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I chuckle.
Nah.
The fucker knows better than to make me pay him a visit a second time in the same day.
I get into my car and add the address to my GPS, grateful to see that it’s only a twenty-minute drive from here. The only thing I’m not so happy about is that the address leads me to a house that looks like it’s on its last leg in a bad part of town. I see two kids open the iron gate and pass by me with skateboards in their hands.
“Hey,” I call out, fishing a twenty-dollar bill from my pocket. “What is this place?”
The skittish kid just walks past me, while the one who isn’t afraid to talk to strangers for a buck stays rooted to his spot, opening his palm. I reluctantly give him his money before I get an answer.
“What does it look like? It’s a foster home, old timer.”
My forehead wrinkles since this pissant should show more respect to the guy who just paid him for barely any info.
I swipe the bill out of his hand faster than he can blink.
“Yeah, I get that it’s a foster home by how run-down it is. What I want to know is if there are two girls inside. One must be like . . . I don’t know . . . seven or eight and her sister has a banged-up shoulder. Any of that familiar to you?”
He crosses his arms, not one bit frazzled by the scowl on my face.
“All depends,” he retorts.
“On what?” I snap. Usually I’m better at this, but my patience is wearing thin where my two girls are concerned.
“If you’re going to pay me or not.”
I almost roll my eyes at the little dipshit. “Here,” I bark, handing him his money.
“Nah, man. I’m going to need a little bit more than that to get your intel.”
“How old are you?” I arch a brow.
“Fifteen.”
“Want to make it to sixteen? I suggest you talk. Now.”
The nonchalance in his expression is wiped clean when I give him the look.
In our business, we all have it.
It’s the same one that says don’t fuck with me or else.
Elseusually means a quick slash to the throat. This kid hasn’t lived long enough to earn my wrath, but if he keeps playing with me, then I’ll have no choice but to rough him up a bit.
Just a bit.
“Gray!” his cowardly friend shouts, looking like he’s about to throw up. “Just tell him already.”
“Better listen to your friend.” I smile menacingly.
“I don’t have friends, asshole,” he spits back.
“Not with that attitude.” I smirk, liking the kid just a little bit more, but not enough that I won’t bitch slap him if he doesn’t get it together and give me what I want.
The pissant stares me in the eye like he’s a man and shit. If he wasn’t such a pain in my ass, I’d actually find him amusing.
Since I’m not one for patience and slapping him about would only take more time than what I have right now, I relent and grab another twenty from my pocket.
