” I make an explosion move to emphasize my point that I’m totally a badass who can talk to a few fences who don’t want to talk to me.
Mad Dog stares at me like I’m weird as hell. Unfortunately, it’s a look I’m all too familiar with from receiving it on a near-daily basis my whole life, and I worry I’ve gone too far. But he refocuses on the list, then hums. “Shit. If it was me, I’d ask Johnny K. He’s got a hard-on for diamonds. If I had one to move, he’s who I’d go to.”
I check the list myself, finding Johnny K. “Thanks, Mad Dog! You ever want to see a Hawks game, let me know. I’ll get you a couple of tickets. Cheap seats, but I’ll make it happen. I can be your secretticket source.” I wink like we’re a couple of old friends conspiring together. Then think better and hold up a finger. “One time offer, no playoffs,” I amend.
“Better.” He laughs proudly. “Be smart, girl. You’re diving in shark-infested waters. And save the Hawks tickets for Johnny K. He’s the hockey guy. I’m more of a basketball guy myself.”
It’s not until after he’s wished me luck and I’ve walked away that my bravado fades and it fully hits me how stupid what I just did was—approaching a known criminal, asking questions about his business, grabbing him.
