27
1034 Words
In Max’s pause, I feel her astonishment. “Are you saying he knows who you are?”
“He does.”
Her voice rises to a shout. “And he still let you go?”
I see her point. I was the golden egg dropped onto his lap, a prize opportunity for him to stick it to a rival mob king, and he didn’t take it.
Why?
I chew my lip, unsure how to respond.
She takes pity on me and goes in another direction. “How did he find out who you are?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say. But he’s got an uncanny ability to do stuff like that. I think he might have friends in high places. Like government type high places. He said he ran a background check on me. He knew all kinds of weird stuff, like how I hadn’t been serious with someone in years.”
“That wouldn’t show up on a regular background check.”
“I know, that’s what I’m saying. And guess how he found us after we left the warehouse.”
“How?”
“He hacked an air force satellite.”
After a moment of thinking, Max says, “If he knew someone high level in the government, he wouldn’t have had to go to the trouble of hacking a satellite to find us. He could’ve just made a call and said, hey, buddy, here’s the time and coordinates I need, can you get an image of these chicks stealing stuff from me so I can follow them home and discover their identities.”
“Hmm. True.”
“Which means—if he really did hack a satellite and that wasn’t just BS—he’s got some mad skills for your gardenvariety gangster.”
“Maybe he was like a programmer for Google before he went bad.”
“That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
I groan. “I know. I’m grasping at straws. I’m so confused about this entire situation that my eyes are crossed.”
“You’re making yourself confused. It’s actually very simple.”
I mutter, “I can’t wait to hear this.”
“He wants you. You want to help other people. Make him helping people a condition of getting you.”
“You just said you weren’t suggesting I sleep with him!”
“I was lying. You should definitely sleep with him. My god, Jules, look at the man. He’s masculine beauty personified.
I could climax just by seeing him naked.”
I say flatly, “You’re a terrible friend.”
“Am not.” “Are too.”
“Okay, fine. Make it a one-time thing, then. Tell him you’ll have s*x with him if…” She trails off, thinking. “If he donates a million dollars to the Red Cross.”
“He’s a billionaire, and you’re pimping me out for only a million bucks? That’s all I’m worth to you?”
I hear the shrug in her voice. “Hey, I’d do him for free.”
“Have at it, then! I’ll give you his phone number!”
“He doesn’t want me, Jules. He wants you.” She pauses.
“You have his phone number?”
“He gave it to me.” Her silence sounds accusing, so I add defensively, “In case I needed anything.”
As soon as she starts to laugh, I realize that was the wrong thing to say.
“Oh ho! So you’ve got the Big Bad Wolf on speed dial in case you need something! The plot thickens!”
My sigh is weary. “You make me want to stab myself in the eye.”
“You know what he’s hoping you need is his big, fat—”
I say loudly, “I have to go now. The ledge outside my window is calling.”
“Don’t be such a prude. A roll in the sack with that man would make your entire life worth living.”
“I really hope this is a dream and I wake up in a few minutes to a reality where my best friend isn’t trying to barter my cooch to a notorious mobster in some kind of insane humanitarian mission gone horribly wrong.”
Her tone turns thoughtful. “You know what? That’s a good idea. Give me his number and I’ll call him to set up your next date.”
I pour myself another large glass of wine and start to drink. Meanwhile, Max is still talking.
“I could lay down the ground rules. Act like your manager.”
“The word you’re looking for is madam. And we’re not making any deals to save the world with a man who once threw a waiter off the roof of the Capital Grille for spilling a drop of his wine.”
“That’s an urban legend. Probably.”
“Look, just keep your head down until I can figure out what our next move is, okay?”
Max hoots. “Oh, you’re gonna figure this out? The girl who’s supposed to be a thief but can’t even pick a lock or hotwire a vehicle?”
“Excuse me, but I’m not the one who forgot to disable the cameras at the warehouse across the street from the diaper factory.”
Into her horrified pause, I say, “Yeah. Our friend, Mr. Black, mentioned that. So you’re no Hans Gruber, either, babe.”
“Hey, Hans Gruber was a bad guy!”
“Sorry. He was the only famous thief I could think of.”
“Because you’ve seen Die Hard about a thousand times, no doubt.”
“Oh, we’re going there? Should we talk about how many times you’ve watched The Fast and the Furious?”
From there, the conversation devolves into an argument about our respective bad taste in cinema. We bicker like old men until a knock on my hotel room door distracts me.
“Hold on. Someone’s at the door.”
“Are you expecting anyone?”
Already standing, I stop short. Suddenly, the closed door looks very ominous. “No.”
- Writer
