The Art of Dash

“Oh, the wit and the sarcasm! A little crime, a little love, a little backstabbing, a little cat and mouse, and capped with a little supernatural action.”

Extract

The young Black guy stepped away from the Chrysler and gestured to its open rear door. He wore a dark suit; looked expensive, or Italian. Gold chains draped his skinny neck and wrists, more sparkle in his earlobes.

“He wants to see you,” the guy said.

“Who?” Zach asked. “Someone with cheap specials? I don’t do trinkets.”

A more mannish guy climbed out of the front seat, spread his hands in a let’s-not have-any-trouble gesture.

“He’s no jeweler,” Skinny said. “Best not to piss him off.”

Both no match for Zach in an arm wrestle, but probably strapped. “It would help if I knew the nature of this visit,” he said. “Otherwise I’ll be testy.”

Skinny tilted his head. “You deal in news, right? He’s got some, is all.”

“How long will this take?” His curiosity pricked at him; some of his best stories came from unexpected sources, and he hadn’t found a quality piece for months. Damn stupid to turn down a possible front pager.

“Takes as long as it takes.”

“Sounds okay,” he said agreeably, and climbed into the back of their car.
They sped south, pulling up fifteen minutes later.

“Thai Style,” proclaimed neon in red and blue. “Closed,” announced the sign on the door.

“Good choice, guys,” he said, “but it’s the wrong day.”

“Private function.” Skinny ushered him out of the car.

Inside, two bigger men, also Black, sat at a table.
One of them stood and patted Zach down.

“Careful now,” Zach said. “I’m ticklish.”

The guard took Zach’s driver’s license and checked  the photo.

“It was taken on a bad day,” Zach told him. Nobody responded.

Skinny took Zach to the back of the restaurant to a private room.
Two knocks, and he eased the door open as if a wild animal was loose inside.

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