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Margot almost told him she did mind but since his Mom was paying her for what would ultimately be busy work, she explained, “I figure the boyfriend is next and then I’ve got an idea or two.”
Randy nodded. “You know, I wasn’t worried before. I’m worried now.”
“Yeah, I know the feeling.”
Margot left Randy at Layla’s West and headed for the address he gave her for Mick. All they had was his first name and the address; neither Randy nor his mom even knew if Mick had a job or how old he was, though Randy said he was definitely too old to be dating a fifteen-year-old. On the way, Margot called Mal and explained the situation, especially the dark blue sedan.
“I can’t say I’ve seen any blue sedans tailing me, but I haven’t really left the house. As to the other one, did you call Trixie and see if she’s still seeing the doc? Maybe the injured party went to see him.”
“Since the Doc sold her out to a cartel hitman, she didn’t feel too bad talking to the cops about him. He’s in county awaiting trial. I figure if I find Chrissie, we can work out the rest and even if we can’t, that’s what I’m getting paid for.”
“Yeah, I guess the rest doesn’t matter. Ames is going to be pissed you’re still involved.”
“He’ll get over it. I’m almost to the boyfriend's house.”
“Alright, call me if you need anything.”
“I will,” Margot said, hoping she wouldn’t need his help.
She hoped the things he was really good at, all of those involving violence, wouldn’t be needed. Plus, as mad as Ames was going to be about her involvement, his rage would go up another couple levels if Mal was part of it.
Mick lived in a nicer neighborhood than Margot would have guessed. He might be too old for Chrissie, but judging by the newer two-story houses and manicured lawns, he might be a step up in class.
Margot reassessed that opinion when she found his address. His was the only house on the block without a well-maintained yard. The aging Ford Mustang parked on the brown weed-covered yard didn’t help. In the drive was a cherry red Pontiac Fiero that was at least ten years older than the Ford in the grass but looked at least ten years newer. Someone took pride in maintaining the cheap sports car knockoff from the eighties.
Margot parked in the driveway next to the Fiero and got out of her car. She only made it a few steps before an overweight young man with too many facial piercing and bad tattoos came bouncing out of the house.
“You can’t park there,” he said.
“Are you Mick?”
“No, did you hear me?”
“Yeah, is Mick around?”
He stopped in front of her and gave her a look she supposed was meant to scare her but really just seemed to make the guy look constipated before he said, “Who are you?”
“Margot, is that a yes or a no?”
“I don’t know you.”
“For that I’m thankful, can you answer my question?”
“How do you know Mick?”
“I don’t. I do, however, need to talk to him.”
“Okay, but it will cost you.”
“Cost me what?”
“I’m sure a hot little thing like yourself can think of something she could do that I would like.”
“Are you serious?”
“The ‘B’ man don’t kid about getting his freak on.”
“‘B’ man?”
