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“Jolene, pretty name. Like that song?”
I grin at him. “Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene…”
He laughs and nods along. “That’s right. I bet you get that a lot.”
“All the time, but it’s okay. I like the song.”
“Good song, good song.” He mumbles to himself as he flips down to another drawer. “I wanna make a confession. I know bookmaking isn’t exactly an honorable profession, right? I never wanted to be a damn bookie. It was never appealing. But I had this cousin who was giving it up so I bought him out, took it over, and made a killing for almost ten years. That was until the internet started, and bookmaking got dangerous and not very profitable, so I gave it up, sold the book to another guy. Lucky for you though, I kept impeccable goddamn records, because the easiest way to lose money is to forget who owes you what.” He curses, moves to another drawer, and starts rifling.
“I’m looking for particular information,” I say, glancing around at more pictures of his family. “Stuff pertaining to a man named Mark, who worked for the post office and had his entire debt paid down.”
“I remember the guy. Real fucking squirrelly, always complaining and whining, saying he’ll pay me next week, always fucking next week. Ah, shit, here we go.” He yanks a thick file filled with yellow legal paper with lines of numbers written on them in a tight, scrawling hand. “Mark was just about the worst gambler I ever saw. He always picked wrong, and I mean always. You’d think you’d hit around fifty-fifty, right? Maybe a little more, maybe a little less. Maybe you’re up a bit, then you’re down a bit. Shit like that. But no, this guy, he was just constantly wrong. Blew through cash really fast and his debt was insane for a while there.” He reaches the back of the folder and holds up a bank statement with a polaroid attached. “Until this fucker wrote a check.”
I hold my hand out and he gives it over. The bank statement reflects the deposit of a large sum of money into an account owned by Jim, and the polaroid is a picture of that check.
Signed by Malcolm Strafford.
I whistle and shake my head. “This is huge, you know that?”
“Keep my name out of it,” Jim says, giving me the rest of the folder. “Tell Mr. Bruno all I want is that I’m left alone. I know his family and I’ve got a lot of respect for you folks, right? I’ve got a family now, I sell real estate, and I’m a certified notary public. My bookie days are long gone.”
“Don’t worry, you won’t be a part of this at all.” I nod to him and tuck the polaroid and the receipt back in the file before putting the whole stack under my arm. “Gavino will be very pleased.”
“Yeah, yeah, you tell him what I said.”
I turn and walk out. He comes with me. I ask him about his kids, and instead of talking like a proud father, he clams up. I don’t realize why until I’m outside and he slams the door: he thought I was threatening his kids.
I sigh and stand in the driveway with my bags, staring at the folder.
This is what I came for. But was it really that easy? Twilight’s falling and I still have nowhere to go, but this folder could mean everything. I don’t need the hard drives. I don’t need Gavino.
I can ruin Malcolm on my own. All I need is a sympathetic journalist willing to hear my story.
I gather my stuff and start walking. It’s hot, but not too bad with the sun gone. I make it halfway down the black when a car appears and turns into Jim’s driveway, a big black SUV with black windows.
My heart’s racing as I duck behind several large bushes set in a rocky front yard. I peer around them as the doors open and men step out.
I can’t be sure, but I swear the one that reaches the front first is Gavino, followed by Romano.
They knock, wait, and Jim answers. They have a discussion, and I can tell it’s not a happy one. They disappear inside for a few minutes and I stay there, rooted to the spot, unable to make myself move. I should start running before they come out, but I can’t do it.
That’s Gavino. Despite everything, I want to see him again. Some crazy part of my brain wants to run over there and share the file folder with him. I want to see the excitement in his eyes when he realizes what’s inside and what it means. I want to give him that thrill, and feel the thrill returned when he kisses me and wraps his arms around my body.
But that’s only fantasy.
Gavino storms back out of Jim’s place, followed by Romano. There’s no shouting, no gunshots. Nothing to indicate that Jim got hurt. Gavino and Romano stand in the driveway and have a serious discussion for a minute until they get in the car and head away, going slow. I stay where I am, shivering with nerves.
The SUV comes in my direction, and I sink deeper behind the bushes, praying they don’t spot me.
But if the headlights illuminate my body at all, the SUV doesn’t stop. It keeps on going until the taillights disappear around a corner, and they’re gone.
I sigh and step back out. Night’s falling rapidly. My mouth is dry and my hands are shaking from adrenaline. Gavino nearly caught me. If I’d been in that house for another few minutes longer, he would’ve pulled up as I was leaving, or he would’ve seen me walking on the sidewalk, or he could’ve even trapped me in there with Jim. God damn, that was stupidly close.
But I did it. I have the file, and now I have a chance. The victory is bittersweet, but at least it’s a victory.
I step out from the shadows, dragging my suitcase, and begin to walk again.
I need to call an Uber, but I’m too jittery to stop just yet. I want to burn off some of this excitement by walking out to the main road before putting in my car request. I make it halfway to the turn where Gavino disappeared when another car appears, another big, black SUV, coming right toward me.
I stop, freezing, panic setting in.
Did Gavino come back? Is he sweeping the whole area, looking for me? Maybe he sent his guys to check if I might be wandering around somewhere close. I look to the side but there’s no easy cover, just a sedan in the driveway on my right. “Shit,” I hiss and start toward it, but the SUV speeds up until it screeches to a halt five feet away.
I’m like a rabbit in front of a fox. I want to run screaming, but my legs won’t respond to my freaking-out brain. The door slowly opens, and a man steps out.
Benedict smiles at me. “Hello, Jeanie. Where were you going?”
Finally, my body kicks into gear and I scream as he strides over, grabs me by the hair, and throws me into the back of his car.
