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"Ugh," I growled, throwing the car into reverse, then jerking it into drive. "Fine. But if you touch my radio, I'll cuff you to the Oh, shit bar," I warned.
"The Oh, shite bar?" he asked, that voice doing its undeniably sexy indeterminate accent thing.
I lifted an arm, reaching across his face to grab the handle on the ceiling near the passenger window. "This. The Oh, shit bar. When you're in the car with someone who drives like they get points for how fast they take a jug handle, and you grab on because your stomach is doing that Oh, shit thing."
"Jug handle?"
"Definitely not from Jersey," I mumbled under my breath as I turned onto the highway, lips twitching when this Adler guy indeed did reach for the Oh, shit bar when I cut it close, just barely managing to speed up before the car coming up my side crashed into the rear fender.
"Says the girl with the Bronx accent."
"That's another life," I cut off the topic, it being a hard-limit one for me. My life in the city, and everything that happened there, was no one's business but my own. "I bet I'm more Jersey than you are."
"Shore, sub, pork roll, cawfee," he said, pronouncing the words like a true native. "Wader," he added, instead of water. "What else is there to know?"
"Aside that only fake New Jersians on TV say the shore and that a U-turn is called a jug handle, you pretty much get it."
"So where we going? Tattoo parlor? Gun shop? Bar?"
"Here," I answered, turning off the highway to a chorus of horns beeping at me for my on-again-off-again willingness to use turn signals.
Geoff had a prime location right on one of the biggest highways in the area, what used to be a strip mall with a mattress store, florist, and puppy store before the local activists got their hands on it, protested the Amish mills the puppies came from and scared them... all the way across the street.
Geoff, ever the opportunist, took advantage of the bad economy, got the whole thing on a song, knocked down some walls, and created a giant office where he employed a bunch of office women whose real names he never learned, a handful of legit, licensed bounty hunters... and then me.
"You're a bounty hunter?" Adler asked, voice a little surprised, maybe impressed, and I could feel his eyes boring into my profile, trying to see inside me.
"Technically, according to the government, those ever-so-nosy people at the IRS, I am a telemarketer." Which I did do. Here and there, getting fired when my bosses found out that I never actually called anyone. Well, I called them, sure. But then I played them a recorded message while I did shit I actually enjoyed. Like catching up on TV or inventorying my weapons. But it gave me some papers to turn in at tax time, kept them off my case. And since I lived in a shit area, no red flags ever came up.
"So, I'm guessin' that you ain't licensed. That ya are the one they call in when the case needs a special touch."
"Oh, my touch is special alright," I agreed, turning off the car, jumping out. "Now go on your way," I demanded, waving a hand as I made my way to the door.
"Fucking finally, Lou," Geoff growled at me, slamming his meaty hands onto the surface of the desk, huffing a bit as he hauled himself to his feet.
Geoff was probably a decent looking guy twenty years ago. But in that slimy way. The guy at the bar who grabs your ass and offers to buy you a drink, then suggests getting it on in the bathroom. Attractive, but ugly. Because no amount of window dressing will pretty up a busted ass window.
Now, he was around fifty-seven with a hangover waistline, receding black hairline, slightly jaundiced deep blue eyes, and the kind of fashion sense that ran toward Hawaiian shirts. So... no fashion sense at all.
Today, it was a bright baby blue one with orange flowers. It really brought out his liver spots.
"I'm here now. You're wasting time riding my ass."
Geoff thrust a beige folder at me, a sole paperclip holding the pages inside in place. Light. What he had was suspiciously light.
"Wouldn't mind riding that ass to... can I help you?"
"Nah, go on. Finish painting yer revoltin' mental image there," Adler's voice said, making me suddenly wish Geoff had invested in a bell or chime for the door. Of course he hadn't run off. His curiosity was piqued. I had a feeling he'd be like a dog on a scent until he was satisfied. "Lou here and I will just look over this very lazy file."
I couldn't stop the smirk that pulled at my lips at Geoff's shocked look. In his world, I was the only one who dared talk back to him. Money sometimes did that to people. Made them scary. And Geoff certainly had money. Even if he was cheap about reusing coffee filters at the office and writing on the backs of dirty napkins instead of taking a spare sheet of paper. He was well-off enough to fund the two-hundred grand car parked out front taking up three spots. It made people think before they shot back at him.
