Page 90 of Golden Touch
My stomach clenches after I drop this little nugget. It’s all just grandstanding. I don’t have a recording, and I never heard Razor mention Troy. Benito fed me all this from his own investigation.
But if Benito got anything wrong, Razor will know I’m a liar.
The silence drags on until he finally says, “We never use real names, and we never mention drugs by name. You can’t prove nothing.”
“Maybe,” I admit. “But sixteen hours is a long time. There’s a lot of conversation, and some names I’d never heard before. I bet there’s a copsomewherethat would take an interest.”
He makes an angry noise.
“But you can have all of it,” I say quickly. “I’ll give you the recorder, but you have to agree to leave me alone. And also give me back my passport. I need it.”
“Where’d you hide this recorder?” he asks. “I think you’re bluffing.”
A drop of sweat rolls down my back, because he’s right to be suspicious. “I put it in the pocket of a hoodie that was hanging on a hook on a wall. Somebody left it there for weeks.”And thank you, Benito, for coaching me on this question. “It’s voice activated, so it only switched on whenever people were talking. Your voice is on there. Maybe you’re not the one who actually says what went down in Troy. But you’re there, and it’s clear you’re the boss.”
He lets out a quiet curse, while I say a prayer that this seems plausible.
“I bought the device on Amazon,” I continue. “Little thing. Looks like a kitchen timer.”
“You cunt,” he whispers. “Sticking your nose in other people’s business.”
“Youmadeit my business,” I argue. “I wanted nothing to do with it.”
“Then why did you makea fucking recording?” he snarls.
“I had to!” I shout. “I’mnevertaking the rap for your drug deals. I had to protect myself. You want this thing, or not? The data is probably exportable, but I didn’t try.”
“Uh-huh. You think I’d just trust you about that?” he barks. “Like, you never made a copy of that thumb drive? What’s in this for me?”
“I don’twantthis stuff,” I argue. “I never did. That’s why you had to trick me into doing your illegal bullshit. If you’d been honest with me—that you were laundering money through your bank accounts—I would have never done your bookkeeping. I would have walked right out the door.”
“Yeah? Like you’re too good for me, bitch? Didn’t hear you complain when I took you for steaks at Southside’s. Fentanyl paid for those twelve-dollar cocktails you like so much.”
Benito
Boom!!!! Yeah baby!
My shoulders relax by a fraction. “Look, if you didn’t smack me around, maybe I could have ignored the fentanyl,” I say. “And the scar on my arm? I’ll have it for the rest of my life.”
“Cry me a fucking river,” he says. “Your new boy toy doesn’t seem to mind. He know you’re leaving the state?”
“His idea,” I say quietly. “He got a job out on the West Coast.” A location I chose because it’s both vague and far away. “Look, I’d FedEx this stuff to you. But I want my passport, because we want to drive through Canada. And it seems like a fair trade.”
Another silence. “All right. Tell me where you are, and I’ll send someone to swing by and get it.”
A drop of sweat runs down my back, because the next minute or so is crucial. “I’m not talking to one of your flying monkeys, and I’m not telling you where I’m staying. I’ll meet you somewhere tomorrow. I have to drive to Rutland in the morning to pick up a used car I’m buying. Mine wouldn’t make the trip.”
He doesn’t answer right away, and I stop breathing. “That might work,” he says eventually. “Swing by in the morning?”
“No way,” I say, allowing myself to sound nervous. “After the beating you gave me? I’m not setting foot on your property. But there’s always the parking lot in front of the supermarket. We could meet there. Or CVS? Or even at that Dairy Queen.”
“Hang on,” he mutters. “I’m thinking.”
Benito
Google the DQ, asshole! You know you want to.
The seconds tick by. There’s no way this is going to work.
