Page 32 of The Hardest Hit
He tried to remember how much it was. Probably around seventy-five bucks, but he couldn’t remember. It seemed fine.
I have one on hand. Needs to be drunk. It’s taking up space in the cellar.
Well, then, yay!
This text had kissy-face emojis and some wine glasses. Evan put the phone down feeling smug. Talking to Olivia was so much easier than talking to other people. She seemed so upfront about everything and he loved that. He also loved that she didn’t come with any preconceived notions about the Deveraux family. He wondered how long he could keep it that way because he really, really liked it.
Evan successfully avoided another meeting and headed out for lunch. There was a Greek place around the corner that he liked. The shop smelled like roasting lamb and honey, the windows were steamy in the winter, and Stavros always seemed happy to see him. But he’d barely gone a block when he spotted the photographer across the street. He was ninety percent certain it was the same asshole from the previous week. He tacked across the sidewalk until he was on the inside edge of the crowd by the buildings and ducked into the corner Forester Building, which had two entrances. He stretched his legs and hurried to the far exit and came out on the cross street. He loitered behind the bonsai-sculpted boxwood in the pot by the door and saw the photographer come hurrying across the street, camera in hand.
Evan waited until the man approached the door, squinting through the winter glare on the windows, then he stepped out behind a herd of lunchtime walking secretaries in sneakers and skirts. The photographer was still looking in the window, scanning the interior intently. He didn’t see Evan approach.
Evan kept his speed neutral until he was an arms-length away. Reaching out, he swatted the camera hard and it bounced out of the photographer’s hand, hitting the sidewalk with a hard plastic crunch. The man spun around eyes wide, clearly uncertain of whether to go after the camera or face Evan.
“This is your only warning,” said Evan. “Leave me alone.” Then with a swift kick, he sent the camera sliding further down the cement. The photographer chased after it and Evan walked quickly in the other direction. He kept an eye on the reflections in the windows he passed. The photographer failed to reappear, but he was still relieved when he reached the restaurant and slipped into the steamy warmth of the interior.
13
Jackson – Oars in the Water
Jackson approached the building that Aiden referred to as the Deveraux satellite office, with the fading peeling sign that read Cheery Bailbonds. The sign had been part of the appeal of the place and he had never bothered to change it. Between the sign and the building’s run-down, gritty appearance, the dozen or so tough-looking individuals who filtered through its doors on a daily basis looked perfectly reasonable. No one in the neighborhood questioned why they were there. The only problem was turning down real customers.
“Yo,” said Devonte from one of the desks as Jackson entered. Devonte was in his morning attire of construction worker’s clothes. But he was wearing a shoulder holster over his Carhartt shirt.
“Hey D,” said Jackson. “How’d the commute go?”
“Same as always,” said Devonte. “Got some good stock tips, but I’m about to go get changed. Pete wants me to go case out some photographer’s apartment.”
“Great,” said Jackson. “That means he’s made progress.”
“Yeah, sounds like. My time sheet’s filled out for last week. I don’t like this new software.”
“Well, I like it because I don’t have to try and read the shit you guys call handwriting.”
Devonte’s umber face flashed in a smile, and he shoved an errant dreadlock behind his ear. “You just hate paperwork.”
“Fuck yeah, I do,” said Jackson. “And if I make you do more work and the accountant do more work, then I have to do less work. And that’s what it’s all about. I mean, hell, what kind of lost-heir lifestyle am I living if I have to do paperwork? The point of inheriting millions isnotto do paperwork.”
Devonte laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind for when I win the lotto.”
“Do you dislike this software more or less than the last one we demoed?”
“That’s too many double negatives for me to keep track of. Overall, I like it more than the last pile of crap, but still not as much as the one that had phone integration.”
Jackson made a face. “I liked that one too. Just not the price tag. I swear for that amount I could have Kerschel build us a custom app.”
“There are worse plans,” said Devonte. “OK, I’m going to go change, and then I’m out. Holla if you need shit.”
“Will do,” said Jackson as Devonte headed for the locker room in the back. He sat down at his desk and began to rummage for some gum.
“Hey,” said Pete, coming out of the kitchen with a cup of coffee. Pete was fifty-ish, middle height, and had a comfortably friendly face that made people want to tell him things. He was ex-Army Intelligence and had been working for Eleanor for about a decade before Jackson came along and kicked his operation into high gear. “I ran down your photog. Little shit’s a restraining order magnet. I’m sending Devonte over to check out his place.”
“He said. What else did we find out about him?”
“Well, he won’t be winning any Pulitzers but he really is a photographer and he does work for the Intelligencer. He also freelances for a couple of other places, but his main income is the Intelligencer.”
“What about the Intelligencer? What the hell is it? I’ve never heard of it.”
“Some sort of right-wing nut magazine.”
