Читать книгу 4 Bodies and a Funeral - Stephanie Bond, Stephanie Bond - Страница 9

Wesley had counted on walking out with Liz, knowing that Mouse wouldn’t come near him if he was with his attorney. But as luck would have it, she had appointments in the government office building the rest of the day.

“I don’t like the idea of you working for Hollis Carver,” she said with a concerned frown as they rode the elevator down to the first floor. “But give Lucas what he wants and maybe he’ll ease up on you.”

Wesley gave a little laugh. “You know as well as I do that Lucas would be thrilled if something happened to me on the job.”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” Liz said, but without her normal brass-tits attitude. “I’m going to request that Jack Terry be your undercover police contact.”

Wesley rolled his eyes. “Anyone but him.”

“I know you don’t like Jack, but he’s the best man for the job. I want you to be safe.”

Resigned, Wesley stepped off the elevator and dragged a shaking hand through his hair. He needed a hit of something, bad.

“I’ll call you,” Liz said from the elevator. “Get some rest—you look like hell.” The doors slid closed.

Wesley glanced in the direction of the lobby where Mouse had probably parked his fat ass, pretending to know how to read. Which meant Wesley needed another way out of the building.

He walked up to a janitor who was pushing a dust mop. “Man, is there someplace I can step out to grab a smoke without setting off an alarm?”

The guy jerked his thumb toward a Stairs-Emergency Exit sign. “The door’s left propped open for smokers and the alarm turned off. Don’t tell Homeland Security.”

Wesley made a zipping motion across his mouth, then headed for the stairwell. A folded empty cigarette pack was wedged between the door latch and the strike plate. He slipped outside, then carefully repositioned the cigarette pack as he closed the door behind him. A small concrete pad littered with cigarette butts was isolated by tall bushes and a whirring HVAC unit. He looked around to get his bearings, then stepped through the bushes and headed toward the parking lot where he’d left his bike, scanning for Mouse.

He merged with a group of employees who appeared to be leaving for a lunch break, then veered off when they walked past the bike racks. He stooped to spin the combination lock securing his bike, but his vision blurred and his hands fumbled. Sweat dripped off his nose. He shook his head to focus, and finally the lock sprang open. He stood too quickly and got a head rush, but stabilized himself on the bike and pushed off, feeling smug for outmaneuvering Mouse. He’d have to face the man soon enough if he infiltrated The Carver’s organization, but he’d rather get the details of what was expected of him first.

As he rode out of the parking lot, he heard a car pull up behind him—close.

Too close.

Hoping it was the standard asshole Atlanta driver who had no respect for sharing the road with cyclists, he looked over his shoulder, only to confirm his worst fear.

Mouse was driving a dark Town Car with a big, impressive grill that was closing in fast on his back tire. Panicked, Wesley stood to apply extra pressure to the pedals, but his reaction time was slow. The impact of the car knocked his bike forward, his body up and back. He landed on the big hood of the Town Car with a thunk and slid to the windshield as Mouse brought the car to a halt.

Mouse opened the door and stepped out, then dragged Wesley off the hood by his tie and pulled his face close. “Trying to avoid me, Wren?”

“‘Course not,” Wesley said with a cough. “I need to get my jacket back.”

Mouse shook Wesley until his glasses went askew. “What happened in there? You’re not planning to rat out The Carver, are you?”

“No,” Wesley said, swallowing past the pressure on his windpipe. “I told the D.A. I don’t know anything. He was pissed and threatened to throw me in jail, but my lawyer’s good. So all I have to do is more pain-in-the-ass community service.”

Mouse looked doubtful. “You fuckin’ with me?”

Wesley couldn’t imagine anything on earth more unpleasant. “Nah, man. The Carver’s off the hook.”

Mouse released his grip. “You’d better not be lying.”

“Dude, The Carver’s attorney has probably already been contacted.”

As the big man chewed on his lip, his phone rang. He kept one paw on Wesley while he answered the call. “Yeah …? Yeah … Yeah.” He ended the call and jammed the phone in his pocket.

“Okay, you little shit, I just got verification. Now, give me a payment and we’re square for a while.”

Wesley lifted his hands. “I don’t have any money.”

“Wrong answer.”

“Dude, I thought I was going to jail today. I didn’t bring any cash.”

Mouse frowned, then released Wesley and stepped back.

Wesley exhaled in relief, but winced as his back twinged in pain. When he looked up, Mouse was carrying his dented bike to the rear of the car.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

Mouse used a keyless remote to pop the trunk. “Making your life miserable.”

Wesley could only stand and watch the man toss his bike into the cavernous trunk.

