CHAPTER EIGHT

The same flophouse masquerading as a nightclub and he was seated in a back booth again. Only this time a woman walked in and joined him. She kept herself together well, he thought, for a drug addict.

“You’re as beautiful as he said you’d be,” he said when she sat in his booth across from him.

“Just give me the money and I’ll do the job.”

He slid a thick envelope across the table. When she reached for it, he placed his hand on top of it: stopping her from taking it. “No drugs until the job is done. You know what you gotta do?”

“Yeah, yeah I know.”

“Get him to take you to the hospital. You have to be alone with him in his truck. That’s the only way it can work.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Just pay me the rest after I do it.”

“You’ll get the rest when the job is done.”

“What if I can’t get him to take me to the hospital?”

“Then you won’t get any more money. And you want more money, don’t you? This envelope will be gone after one good night of drugs. And you know you’ll want more drugs than just a night’s worth.”

She looked at him. “I don’t like you.”

“The feeling is mutual. Just do your job.”

She snatched the envelope, tossed it in her purse, and left.

He took another drag on his cigarette. And smiled. All the pieces were coming together for him. Each and every one of them.