Land?” Fitch slammed a couple sacks on the counter and squeezed their tops into balls.
“What? What happened?’
“A couple of skinheads, low-IQ goons followed me to the roadhouse. They were driving some fancy black Mercedes SUV. I could tell it was a Mercedes because they practically rode my bumper all the way there, and I could see them in the rearview. The bastards.”
“A black Mercedes?” I was certain the SUV waiting for Elizabeth Stratton was a Mercedes. She wasn’t a Kia kind of woman. “When did they start following you?”
“A little ways down the road, after I left here. And they tailgated me all the way to the roadhouse. I parked the car and watched them park several cars away. I’m not usually scared, not my M.O., but these guys had cruelty pasted all over them, a trait easy for me to spot. They watched me go into the tavern, and I couldn’t resist flipping them off before I went inside. I heard one of them scream ‘cunt’ as the roadhouse door slammed.”
“Oh, Fitch, I’m sorry. I suspect they had something to do with my client, if the cars match.”
Fitch paced the kitchen and waved her arms. “Hey, that’s not all that happened, not by a long shot.”
“I’m not sure I’m ready to hear this.”
“Listen, if these guys have anything to do with your client, you’re in deep shit. In fact, I’m probably in deep shit too, just for being here.”
“Tell me exactly what happened.” My hands began to shake with a wild blend of fear and anger.
“When I was in the roadhouse, I ordered a beer and the take-out food. I downed the beer fast, just to calm my nerves. I went into the bathroom to make sure my piece was loaded and ready for action.” Fitch patted the belly bag she always wore when she went out. I had assumed it contained keys, a wallet, and maybe a spare set of nipple clamps.
“Piece?”
“My gun…my pistol?”
“You carry a gun, Fitch? There’s a gun in my house? Loaded?” I staggered back and plopped on a stool.
“Hey, I’m always armed. I know too much about too many important people. As a matter of fact, so do you. You should be armed, Dev. You’re a walking target.”
“I’m a Jewish American girl. What do I know from guns?” I stared at the floor trying to cope with the truth Fitch was handing me. “Tell me the rest.”
“When I went out to the parking lot, carrying our dinner, several people were standing around my car. My beautiful Jag’s alarm was blaring. As I got closer, I could see the passenger window was smashed. Some man said, ‘That your car? Sorry, lady.’ I hate being called ‘lady.’ It’s so condescending.”
“Never mind that. Why was your car alarm blaring?”
“I looked into the smashed window. Those skinhead assholes had stuck a meat cleaver into the seat and left it there.”
“A meat cleaver. Why a meat cleaver?”
“To scare me. I use them all the time for the same purpose, only I never really cleave anything. Anything that’s alive, anyway.” Fitch stopped pacing and leaned against the counter, hand over her belly bag.
“You use meat cleavers to scare people?”
“Well, yeah, I have this one favorite scene where I’m the butcher and—”
“That’s fine. I get the idea.” I’d been shocked enough for one night and didn’t need Fitch’s graphic description of her BDSM activities. Feeling like a wimpy vanilla wafer, I smelled the broasted chicken and remembered I wanted to eat. “Let’s have some food, and we’ll figure out how to get your car fixed. Did you get the vitamin C suckies?”
Fitch gave me an I’m-going-to-murder-you look. Not only was she armed, she knew her way around a meat cleaver. I let the suckies go.
Chapter Six
My policy was to avoid face-to-face contact with any of the “targets” my clients paid me to divert. But I needed to see Laura Bishop again. My questions about Stratton couldn’t be answered without her. Why was each cell of my body a microscopic magnet tugging
“What? What happened?’
“A couple of skinheads, low-IQ goons followed me to the roadhouse. They were driving some fancy black Mercedes SUV. I could tell it was a Mercedes because they practically rode my bumper all the way there, and I could see them in the rearview. The bastards.”
“A black Mercedes?” I was certain the SUV waiting for Elizabeth Stratton was a Mercedes. She wasn’t a Kia kind of woman. “When did they start following you?”
“A little ways down the road, after I left here. And they tailgated me all the way to the roadhouse. I parked the car and watched them park several cars away. I’m not usually scared, not my M.O., but these guys had cruelty pasted all over them, a trait easy for me to spot. They watched me go into the tavern, and I couldn’t resist flipping them off before I went inside. I heard one of them scream ‘cunt’ as the roadhouse door slammed.”
“Oh, Fitch, I’m sorry. I suspect they had something to do with my client, if the cars match.”
Fitch paced the kitchen and waved her arms. “Hey, that’s not all that happened, not by a long shot.”
“I’m not sure I’m ready to hear this.”
“Listen, if these guys have anything to do with your client, you’re in deep shit. In fact, I’m probably in deep shit too, just for being here.”
“Tell me exactly what happened.” My hands began to shake with a wild blend of fear and anger.
“When I was in the roadhouse, I ordered a beer and the take-out food. I downed the beer fast, just to calm my nerves. I went into the bathroom to make sure my piece was loaded and ready for action.” Fitch patted the belly bag she always wore when she went out. I had assumed it contained keys, a wallet, and maybe a spare set of nipple clamps.
“Piece?”
“My gun…my pistol?”
“You carry a gun, Fitch? There’s a gun in my house? Loaded?” I staggered back and plopped on a stool.
“Hey, I’m always armed. I know too much about too many important people. As a matter of fact, so do you. You should be armed, Dev. You’re a walking target.”
“I’m a Jewish American girl. What do I know from guns?” I stared at the floor trying to cope with the truth Fitch was handing me. “Tell me the rest.”
“When I went out to the parking lot, carrying our dinner, several people were standing around my car. My beautiful Jag’s alarm was blaring. As I got closer, I could see the passenger window was smashed. Some man said, ‘That your car? Sorry, lady.’ I hate being called ‘lady.’ It’s so condescending.”
“Never mind that. Why was your car alarm blaring?”
“I looked into the smashed window. Those skinhead assholes had stuck a meat cleaver into the seat and left it there.”
“A meat cleaver. Why a meat cleaver?”
“To scare me. I use them all the time for the same purpose, only I never really cleave anything. Anything that’s alive, anyway.” Fitch stopped pacing and leaned against the counter, hand over her belly bag.
“You use meat cleavers to scare people?”
“Well, yeah, I have this one favorite scene where I’m the butcher and—”
“That’s fine. I get the idea.” I’d been shocked enough for one night and didn’t need Fitch’s graphic description of her BDSM activities. Feeling like a wimpy vanilla wafer, I smelled the broasted chicken and remembered I wanted to eat. “Let’s have some food, and we’ll figure out how to get your car fixed. Did you get the vitamin C suckies?”
Fitch gave me an I’m-going-to-murder-you look. Not only was she armed, she knew her way around a meat cleaver. I let the suckies go.
Chapter Six
My policy was to avoid face-to-face contact with any of the “targets” my clients paid me to divert. But I needed to see Laura Bishop again. My questions about Stratton couldn’t be answered without her. Why was each cell of my body a microscopic magnet tugging
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