“They’ll come after you, you know?” Donnie’s quiet when he warns me from the back seat, confident I’ll lose my nerve and let him loose.
I grin at him and continue to check the road behind us.
“I don’t think so, kid.”
Sure, a few of them will be more than slightly miffed when they go to start up their cars only to find the spark plugs are missing. In my defense, it was a safety precaution I took when everyone else was paying attention to the pre-race festivities otherwise known as cranking loud music and swapping spit.
Also, I left them to be found, eventually, which is more than I can say a few of my colleagues would have done.
A little more relaxed, I pull the bandanna off my head and stretch the stress out of my neck as Donnie rambles in the back seat.
“You crossed the line, man.” He’s got a discouraged tone in his voice. Not that it bothers me. “And broke about five different street laws.”
We make eye contact via the rear view mirror and I cock an eyebrow for him. “Do you really think I give a shit about street laws, Don?”
Seriously.
He shakes his head, defeat bleeding from his eyes.
“You’re about to go to jail for manslaughter. Maybe you should worry about that for a little while.”
His expression changes as though he’s just now realizing why I’m taking him in.
“I didn’t kill anybody.” His voice wavers slightly, and I see it in his eyes. He’s scared. He doesn’t want me to know it, but it’s there. Plain as day.
He wants me to believe him, maybe even needs me to. But I’ve already been briefed on his record. I hear enough woe is me crap on a daily basis. I don’t need to hear it from this guy, too. And I definitely don’t need to hear it all the way to the precinct. So I nod, roll my eyes, then turn on the radio and crank up the tunes.
I fast dial Tricky Ricky, the bail bondsman who contacted me about our friendly neighborhood Redemption police department needing a little help with this one.
“I’ve got him.” I end the call almost as soon as it begins. Short and sweet runs in my family. Besides, Tricky and me, we go way back—he knows the drill.
Personally, I'm over the moon. Not only am I a thousand dollars richer from the drag race I just nailed, but I’m also about to be another ten grand in the black when I drop this kid off at Redemption’s 1st Precinct for the night. Because I’m feeling pretty spectacular, I lean back, open up the engine, and just drive for a while.
Also, before you ask, I wasn’t lying back there. I’m not a cop. And don’t even get me started on bounty hunters. These days, they’re a dime a dozen, and the level of service with those guys? Joke.
I’m the guy they call when they can’t get it up. Or rather, can’t get the job done for whatever reason. Normally, I work directly through the bail bondsman I’ve known for a lot of years, but in certain circumstances, like this one, I deal directly with the men in blue.
Name’s Jackson Stiles. I’m of the independent sector. A private dick, as some of my close friends call me.
Kidding. I have no close friends.
And I get the job done, by the way.
Every damn time, my friends.
Every.
Damn.
Time.
Not that I have anything against the police force in any way, shape, or form, mind you. Hell, my brother’s a cop, but do you have any idea what those guys make? Freelance is the way to go, in my humble opinion. Or what I like to call “consulting.”
It’s the least I can do, really. Besides, if I can get one more douchebag off the streets, win-win for both me and the men in blue. Forget about the fact that they’d rather lose out on a bust than disobey their precious leaders.
Call me bitter. My family does. Most of them anyway.
Donnie hollers something from the back seat as we get closer to our destination. I turn down the music, irritated.
“What?”
“You don’t have to do this.” He’s jittery, now, and desperate.
Great.
Kid better not piss his pants on the seat of this fucking car is all I’m saying.
“We can take this conversation somewhere else. Anywhere. Just not…there.” He glances over at the brick building off in the distance, then swallows a lump in his throat.
“What’s there to talk about? You fucked up.” He inches his way forward and sits up straight.
“No, I know, I totally fucked up, but this rap is not mine. I’m telling you, you’re making a mistake. Don’t give me to these guys.”
I meet his eyes again.
The confident little shit from earlier isn’t quite so confident any more. He’s more like a scared little kid who realizes he’s about to be held accountable for the shit he’s been pulling.
Or, you know, a murder, if you’d like to get specific.
“Please.”
And now I’m curious. So I let off the gas and bring the car to a coast for a stretch.
“Tell me something, kid. If it’s not your rap, then whose is it?”