lasted more than a single storm, but the odds were good that six would last him the winter.
“Here,” Lowell said, thrusting a twenty at him. “For your trouble, kid. Don’t let it shoot its mouth off all in one place.”
Jace wanted to hold it up to the light.
Lowell snorted. “It’s real. Jesus. The last paperhanger I defended went to San Quentin in 1987. Counterfeiting is all Russian mob now. I don’t want any part of that. Those bastards make Hannibal Lecter look like a moody guy with an eating disorder.” He raised his glass in a toast to himself. “To long life. Mine. You want a toot, kid?”
“No, thanks, I don’t drink.”
“Designated driver?”
“Something like that.”
Designated adult, as long as he could remember, but he didn’t tell Leonard Lowell that. He never told anyone anything about his life. Below the radar. The less people knew, the less curious they would be, the less apt to want to “help.” An extra twenty bucks was the only kind of help Jace wanted.
“Thanks, Lenny. I appreciate it.”
“I know you do, kid. Tell your mother she raised a good one.”
“I will.”
He wouldn’t. His mother had been dead six years. He had mostly raised himself, and Tyler too.
Lowell handed him a five-by-seven-inch padded manila envelope. He hung a cigarette on his lip and it bobbed up and down as he spoke while he fished in his baggy pants pocket for a lighter. “I appreciate you dropping this off for me, kid. You’ve got the address?”
Jace repeated it from memory.
“Keep it dry,” Lowell said, blowing smoke at the dingy ceiling.
“Like my life depends on it.”
3
F
amous last words,
Jace would think later when he looked back on this night. But he didn’t think anything as he went out into the rain and pulled the U-lock off his bike.
Instead of putting the package in his bag, he slipped it up under his T-shirt and tucked the shirt and the package inside the waistband of his bike shorts. Warm and dry.
He climbed on the bike under the blue neon of the PSYCHIC READINGS sign and started to pedal, legs heavy, back aching, fingers cold and slipping on the wet handlebars. His weight shifted from pedal to pedal, the bike tilting side to side, the lateral motion gradually becoming forward motion as he picked up speed, the aches gradually melding into a familiar numbness.
One last run.
He would leave his paperwork ’til morning. Drop this package, go home, and crawl into that hot shower. He tried to imagine it: hot water pounding on his shoulders, massaging out the knots in the muscles, warm steam cleansing the stink of the city from his nostrils and soothing lungs that had spent the day sucking in car exhaust. He imagined Madame Chen’s hot and sour soup, and clean sheets on the futon, and did his best to ignore the cold rain pelting his face and deglazing the oil on the surface of the street.
His mind distracted, he rode on autopilot. Past the 76 station, take a right. Down two blocks, take a left. The side streets were empty, dark. Nobody hung around in this part of town at this time of night for any good reason. The businesses—a glass shop, an air-conditioning place, a furniture-stripping place, an auto-body shop—in the dirty, low, flat-roofed buildings closed up at six.
He might have thought it was a strange destination for a package from a lawyer, except that the lawyer was Lenny, and Lenny’s clients were low-end career criminals.
He checked address numbers as lighting allowed. The drop would be the first place on the right on the next block. Except that the first place on the right on the next block was a vacant lot.
Jace cruised past, checked the number on the next available building, which was dark, save for the security light hanging over the front door.
Apprehension scratched like a fingernail on the back of his neck. He swung around in the street and rode slowly past the vacant lot again.
Headlights
“Here,” Lowell said, thrusting a twenty at him. “For your trouble, kid. Don’t let it shoot its mouth off all in one place.”
Jace wanted to hold it up to the light.
Lowell snorted. “It’s real. Jesus. The last paperhanger I defended went to San Quentin in 1987. Counterfeiting is all Russian mob now. I don’t want any part of that. Those bastards make Hannibal Lecter look like a moody guy with an eating disorder.” He raised his glass in a toast to himself. “To long life. Mine. You want a toot, kid?”
“No, thanks, I don’t drink.”
“Designated driver?”
“Something like that.”
Designated adult, as long as he could remember, but he didn’t tell Leonard Lowell that. He never told anyone anything about his life. Below the radar. The less people knew, the less curious they would be, the less apt to want to “help.” An extra twenty bucks was the only kind of help Jace wanted.
“Thanks, Lenny. I appreciate it.”
“I know you do, kid. Tell your mother she raised a good one.”
“I will.”
He wouldn’t. His mother had been dead six years. He had mostly raised himself, and Tyler too.
Lowell handed him a five-by-seven-inch padded manila envelope. He hung a cigarette on his lip and it bobbed up and down as he spoke while he fished in his baggy pants pocket for a lighter. “I appreciate you dropping this off for me, kid. You’ve got the address?”
Jace repeated it from memory.
“Keep it dry,” Lowell said, blowing smoke at the dingy ceiling.
“Like my life depends on it.”
3
F
amous last words,
Jace would think later when he looked back on this night. But he didn’t think anything as he went out into the rain and pulled the U-lock off his bike.
Instead of putting the package in his bag, he slipped it up under his T-shirt and tucked the shirt and the package inside the waistband of his bike shorts. Warm and dry.
He climbed on the bike under the blue neon of the PSYCHIC READINGS sign and started to pedal, legs heavy, back aching, fingers cold and slipping on the wet handlebars. His weight shifted from pedal to pedal, the bike tilting side to side, the lateral motion gradually becoming forward motion as he picked up speed, the aches gradually melding into a familiar numbness.
One last run.
He would leave his paperwork ’til morning. Drop this package, go home, and crawl into that hot shower. He tried to imagine it: hot water pounding on his shoulders, massaging out the knots in the muscles, warm steam cleansing the stink of the city from his nostrils and soothing lungs that had spent the day sucking in car exhaust. He imagined Madame Chen’s hot and sour soup, and clean sheets on the futon, and did his best to ignore the cold rain pelting his face and deglazing the oil on the surface of the street.
His mind distracted, he rode on autopilot. Past the 76 station, take a right. Down two blocks, take a left. The side streets were empty, dark. Nobody hung around in this part of town at this time of night for any good reason. The businesses—a glass shop, an air-conditioning place, a furniture-stripping place, an auto-body shop—in the dirty, low, flat-roofed buildings closed up at six.
He might have thought it was a strange destination for a package from a lawyer, except that the lawyer was Lenny, and Lenny’s clients were low-end career criminals.
He checked address numbers as lighting allowed. The drop would be the first place on the right on the next block. Except that the first place on the right on the next block was a vacant lot.
Jace cruised past, checked the number on the next available building, which was dark, save for the security light hanging over the front door.
Apprehension scratched like a fingernail on the back of his neck. He swung around in the street and rode slowly past the vacant lot again.
Headlights