“Next time you leave the house, sport, you’d better find somewhere to stash some cash—in your wallet or up your ass, I really don’t care. I’m gonna need a payment.”

“Will I get my bike back?”

“Don’t count on it.”

Mouse slid into the car and slammed his door. Wesley jumped up on the curb to keep from being clipped by a mirror as the Town Car roared away. He swore through gritted teeth as the car disappeared—this day just kept getting better.

He pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket and brought up his buddy Chance’s phone number. His hands were trembling badly and his skin felt itchy. Under the intense sun, he felt like an egg sizzling in a frying pan.

Chance’s phone rang and rang, then rolled over to voice mail. Wesley cursed and disconnected the call. Chance not answering his cell phone meant one of two things—he was dick-deep in some big-butted girl, or he was dead. His guess was the former.

Wesley set off walking unsteadily toward the Five Points MARTA station. He had enough money for train fare to get him to midtown. From there he’d have to walk the few blocks to Chance’s place. He wiped his sleeve across his clammy brow, then loosened the tie. His throat was parched and every step was an effort. The one thing that kept him going was the knowledge that a bag of sweet Oxy was waiting for him.

He’d quit the stuff later, when his life calmed down.

A honk sounded and he jumped back, afraid that Mouse had returned to run him over.

A silver-colored dome-shaped car pulled up next to the curb. The passenger side window zoomed down and the driver leaned over to shout. “Wes? Hey, do you need a ride?”

He squinted. “Meg?” Meg Vincent worked at the city computer department where he performed his community service.

“Yeah, jump in.”

The car behind her honked with impatience, spurring him forward. He opened the door and swung inside. The coed gave him a brief smile, then looked back to the road and stepped on the gas.

“I thought that was you,” she said. “Your bony ass gave you away.”

“Ha, ha,” he said, then pursed his mouth. She’d noticed his ass?

“You weren’t at work this morning.”

“That’s because I was here,” he said without explanation. “What about you? Do you live in this area?”

“No, I live on campus. There’s a great health food store down the street, so I came over here for lunch. Where are you headed?”

“Midtown. But if it’s out of the way—”

“It isn’t.”

Wesley glanced sideways at the girl who was probably his age—she was a freshman at Georgia Tech, the same as he would’ve been if he’d gone to college. She was whip-smart with a funky, independent style. Today she wore camouflage pants, a plain white T-shirt, and her dark blond hair was covered with a smiley-face bandana.

“What kind of car is this?” he asked, glancing around at the interior.

“It’s a Prius.”

“Electric?”

“That’s right.”

It suited her, he decided. Meg’s father was a famous geneticist and apparently megawealthy, but she had a work study at the ASS office, and dressed like every other college kid who was scraping by. Plus she was living on campus in a dorm when she could easily afford her own condo in Buckhead.

“Why aren’t you riding your bike?” she asked.

“Flat tire,” he lied.

“Aren’t you a little old to be riding a bike anyway?”

“I used to have a motorcycle.”

“Used to? Is that supposed to impress me?”

He frowned. “No.”

“So what happened to it?”

“My driver’s license was suspended. I sold it.”

“Oh, right,” she said drily. “I forget that you’re an ex-con.”

“I’m on probation,” he said irritably. “Big difference.”

“Uh-huh.” She glanced over at him. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like shit.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Seriously, are you okay?”

Meg had once accused him of being hooked on something, and he’d flatly denied it. “Just hot and tired.”

She reached around her seat and rummaged blindly in a container on the floorboard behind her, then came up with a Red Bull. “Knock yourself out.”

He took the can and cracked it open. “Thanks.” A couple of hearty drinks started to revive him. He laid his head back on the headrest.

“Are you moving bodies today?” she asked.

“Not today.” And after the stunt he’d pulled, he’d be lucky if Coop ever called him again.

“Doesn’t it creep you out?”

He shrugged. “It’s not pleasant, but someone has to do it.”

“So it’s something you intend to keep doing?”

If he went to work for The Carver, there’d be no time for body moving. The realization bothered him more than he expected. “I don’t know. I have a line on a new job.”

“What kind of job?”

“I don’t have all the details yet.”

“You like being mysterious, don’t you?”

“Not particularly.”

“Does that mean you won’t be coming back to ASS?”

“No, I’ll be there for a while longer.”

Something flashed across her face—relief? He must be mistaken. Meg had been apathetic toward him from day one.

“Am I taking you home?” she asked.

“Nah—to a friend’s place.”

She grinned. “You have a friend?”

“Ha, ha.”

“Is he a dropout, too?”

