25

An oil-burning delivery truck blasted past him as he stood on the curb. The thing was puking sooty exhaust that made Jim hold his breath as he headed for the Coffee Girl across the street from his townhouse complex.

As he entered the lot, Oscar Olsen pulled in on his equally roaring—but non-oil-burning—bike. The loud pipes dared anyone to come within yards of the huge motorcycle.

Most bounty hunters and PIs made great efforts to blend into the crowd. It increased the possibility of maintaining the element of surprise until the last minute. Good for sneaking up and gaining custody of the skip tracer. Not Double O. Nope. He made his way through the world larger than life. His stature, his personality, and his appearance. He was a big boy. No changing that, so he made it work for him. Instead of sneaking up on bail skippers, he walked straight on and intimidated the shit out of them.

But as with most things hard, O had a soft side. Jim had seen O’s and that made the big man much less of a threat. Oh, he could still whip Jim seven ways in seven seconds, but Jim figured he wouldn’t.

After O balanced his helmet on the handlebars, he stopped just shy of the door to wait for Jim.

“O! You’re here,” Sandy cooed as they entered. She rushed over and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Morning, beautiful.” His voice was smooth. The kind used in life insurance and Viagra commercials. The girls melted every time O started talking. Also a good tool to have on your side. A trusting voice made people comfortable, helped them let their guard down. His size quit being so intimidating as soon as he opened his mouth. Unless he wanted you to shake in your boots, then that deep booming voice was only slightly less frightening than your mom screaming your full name after discovering you broke her favorite lamp while throwing the football inside the house. Again.

They slid into the usual spot, corner booth in the rear of the restaurant. Jim sat with his back to the wall. O had no fear of putting his back to the world.

Sandy trotted up with the coffeepot. “Do me a favor, O.” She ignored Jim.

O gave her a look with an overdramatic brow arch.

“Say, ‘Beef. It’s what’s for dinner.’” She poured as she made the request.

Jim laughed. She was so cute. And he’d bet the contents of his wallet she’d get the big guy to do it too.

“What?”

With a quick slosh, she poured Jim’s coffee. Maybe a half cup. Her attention barely left the big bounty hunter. “You know, that commercial Sam Elliott does? The one for the beef people. They showed a pretty steak and then you heard him say it.”

O closed his eyes with a little headshake. Evidently, this was not the first time he’d heard the request. “Unfortunately, I do. And no.”

“Oh, come on. Please.” She looked back. The other morning-shift waitress had moved in close. She wore the same pretty pretty please look young girls achieved with ease.

“I told Lisa you sounded just like Sam Elliott. And she loves Sam Elliott.” She clutched her hands over her heart. “Please.”

O gave Jim a tepid look, as if this were all his fault. Maybe his silent chuckle wasn’t helping anything. “I didn’t ask you to say shit.”

Sandy then pulled out the big guns, played dirty. She reached out and put her dainty little hand on O’s tattooed arm. “Come on, Oscar, it’s just one sentence.” She’d used his first name. Like she was his little girl or baby sister. Her expectant face was more than either of them could refuse.

He growled. “If you promise not to utter that man’s name around me ever again, I’ll say it once. And never again.”

“Yay.” She set the coffeepot down and did a little dance. Lisa loomed closer.

“First Roadhouse, then that commercial came out, I thought I’d never get to speak again without people mentioning him or that ad.” O sat up straight up. “Just once.”

She nodded. Behind her Lisa mirrored the gesture. He cleared his throat. Took a long sip of the coffee. The girls were patiently waiting, but Jim thought Lisa was gonna bust if O didn’t speak soon.

“Beef.” He said it slow and with that Texas drawl Elliott had made a living off of. “It’s what’s for dinner.”

Lisa clapped. Sandy squealed.

“And if you don’t find me some real beef in this joint, I might just have to gnaw on you for protein.”

She smacked his shoulder. “You’re so sweet.”

“Oh. My. God.” Lisa rushed off as if to share her experience with the next person she encountered.

Jim didn’t try to hide his mirth. Opened his mouth to speak, but—

“Not one fucking word from you, Bean.”

“Not me.”

“Now. Seriously. When is the pecker-head in the kitchen going to give up this green menu and start serving real food?”

Sandy rushed back over to retrieve her pot. “Maybe soon.” She looked over her shoulder. Lisa no longer shadowed her. “Business has been really, really slow.”

Jim pushed his already empty cup toward her. “So my regular business isn’t enough to keep the place open?”

She gave him a little smirk and a wink. “Your tips sure aren’t.”

“Go on. Bring us something resembling breakfast,” O said.

She sashayed off.

O looked at Jim. “I bet your tips are the only reason she can feed herself.”

