he knocked another cigarette out of his pack. He hadn't lived as long as he had and survived two years in the pen without watching his back.
When Leeder drove away, Hawkins glanced back at the metal door and reached for his lighter. He couldn't leave the old man alone, not all night. He'd been watching McKinney for the last two weeks, and the doc's mind wandered . . . a lot, maybe too much. He didn't drive, either. One of the first things he'd done after showing up at Lafayette was hand over his car keys. There'd been no explanation offered, and Hawkins hadn't asked. Hell, the Porsche the old guy had been driving was Dylan's.
Hawkins pulled his cell phone out of his back pocket and punched in a number. As it rang, he checked his watch. Johnny Ramos should still be at SDF's garage in Commerce City.
“Yo,” Ramos answered on the third ring.
“Johnny, it's Hawkins. I need a favor.” He could almost see the younger guy's grin come out in full bloom. Johnny “the negotiator” Ramos ought to be his name.
“Sure, Superman,” Johnny said, already sounding overly confident.
Superman.
“I'm at a warehouse just off the Lafayette exit. How soon can you get here?” He bent his head to the lighter and lit up the cigarette.
“Depends what I'm driving.”
Hawkins could have called that one the minute he'd decided to tag Johnny.
“You'll be driving your pickup. I'll need you all night, watching an old man and a dozen crates.” He took a drag off the cigarette, before taking it out of his mouth and flicking off the ash.
“Roxanne,” Johnny said succinctly, naming his price. “Next Friday night.”
Okay, he'd seen it coming, and he might have to bite the bullet—but not without some negotiating of his own.
“Betty's the one you want for Friday-night cruising. All the girls love Betty. Roxanne will just scare them off.”
“Not the girl I'm thinking about.”
Well, that was actually a little bit alarming. Any girl who wasn't scared off by Roxanne was probably more than a seventeen-year-old boy could handle, even if that seventeen-year-old boy was Johnny Ramos.
“How's school going?”
“I finish classes next week and I'm back at East High in the fall.”
“Probation? How's that going?”
“Clean as a whistle,” the boy said easily. Maybe too easily. It was hard to give up the cash of a few quick deals, harder yet to stay away from your old buddies in the 'hood.
“You know what I'm getting at, don't you?” Hawkins knew Johnny better than Johnny knew himself, knew what it was like to get a chance to get off the streets, and knew, too, what it was like to screw that chance up.
He also had a fine appreciation for Roxanne. He knew why the boy wanted her.
“Yes, sir.”
That sounded more like what Hawkins was looking for.
He rubbed a hand across his brow, thinking, weighing his choices, weighing Johnny. He lowered his hand and absently noted the blue tattoo arcing up the length of his arm. It went from the back of his hand to under his T-shirt, then it tracked across his back and worked down his other arm to just past his wrist.
What he didn't know about misspent youth hadn't been written.
“No racing,” he told Johnny, making his decision. “No high-octane even if you're not racing, and no leaving the state.”
“Agreed.” The boy didn't hesitate, which Hawkins didn't find in the least bit reassuring.
“No track racing. No street racing. No drag racing. No racing your grandmother to the end of the block.”
“Dusk to dawn,” Johnny vowed.
“Okay,” Hawkins said with effort, knowing he didn't have much of a choice. “I'll see you in an hour.”
He hung up and shoved the phone back in his pocket, his gaze going to the Sublime Green low-slung beauty sitting in the hot summer sun, the steam rising around her tires. Roxanne. She was a 1971 Dodge Challenger R/T. He'd bought her a few months ago off a dealer in Naperville, Illinois, who'd only raced her on Sundays, invariably in the
When Leeder drove away, Hawkins glanced back at the metal door and reached for his lighter. He couldn't leave the old man alone, not all night. He'd been watching McKinney for the last two weeks, and the doc's mind wandered . . . a lot, maybe too much. He didn't drive, either. One of the first things he'd done after showing up at Lafayette was hand over his car keys. There'd been no explanation offered, and Hawkins hadn't asked. Hell, the Porsche the old guy had been driving was Dylan's.
Hawkins pulled his cell phone out of his back pocket and punched in a number. As it rang, he checked his watch. Johnny Ramos should still be at SDF's garage in Commerce City.
“Yo,” Ramos answered on the third ring.
“Johnny, it's Hawkins. I need a favor.” He could almost see the younger guy's grin come out in full bloom. Johnny “the negotiator” Ramos ought to be his name.
“Sure, Superman,” Johnny said, already sounding overly confident.
Superman.
“I'm at a warehouse just off the Lafayette exit. How soon can you get here?” He bent his head to the lighter and lit up the cigarette.
“Depends what I'm driving.”
Hawkins could have called that one the minute he'd decided to tag Johnny.
“You'll be driving your pickup. I'll need you all night, watching an old man and a dozen crates.” He took a drag off the cigarette, before taking it out of his mouth and flicking off the ash.
“Roxanne,” Johnny said succinctly, naming his price. “Next Friday night.”
Okay, he'd seen it coming, and he might have to bite the bullet—but not without some negotiating of his own.
“Betty's the one you want for Friday-night cruising. All the girls love Betty. Roxanne will just scare them off.”
“Not the girl I'm thinking about.”
Well, that was actually a little bit alarming. Any girl who wasn't scared off by Roxanne was probably more than a seventeen-year-old boy could handle, even if that seventeen-year-old boy was Johnny Ramos.
“How's school going?”
“I finish classes next week and I'm back at East High in the fall.”
“Probation? How's that going?”
“Clean as a whistle,” the boy said easily. Maybe too easily. It was hard to give up the cash of a few quick deals, harder yet to stay away from your old buddies in the 'hood.
“You know what I'm getting at, don't you?” Hawkins knew Johnny better than Johnny knew himself, knew what it was like to get a chance to get off the streets, and knew, too, what it was like to screw that chance up.
He also had a fine appreciation for Roxanne. He knew why the boy wanted her.
“Yes, sir.”
That sounded more like what Hawkins was looking for.
He rubbed a hand across his brow, thinking, weighing his choices, weighing Johnny. He lowered his hand and absently noted the blue tattoo arcing up the length of his arm. It went from the back of his hand to under his T-shirt, then it tracked across his back and worked down his other arm to just past his wrist.
What he didn't know about misspent youth hadn't been written.
“No racing,” he told Johnny, making his decision. “No high-octane even if you're not racing, and no leaving the state.”
“Agreed.” The boy didn't hesitate, which Hawkins didn't find in the least bit reassuring.
“No track racing. No street racing. No drag racing. No racing your grandmother to the end of the block.”
“Dusk to dawn,” Johnny vowed.
“Okay,” Hawkins said with effort, knowing he didn't have much of a choice. “I'll see you in an hour.”
He hung up and shoved the phone back in his pocket, his gaze going to the Sublime Green low-slung beauty sitting in the hot summer sun, the steam rising around her tires. Roxanne. She was a 1971 Dodge Challenger R/T. He'd bought her a few months ago off a dealer in Naperville, Illinois, who'd only raced her on Sundays, invariably in the
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