Extreme Justice Read Free Page B

published. I know you will.”
    “Thanks, but you still didn’t have any business reading my manuscript.”
    “I saw it there on your desk. How could I resist? You should be grateful I come here at all. Your landlady glares at me like I’m a call girl, and your cat tries to kill me.”
    “I guess they’re just protective of me.”
    “Well, so am I, but I try not to go overboard.” She bounced off the sofa and jabbed him in the side. “Enough banter. Let’s go up on the roof.”

Chapter 3
    J OE WILLINGHAM HUDDLED in the parking lot across from the bus station at Third and Cincinnati. He used his high-powered Ricoh binoculars to scan the motley collection of passengers who stepped off the latest arrival, watching for the right one.
    It was a talent he had developed over the years—an art, really. He could tell at a glance if a person would be susceptible to the scam. Of course what he ideally wanted was someone who would not merely fall for it, eventually, given much time-consuming effort and persuasion, but someone who would fall for it with great aplomb and enthusiasm, someone who could not only be pushed but would tumble head over heels into the abyss. And someone who, in the unlikely event the ruse fell apart, would not be in a position to put up any opposition. The perfect patsy—that was who everyone working the con hoped for. And Joe Willingham knew how to find him.
    He continued scanning the passengers until he saw exactly what he wanted. The instant the black kid in the bib overalls and straw hat stepped off the bus, Joe knew he’d found his mark. It was not even something he had to think consciously about. Years of experience had made it instinctive. Truth was, Joe thought, he was the best scam artist in Tulsa—probably the best in the whole damn state. Perhaps his self-estimation was immodest, but facts were facts. He was the best.
    He eased out of his crouched position and started slowly across the street. Judging from the rube’s garb, he was from some hick town west or south of Tulsa—Henrietta or Poteau or some backwater burg like that. Probably saved up his money all year long so he could treat himself to a weekend in the big city—see a show, go to a bar or club, maybe transact a little business with one of the hookers on Eleventh Street. One of the first things Joe had spotted through his binos was the fat wallet in the back pocket of the kid’s overalls.
    Joe smiled. The kid was perfect. Just the way Joe liked them—unsophisticated, gullible, and loaded with cash. This would be easy pickin’s.
    He waited until the kid walked a fair distance from the bus station. Better to ply one’s trade on the anonymous and unpopulated downtown streets. It was after five; all the lawyers and bankers had gone home. The sun was setting. Soon they would be able to have a conversation in near seclusion and relative darkness.
    Just after the kid crossed Main Street, Joe began shouting. “ ’Scuse me! ’Scuse me!”
    The black kid in the overalls slowed. He glanced back over his shoulder, checking out the source of the commotion. He did not stop walking.
    “Hey, wait!” Joe shouted again. “You! In the overalls!”
    He could hardly pretend he didn’t know he was being accosted. He stopped, but his expression made it clear that he did so only with extreme reluctance.
    “I don’t want any trouble,” the kid mumbled, obviously nervous.
    “Neither do I,” Joe said as he panted up to his prey. “But I’ve sure got it.”
    “Well, I’m sorry …” The kid tried to slip away, but Joe jumped in front of him, blocking his path.
    “Please, sir. You’ve got to help me.” Joe brought all his acting talents to bear, slathering on the sincerity and earnestness. It was a flawless performance—really, he ought to be up for an Oscar. “I’m in a desperate situation.”
    Something about what he said or the way he said it caught the kid’s attention. These country boobs were all the same. Mama raised