except information. Then we’ll leave and you’ll never hear from us again. Please, I need your help.”
Maybe it was just the “one woman talking to another woman” thing. Maybe it was the quiet voice and calm demeanor. Or maybe it was the fact that I stayed back and didn’t make a threatening move. Whatever the reason was, the roommate relaxes slightly but noticeably. Good thing, too - she didn’t seem to be breathing, and the last thing we need right now is two people flat out on the floor.
“Who are you people?” she asks, eyes darting back and forth between us.
“My name is Claire,” Jessica says calmly and quietly, “and this is Tyrell.”
Tyrell? Oh, fuck it. I can roll with being a Tyrell for a bit.
“What’s your name?” Jessica asks.
“Amber,” the woman mumbles.
“Amber. My dad’s name is Delano Hayha. He used to live here but he’s disappeared. Did he leave anything behind?”
Amber shakes her head. We need to leave soon - her eyes are about to bug out of her head. She may actually explode.
“OK. Calm down. It’s all good. Do you rent this place?” I ask.
She points at the guy on the floor.
“He rents this place?”
Amber nods her head.
“Okay. Do you know who he rents it from?”
Without taking her eyes off us, she backs over to a desk and quickly grabs an envelope and hands it to Jessica.
“Lobo Fandango Rentals,” she reads. “Up on 9000 Spain NE. Know where that is?”
“Yeah,” I say, “It’s up in the Heights. Not too far.”
“Can I keep this?” she asks Amber, who has now started shaking. The boyfriend is starting to groan now, too. It’s time to get moving. Amber nods her head to keep the envelope and we start backing out.
I’m glad we parked around the block. Amber’s shock should keep her from calling the cops immediately. Although, what’s she going to report, anyway? A couple of nondescript white folks thumped her boyfriend and took an envelope? The cops around here won’t do a damn thing about it, because it’s just college kids doing college things, and who cares? There weren’t any drugs involved, so it’s not worth their time.
We quietly walk out and drive away.
09 | Data
According to the web browser on my phone, Lobo Fandango is a one-person business. It’s wholly owned, operated, and run by a guy named Silvio Goodman, who is apparently a self-styled real-estate magnate. Silvio seems to think he’s Trump without the bad toupee. He doesn’t realize that Trump handles multi-million-dollar real estate deals while Goodman’s deals mostly involve screwing over broke college students.
Silvio’s even got a picture of himself on his web site: a short, stocky guy with thinning hair and arms crossed across his chest like he’s trying to look tough. Some short guys can look tough - or at least worthy of respect - but this guy isn’t one of them. He’s trying way too hard to look like he’s success personified, leaning on his stock 350z like it’s a damn Ferrari.
Lobo Fandango is located in a formerly swanky part of town. Goodman’s running the business out of his house and probably using the business to write off part of his house payments on his taxes. The Z is parked in the driveway, so that’s a bonus for us. By the way, the vanity license plate on Goodman’s Z spells “DOLLERZ.”
What a babe magnet this guy must be.
The house is your typical gaudy oversized house, owned by gaudy people who think the décor in Tony Soprano’s house was high-class. He’s got the requisite neatly trimmed lawn complete with pink flamingo. The door mat spells out Bienvenido. I wonder if he’s trying to look quaint or just say welcome to the large native Spanish-speaking population in town.
When we get the door, Jessica turns and says, “Can we get some information from this guy before you knock him out?”
I hold my hand up in my best imitation of a Boy Scout salute and
Maybe it was just the “one woman talking to another woman” thing. Maybe it was the quiet voice and calm demeanor. Or maybe it was the fact that I stayed back and didn’t make a threatening move. Whatever the reason was, the roommate relaxes slightly but noticeably. Good thing, too - she didn’t seem to be breathing, and the last thing we need right now is two people flat out on the floor.
“Who are you people?” she asks, eyes darting back and forth between us.
“My name is Claire,” Jessica says calmly and quietly, “and this is Tyrell.”
Tyrell? Oh, fuck it. I can roll with being a Tyrell for a bit.
“What’s your name?” Jessica asks.
“Amber,” the woman mumbles.
“Amber. My dad’s name is Delano Hayha. He used to live here but he’s disappeared. Did he leave anything behind?”
Amber shakes her head. We need to leave soon - her eyes are about to bug out of her head. She may actually explode.
“OK. Calm down. It’s all good. Do you rent this place?” I ask.
She points at the guy on the floor.
“He rents this place?”
Amber nods her head.
“Okay. Do you know who he rents it from?”
Without taking her eyes off us, she backs over to a desk and quickly grabs an envelope and hands it to Jessica.
“Lobo Fandango Rentals,” she reads. “Up on 9000 Spain NE. Know where that is?”
“Yeah,” I say, “It’s up in the Heights. Not too far.”
“Can I keep this?” she asks Amber, who has now started shaking. The boyfriend is starting to groan now, too. It’s time to get moving. Amber nods her head to keep the envelope and we start backing out.
I’m glad we parked around the block. Amber’s shock should keep her from calling the cops immediately. Although, what’s she going to report, anyway? A couple of nondescript white folks thumped her boyfriend and took an envelope? The cops around here won’t do a damn thing about it, because it’s just college kids doing college things, and who cares? There weren’t any drugs involved, so it’s not worth their time.
We quietly walk out and drive away.
09 | Data
According to the web browser on my phone, Lobo Fandango is a one-person business. It’s wholly owned, operated, and run by a guy named Silvio Goodman, who is apparently a self-styled real-estate magnate. Silvio seems to think he’s Trump without the bad toupee. He doesn’t realize that Trump handles multi-million-dollar real estate deals while Goodman’s deals mostly involve screwing over broke college students.
Silvio’s even got a picture of himself on his web site: a short, stocky guy with thinning hair and arms crossed across his chest like he’s trying to look tough. Some short guys can look tough - or at least worthy of respect - but this guy isn’t one of them. He’s trying way too hard to look like he’s success personified, leaning on his stock 350z like it’s a damn Ferrari.
Lobo Fandango is located in a formerly swanky part of town. Goodman’s running the business out of his house and probably using the business to write off part of his house payments on his taxes. The Z is parked in the driveway, so that’s a bonus for us. By the way, the vanity license plate on Goodman’s Z spells “DOLLERZ.”
What a babe magnet this guy must be.
The house is your typical gaudy oversized house, owned by gaudy people who think the décor in Tony Soprano’s house was high-class. He’s got the requisite neatly trimmed lawn complete with pink flamingo. The door mat spells out Bienvenido. I wonder if he’s trying to look quaint or just say welcome to the large native Spanish-speaking population in town.
When we get the door, Jessica turns and says, “Can we get some information from this guy before you knock him out?”
I hold my hand up in my best imitation of a Boy Scout salute and
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