“I’m not a dropout.”

“Fine. Is he also too sexy for college?”

That made him smile. The only person who thought Chance was sexy was Chance. And anyone he paid to sleep with him. “He attends Georgia State.”

Her eyebrows climbed. “Really? What’s he studying?”

“Business.” Wesley shifted in his seat over the idea of Meg being more impressed with his buddy than with him. “Chance isn’t much of a student, though.”

Meg shrugged. “Most of life is about showing up.”

Rankled, he took another long drink from the can. When it came to college, he’d shown up as much as Chance—to take his friend’s exams when necessary.

“Where am I dropping you?” she asked.

He gave her the address of Chance’s condo building a couple of blocks away.

“Nice building,” she murmured when they pulled up.

“Yeah.” She probably wouldn’t think much of the cramped town house where Wesley and Carlotta lived. Living in a “transitional” neighborhood was fine if a person did it for philanthropic or moral grounds, like Meg. But it was a different ballgame if you were there because you couldn’t afford to live somewhere else. Or if you were afraid to move because your parents wouldn’t be able to find you, should they decide to come home.

Wesley realized Meg was staring at him. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Fine,” he said, opening the door to climb out. “Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem. See you tomorrow morning?”

Her smile made his stomach feel funny. “Yeah, later.”

The Prius rolled away, and Wesley dismissed the nausea as hunger pains.

For Oxy.

On the way inside the building, he called Chance again, and his friend answered on the third ring, panting. “Yeah?”

“It’s Wes. I’m downstairs, but it sounds like you’re busy.”

“Uh, yeah … ah, hell, come on up.” Then he disconnected the call.

Wesley waved to the concierge who knew his face, then walked to the elevator and pushed the call button. He shook his head, wondering what he’d find his friend involved in today. From the way the big guy was huffing and puffing, he might have a whole herd of prostitutes up there. His chubby buddy had a fat trust fund and made tons of money selling soft-core drugs and hard-core porn on the side. Chance worshipped vices and excess, and was fun as hell to be around.

On the ride up, Wesley mopped at his wet forehead with his sleeve. Just knowing he was close to the Oxy made him almost weak with relief. He jogged down the hall, then rapped on Chance’s door.

After a few seconds, the door opened and Wesley stared.

“Are you coming in, or what?”

Chance had answered his door in just about every outfit and stage of undress imaginable, but this one topped them all.

“What?” Chance looked down at his short, red, spandex unitard. “You’ve never seen exercise clothes before?”

“Not on you,” Wesley said. “The headband’s a nice touch.”

“Get in here, shithead.”

Wesley walked inside and closed the door. Chance climbed on a new treadmill that took up a big portion of the living room, and increased the speed until everything on him jiggled. In the stretchy suit and black high-top tennis shoes, he looked like an overweight superhero.

Wesley pulled on his chin. “What’s with the exercise kick, man?”

“Just thought I’d start taking better care of myself. This treadmill is great. I can work out and still watch TV.”

The big screen TV was playing porn, as usual.

“And look—” From the tray in front of the treadmill that was meant to hold a book, Chance picked up a reefer and lit it with a lighter. “I can get high while I exercise.”

“Nice,” Wesley said drily. “Does this have something to do with my sister’s friend Hannah calling you fat?”

“No.” Chance drew on the joint until his face turned red, then exhaled a stream of smoke. “Maybe. You put in a good word for me, didn’t you?”

“I will the next time I see her.” Wesley shook his head. The fierce and pierced Hannah would skewer Chance’s frat-boy ass and put an apple in his mouth before she ate him alive.

“Dude, I’ve got Grimes working on getting you into another card game. He knows he owes us since it was partly his fault we got cleaned out last time.”

“Okay, sure.” Wesley darted a look toward the cabinet where Chance kept his stock of pills.

Chance saw him looking. “Need some more OC?”

He tried to sound casual. “Yeah, but I don’t have any cash on me.”

“I’ll get it out of your winnings. It’s in the second drawer. Take what you want.”

Wesley was at the cabinet before his friend finished talking. “I’m going to need more of that urine screen, too.” To keep from testing positive when his probation officer asked for samples.

“Top drawer on the right.”

He pulled out a bag of the Oxy and felt a rush just holding a pill in his fingers. He popped one in his mouth and chewed to break the time-release coating. Instantly a feeling of euphoria bled through his chest and arms. As he floated toward oblivion, the thought slid into his mind that he’d forgotten to call Carlotta to tell her he wasn’t going to jail after all.

Oh, well, she was probably too busy having fun on her first day back to work to worry about him anyway.