kiddo,” he gasped, snatching the photograph from my hand. “I’m usually better at hiding my job.”
“I don’t scare easily.”
“You don’t,” he repeated.
“No, I just catalogue this stuff in my People are Evil file.”
He drew the pic up to his eyes. “I need to figure out who he is.”
Don’t hold your breath on that one , I thought.
I anxiously rapped my fingers on the tray table. “What is it about Turkey that allows him to swim with the sharks without being eaten alive? I mean, his last name is Cardoza. That’s Spanish. Yet he’s representing a family that’s Italian?”
Lincoln chuckled deeply, “I’d forgotten how astute you are.”
Awwwww. Astute sounded nice, but it was more like a badger that wouldn’t let go of a snake.
He didn’t speculate a guess but acted as if he still knew the answer. If anyone could dissect Turkey’s particular idiosyncrasies, it would be Lincoln. He grew up in the Compton area of LA. If you didn’t join a street gang, you didn’t survive … but Lincoln hadn’t and was somehow still breathing. As a matter of fact, he’d successfully coexisted, and when he earned his badge, he took down those he thought were the worst—leaving the others to live by their own rules. But let’s be real, the man had to have gotten dirty somewhere along the way. No one was that good.
Lincoln blinked hard then gazed out the window, as though he was thinking about a particular incident he’d rather forget. “This trip came at the right time, Darcy. Turkey’s put out the word he’s gunning for my partner and me, and the best thing to do is place some distance between all of us. Turkey would never look for me here.”
Lincoln’s face coated in head-to-toe frustration while I secretly said in my head, Please come, and let me shoot a gun . “At least, you’ve got two weeks to relax,” I smiled.
“I don’t understand the term, dear,” he chuckled. He fished his hand down in his pocket, pulling out a pack of Wrigley’s Spearmint chewing gum, offering me the first piece. “Do you want some gum? I chew four packs a day when I’m anxious.”
I’d had four cups of coffee in two hours. There was a good chance my mouth smelled like a cigarette butt.
A trip to the restroom later, I wheeled my bag outside and telephoned Murphy to communicate we’d landed safely. Then I punched in 411 and got the number for Lola Medina. Did I have a plan? No. Did I pray one would materialize if she answered? Heck, yeah.
The airport felt hotter than Hades. My underarms took on a strange funk while sweat rolled down my back like a leaky faucet. Twitchy with apprehension, I dialed and after five rings was greeted with a cough that resembled an asthma attack, then an aggravated sigh. “Hullo?” she muttered.
Somebody pinch me. “Lola Medina?” I asked.
She didn’t have to voice anything; the vibe through the receiver smelled of suspicion. After a New York minute, she stiffly said, “Yes?”
I picked at my nails—hoping to sound professional—then spit out a reply. “I’m going to find your son.” What I recognized as Spanish curse words filled the dead space, followed by an avalanche of tears and a disconnection. Talk about tearing at your heartstrings. For some reason, I remembered that chapter in Alice in Wonderland called Pool of Tears . Alice had fallen down the rabbit hole and is trapped, depressed, with no way out, and swimming in her own sadness.
I choked down the hysteria but told myself three times, You’re doing the right thing . Maybe that explained away my own brand of conviction, but people like me didn’t boast a lot of success stories. We were the ones that got patted on the head with a look of sympathy that said, Nice try . I surprised even myself with the strategies I’d use, but for some reason I had the consuming need to help this woman. Trouble was, I needed to formulate a plan of action before my good intentions went haywire and bit me in the
“I don’t scare easily.”
“You don’t,” he repeated.
“No, I just catalogue this stuff in my People are Evil file.”
He drew the pic up to his eyes. “I need to figure out who he is.”
Don’t hold your breath on that one , I thought.
I anxiously rapped my fingers on the tray table. “What is it about Turkey that allows him to swim with the sharks without being eaten alive? I mean, his last name is Cardoza. That’s Spanish. Yet he’s representing a family that’s Italian?”
Lincoln chuckled deeply, “I’d forgotten how astute you are.”
Awwwww. Astute sounded nice, but it was more like a badger that wouldn’t let go of a snake.
He didn’t speculate a guess but acted as if he still knew the answer. If anyone could dissect Turkey’s particular idiosyncrasies, it would be Lincoln. He grew up in the Compton area of LA. If you didn’t join a street gang, you didn’t survive … but Lincoln hadn’t and was somehow still breathing. As a matter of fact, he’d successfully coexisted, and when he earned his badge, he took down those he thought were the worst—leaving the others to live by their own rules. But let’s be real, the man had to have gotten dirty somewhere along the way. No one was that good.
Lincoln blinked hard then gazed out the window, as though he was thinking about a particular incident he’d rather forget. “This trip came at the right time, Darcy. Turkey’s put out the word he’s gunning for my partner and me, and the best thing to do is place some distance between all of us. Turkey would never look for me here.”
Lincoln’s face coated in head-to-toe frustration while I secretly said in my head, Please come, and let me shoot a gun . “At least, you’ve got two weeks to relax,” I smiled.
“I don’t understand the term, dear,” he chuckled. He fished his hand down in his pocket, pulling out a pack of Wrigley’s Spearmint chewing gum, offering me the first piece. “Do you want some gum? I chew four packs a day when I’m anxious.”
I’d had four cups of coffee in two hours. There was a good chance my mouth smelled like a cigarette butt.
A trip to the restroom later, I wheeled my bag outside and telephoned Murphy to communicate we’d landed safely. Then I punched in 411 and got the number for Lola Medina. Did I have a plan? No. Did I pray one would materialize if she answered? Heck, yeah.
The airport felt hotter than Hades. My underarms took on a strange funk while sweat rolled down my back like a leaky faucet. Twitchy with apprehension, I dialed and after five rings was greeted with a cough that resembled an asthma attack, then an aggravated sigh. “Hullo?” she muttered.
Somebody pinch me. “Lola Medina?” I asked.
She didn’t have to voice anything; the vibe through the receiver smelled of suspicion. After a New York minute, she stiffly said, “Yes?”
I picked at my nails—hoping to sound professional—then spit out a reply. “I’m going to find your son.” What I recognized as Spanish curse words filled the dead space, followed by an avalanche of tears and a disconnection. Talk about tearing at your heartstrings. For some reason, I remembered that chapter in Alice in Wonderland called Pool of Tears . Alice had fallen down the rabbit hole and is trapped, depressed, with no way out, and swimming in her own sadness.
I choked down the hysteria but told myself three times, You’re doing the right thing . Maybe that explained away my own brand of conviction, but people like me didn’t boast a lot of success stories. We were the ones that got patted on the head with a look of sympathy that said, Nice try . I surprised even myself with the strategies I’d use, but for some reason I had the consuming need to help this woman. Trouble was, I needed to formulate a plan of action before my good intentions went haywire and bit me in the
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