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And whether he’s willing to give those balls up now, since there’s no way he’s going to be able to pay me back.
According to the file, Greg Harmon owns a body shop a few miles from the garage where Jimmy breathed his last. I tell Chuck to take us there and wonder how much of the business going on at Greg’s shop is of the legal variety. Instinct tells me a hopeless gambler would be a hell of a lot more likely to take a little under-the-table work—salvaging stolen cars for parts, that kind of thing. We might be able to use him for that, since I know I’m not getting cash from the guy.
If there’s no hope of getting him to work off his debt, I’m sure Jock wouldn’t mind getting his hands dirty again.
The shop is about what I’d imagine. Small, dingy looking, sitting on the edge of town where real estate values are shit. A guy in grease-stained overalls sits on a folding chair just inside the first bay, eating a sandwich with hands that look like they haven’t seen soap yet today. He sits up straight when we pull onto the cracked, weed-choked patch of concrete in front of him.
Turns out, his name’s Frank, and Greg is in the office in back. He jerks his thumb in that direction, eyes wide, while I blow out a sigh of relief at not having to smell Frank’s impressive body odor any longer. Jock leads the way to the office, opening the door without knocking and allowing me inside.
The guy sitting behind the scarred wooden desk looks like he could’ve played football at some point in his life, but any muscle he developed has long since been covered in a thick layer of fat. He jumps up from his chair so abruptly the thing falls over behind him. “What are you doing here?”
I offer a brief, tight smile. “You didn’t ask who I am, which I take as an indication of you knowing my name.”
“I do, Mr. Bruno.” No doubt he’s seen me on TV, in newsprint. My family tends to attract attention.
“Then why did you ask what I’m doing here? You should know.”
His eyes go wide, darting back and forth between me and Jock. I’m sure we make a formidable impact, the two of us in our dark suits, sharply groomed—Dad didn’t tolerate slobs in public-facing positions, and neither do I. The dried blood on Jock’s knuckles is the only imperfection, but even that serves a purpose.
I notice Greg’s attention landing on those knuckles time and again. “It’s not his blood,” I inform him with a shrug.
He gulps. “I wouldn’t expect the head of the family to come here, talking about a little gambling debt. That’s all I meant. No disrespect.”
“A little gambling debt?” I can’t help but chuckle at his understatement. “Even I think you overextended yourself, Greg. How did you plan on paying me back?”
I chuckle again. There’s no humor in it. “You didn’t plan on repaying me, because you were sure you’d win. Right? This was the big one. The bet that would change everything.”
He’s shaking now. I roll my eyes and gesture to the water bottle on the desk. “Take a drink, for Christ’s sake. Jock here will help you with your chair, so you can take a seat.”
With that, despite the way Greg sputters, Jock elbows his way in behind the desk. He picks up the chair, slams it in place, then slams Greg into it.
“Now.” I stand on the other side of the desk, watching as the man squirms. His sandy hair is starting to go darker at the temples thanks to the sweat now rolling off him. “Let’s talk repayment methods. What can you do for me that’ll settle this debt?”
He swallows, breathing hard. At this rate he’ll faint before we get anywhere. I nod to Jock, who slaps Greg around a little. “Focus, Greg,” I bark once he’s finished. “What do you have that’s worth anything? Or have you already pawned everything valuable?”
I know the answer to my question, all thanks to Jock’s thoroughness. Greg only owns this shop, and even then he’s double mortgaged. Otherwise, he rents his condo and leases his car. His credit rating is shit and he’s around thirty-five grand in debt, spread over a handful of accounts that have all been closed for lack of payment.
I’m about to demand he start accepting work from my associates when he sits up straighter. “Deanna.”
“Excuse me?”
“My girlfriend. Deanna Jones. What if I give her to you?”
I look at Jock, who shrugs behind Greg. There was no information about Deanna in the file—if there had been, I wouldn’t have wasted time screwing with this guy. I would’ve gone straight for her, threatened to use her in one of the family brothels.
Then again, I would’ve assumed the guy cared about her, which might not be the case. “You would offer your girlfriend? Knowing what that would mean for her?”
He lifts a shoulder. “She walked out on me a couple of days ago, anyway.” As if that makes it okay.
I’m not a good man. I might not enjoy getting my hands dirty, but that’s because I spent years getting them filthy and am now beyond that point. Now, I give orders. A word from me and a person’s life is over.
This guy, though? Even I wouldn’t imagine doing something so cold. “Why would I want her?” I ask, since now I’m interested in seeing where this goes.
“I have a picture of her on my phone.” He fumbles for it, sitting on the corner of the desk, then taps the screen. He holds it up for Jock to examine. “She’s hot. And she’s experienced. That’s how we met. Sort of an escort thing.”
A real-life fairytale romance. Still, Jock gives me a short nod before Greg hands me the phone, and I can’t help but think the girl could be a big earner once I get a look at her. She’s in a white bikini, lying on her back with her elbows propping her up. She must’ve rubbed oil onto her skin because it shines in the sun. Tight little body, unmarked except for a tattoo on her ankle that I can’t quite make out. Half a broken heart? It’s too small for me to see for sure, and it doesn’t matter anyway—our customers like their women in all varieties, inked and otherwise. Big, natural tits. Firm legs. A bright smile and wide, gorgeous blue eyes that pair nicely with her dark blonde waves.
She’s perfection. So what the hell is she doing with this loser?