Jim shrugged. Sandy was one of the few women he did trust. Not that there was any kind of relationship there. She was a hardworking girl trying to make a living. That could be difficult in Vegas, and he couldn’t bear to see the girl hit the streets to make her bills. He was known to leave a twenty or two on the table at times.

“She puts up with me almost every morning. Should get more than a couple bucks.”

They sat quietly for a minute. O looked out the window at the passing traffic. It was a comfortable silence that comes from spending time with a guy. Time and danger made men comfortable with one another. And they’d shared both.

O took another drink. The action brought them back into conversation position. “You lookin’ for some work?”

O often let Jim pick up some skips in his bounty hunter business for extra cash when things got slim in Jim’s world. The offer usually came with the suggestion that if Jim advertised and had a better website, he might get more clients, or better-paying ones. But that was for a later conversation. Today Jim was the one with the offer.

“Nope. I want to hire you this time.”

O’s brows rose. “As in a bondsman? You get arrested and I didn’t hear about it?”

“No.” I got drugged and screwed by a serial killer and need your help finding the bitch. “My last client hired me to find her brother. Said he’d been into drugs.”

“Sounds about normal for you.”

“Well, that’s where the normal ended. Turns out my client was only pretending to be the target’s sister. She killed the target’s sister and stole her identity.”

“Oh?”

“I need the backup.” Jim liked to work alone. But heading into unknown territory without backup was risky. And he might be lazy, but never intentionally stupid.

This was his burden. His problem. And sooner or later his night with Sophie might become pertinent to the investigation. But if he was going to tell anyone, O would be the guy. Still, he’d wait until that info was need-to-know. Sophie Evers was a grade-A whack job who made his usual list of clients seem like church ladies. Miller had been right. Having some backup with this bitch out there would be smart.

“With your help I’ll find her faster. I got a young man and his elderly mother stashed in a safe house, along with her care worker.”

“And a couple badges, I’d guess.”

“Yep. Not ideal.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“We’d need to head to Dallas, today. I have a couple leads to work and a copy of an FBI file to decipher.”

“How’d you get an FBI file?”

Jim shrugged.

O took a sip of his coffee. “Get to fight with the Feds too, then?”

“More than likely. Pretty female Fed.”

“I’ll be. This day is getting better.”

“I can even pay you.”

“Now you’re just pulling my leg.” He winked but sadly it wasn’t too far a stretch.

Jim took a deep breath, unsure why telling O this seemed embarrassing. Probably because Sophie had shown him she could get to him. That he’d been stupid. He rarely repeated stupid.

“We’re thinking this chick’s killed around ten people, O. Some of the corpses have been scumbags and some are just regular civies. I’m invested in this. I fell for her lies, found her ultimate target, and served him right up to her. Almost left him to her too. I’m responsible. I’ve spent time with her. She’s very good at being bad.”

“Dang. You have the strangest shit come across your desk.”

“Tell me about it. You in? I know you have a business to run here.”

“I got people who can do my job while I’m gone. You could use someone working for you too. Then you wouldn’t have to pull me away from picking up strays every time you need help.”

“Build my business and hire someone reliable?” He mimicked the advice that O tossed his way every time they talked.

O rolled his eyes at Jim’s sarcastic tone.

“That means I’d have to deal with that someone. I hate that someone already and I haven’t even hired him yet.”

“Why do you hate everyone?”

“I don’t hate you.”

O smiled. “Yet.” He pointed a long, ringed finger at Jim. His late wife’s name was tattooed along his knuckles. He’d lost her here, in Vegas, on their honeymoon. Traffickers grabbed her in a club, right under O’s nose. He’d stayed to find the creeps, but only found a trail to a dead body.

“I’ll be your Huckleberry … on one condition.” O leaned back in the booth, his body language suddenly cocky. “Gun range.”

Jim let his head hit the back of the booth. “I don’t want a gun.” He sounded like a whiney teenage boy being assigned chores.

“You need one. I’ll help you.”

Not the range. Anything but the range. It was bad enough he was feeling like a weak-ass punk after letting Sophie get him by the balls, now he had to prove to O he couldn’t shoot for shit.

“I’ll hire someone else.”

“You really that afraid to shoot, man?”

“Not fear. I told you, I suck with a gun. You want me to carry a gun, give me a sawed-off shotgun. Hell, a grenade. Cuz anything that takes more skill than that, I’m useless.”

“Grenades? That’s subtle.” O pulled a ten out of a beat-up leather wallet and tossed it onto the table. “Two hours. Scruffies.”

Jim knew it. The outdoor range on the west side. “The food’s not even here yet.”

“No real food is ever gonna show up here.” O stood and tapped the table. “Two hours.”