“Letting me? Nobodyletsme do anything.” She stands up, bowing up to me in the fiery way that is such an unbelievable turn-on. “And I’ll takecrazyas a compliment, thank you very much. Capable, relentless, awesome, zesty ... um, yee-haw’er. Okay, that last one needs work, but you put me on the spot, so give me a break.”
I stare down at her, my breathing too quick for the short exchange, and consider my options. Whether I’m leaving or staying isn’t up for debate. Instead, I’m pondering how to get her tolet mestay by her side for the sketchy shit on her agenda today.
“You’re right. You can do whatever you want, but I would like to help. Please,” I force out, the conciliatory tone foreign and difficult to fake.
“That’s more like it,” she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder haughtily. A moment later she caves, offering, “Because I really think going alone was a bad idea, not that I would ever admit it.”
She totally just admitted it, but I don’t call her out, having learned my lesson for the day. “I was going to talk to some of them today too,” I confess. “When you called, I was already looking at the list.”
She backhands my chest with a beaming smile. “Great minds, huh? It’s like we’re on the same wavelength!”
I nod slowly. “Yeah, thinking alike, that’s us.”
It’s so not us.
On the way to Johnny K’s, she tells me more about her conversation with Mad Dog, claiming he’s a misunderstood good guy with ethics and morals and business standards. “He said he wouldn’t work with an unknown source he hadn’t personally vetted.” She makes that sound like high standards, not a bar on the floor to keep from getting arrested in a sting operation or scammed by another criminal.
I’m expecting a seedy, bars-on-the-windows-type place at the address she has for Johnny K, but I’m wrong. I even confirm the address with the rideshare driver because I’m nearly certain he’s dropping us off at the wrong place.
“Ooh, fancy-schmancy!” Penny coos as we get out of the car.
Johnny K’s isn’t a sketchy place at all. Or doesn’t appear to be. It’s a storefront, with vinyl lettering on the windows proclaiming “By Appointment Only” and fake topiary trees on either side of the gold-handled door. It looks bougie, not dangerous. But sometimes that’s the biggest mask of all.
I look like someone people should fear. But for the most part, I’m not. I may throw hands here and there, both on and off the ice, but I wouldn’t consider myself unsafe. I have a code of ethics that I follow—mainly don’t fuck with what’s mine, and I won’t fuck you up. On the other hand, Miles Conniver doesn’t look like someone you’d worry about. I’ve seen his picture in the paper, and he appears to be a typical wealthy guy—precision haircut, white teeth, tailored suit, andmanicured hands that have never seen a day of work. Yet, of the two of us, he’s the one who’d kill you, or have you killed, so the “store” look of Johnny K’s place isn’t all that reassuring.
Penny, on the other hand, is getting more and more excited, like she might find a new favorite shopping locale.
“Stolen merchandise,” I remind her quietly as we approach the door.
“I know. But this is a bajillion times better than Mad Dog’s corner,” she explains. I’m not sure she’s right. This place is a pitcher plant, one of those places where flies go in and don’t come out.
The door is locked, and through the window, the place looks deserted. One glance around, though, and I spot a camera above the door. “You said this guy’s a hockey fan, right?” When Penny nods, I step up to the camera, lifting my chin so my face is fully visible. “Hey, I’m Griffin Mahoney. I play for the Hawks. I wanted to see if we could have a conversation about jewelry.” I pointedly cut my eyes toward Penny, implying I want to buy her something. If Johnny K is a salesman, I just showed my whole hand, and hopefully, that’s not something he can resist.
“One minute.”
I’m not sure where the disembodied voice came from, but it elicits happy claps and a few hops of joy from Penny. “It’s here. I can feel it. It’s gonna be here,” she chants. And though I’m not nearly as sure as she’s trying to be, I hope she’s right.
It takes a few minutes, but eventually, two guys come into sight. One stands behind the glass cases, which are shaped in a U facing the door. The other guy is obviously the muscle and comes to open the door and greet us. “Welcome in, Honey. We’re big fans. Loved the way you put Patterson on the boards last night.”
I nod my appreciation—they’re clearly not bullshitting if they know my nickname—but focus on the man we’re here to see. “Johnny?”
“Johnny K? Mr. K? Or just Johnny?” Penny asks, rushing forward with her hand extended. “Thank you so much for seeing us. I really appreciate it.”
For his part, Johnny looks taken aback by Penny’s effusive greeting, but after a quick visual check-in with me, he shakes Penny’s hand politely. “Of course. How can I be of service?” I can see the facade of customer service slipping over Johnny K’s core thoughts of what-the-fuckTwilight Zonehave I entered into?
He’s a man accustomed to dealing with rich people, that much is obvious, but there’s a sinister aura to him despite his expensive slacks, designer shirt, and gold chains. Honestly, I feel like he might be a bit of a kindred spirit. Rough to the core but forced to play dress-up and act nice in an unfamiliar world, like me with the Richie Rich team owners, who want us to monkey dance for their entertainment; the media, who expect the players to perform verbal tricks in interviews fawning over the opportunities we receive; and the fans, who think we owe them something because they bought a shirt with our number emblazoned on it. For me, I play along because hockey was my way out, and for that, I love it. For Johnny, I think he just loves money, which can also be a way out of whatever situation you’re in.
“We’re looking for a ring,” Penny tells him, glancing down at the jewelry in the glass cases. “A special one.”
She’s getting better at this, not jumping right into accusations and hopeful demands for her ring the way she was doing at the pawnshops. It’s working too. Johnny smiles warmly at her, respectfully saying, “Of course. Everything here is special ... to the right person.”
Ironically, I think this is the time for blunt honesty. I step up to Penny’s side and instinctively place my hand on the small of her back. She straightens reflexively at the delicate touch, and I take the briefest of moments to appreciate the intimacy of the connection before turning hardened eyes on Johnny. “Can I be straight with you?”
He dips his chin deferentially, his face impassive in preparation for me to say something outrageous. I’m sure he’s heard it all—nipple rings, connecting chain rings, diamond teeth inlays. I bet he hasn’t been told a story like this, though.
“We bought a ring a few days ago. Gorgeous, unique piece that she absolutely loved. But it was taken, right from my hands, on the sidewalk downtown by a guy with freckles that was wearing a red hoodie.” I observe Johnny closely, watching for the smallest tell that he might know what I’m talking about. And I see the slight dilation of his pupils—he knows who I’m talking about, I’d bet on it. “We were told that this guy sometimes does business here. To be honest, I don’t give a shit about him, or you, or your business. All I care about is the ring. I’ll even buy it again because I understand you’ve got money invested in it.”
I’m making it sound like I already know he has it in the hopes that he’ll believe I have more intel than I do. Or maybe Penny’s eternal optimism is wearing off on me, turning me into a hope-filled believer too.
