up, brushing sugar granules from her fingertips while the kid went on eyeing her somberly.
“Steven. My mother calls me Junior.” The boy blinked once, slowly. From the white bits around his mouth, she gathered that the ones on her carpet were from something that he’d been eating.
“Are you going to let the bad men kill my father?” he asked.
His voice held an odd, remarkably unchildish undercurrent of menace. Then it hit her, who he must be.
Oh, for Pete’s sake
.
She should have known; under that new haircut of his, the kid’s ears stuck out a mile.
Just like his dad’s.
“Hi, Jake. Sorry we’re a little early.”
Steven Garner Sr. appeared in the doorway behind his son. “I slipped the guy downstairs a little something; he let us up,” he confided.
Unlike the boy, he did not look freshly laundered. He wore rumpled slacks over white high-top sneakers that had seen better days, a polo shirt with dryer wrinkles still in it, and a blue cotton warm-up jacket with an egg splotch on the front.
“I saw Baumann in the lobby just now,” she said, and watched Garner’s face tighten with anxiety.
The kid was still staring at her. “You hungry?” she asked him, despite the evidence of a recent meal—a doughnut, probably—around his lips.
The boy nodded; what little kid wasn’t always hungry? “But my mom doesn’t let me …” he began as she brought out the bagel.
“Steven,” his father told him gently, “go sit down over there and eat the bagel, okay? Go on,” he repeated as the boy looked doubtful. “I’ll make it okay with your mom.”
The boy rolled his eyes, giving Jake the idea that making things okay with his mom generally wasn’t so easy. But he did as he was asked.
“And don’t do anything else,” his father told him, which Jake thought was a little strange. The look he gave the kid was odd, too: stern, but with a thread of fear in it. “Just sit.”
“Come on,” Jake said, waving Steven Sr. back into her inner office, which was even more spartan than the outer one.
The desk was a gray metal cube squatting in one corner, the chairs like ones in the Motor Vehicle Department’s waiting area, square andserviceable. No pictures or diplomas hung on the walls or stood on the desk; venetian blinds covered the windows.
All business here, the room’s bare, utilitarian chill said clearly. She sat at her desk, gestured at the seat in front of it, and watched Steven Garner sink onto it gratefully.
“So. How can I help you?”
Although she already knew. His hangdog expression, a mobbed-up minion down in the lobby … even the security guard had known enough to go deaf and blind with Baumann around.
Garner, by contrast, was just a low-level errand boy, the kind of guy who lived for the moment he would be invited along on a truck highjacking.
And who would die waiting, because guys who were always as much in need of cash as Garner was could never be trusted. So she would be his last hope, and his next words would be …
“I need money.” He glanced up at her. At his day job he was a school photographer, she knew.
Not exactly a big earner. “A lot,” he added, “of money.” He leaned across the desk. “Because they’re going to kill me if I don’t get it to them.”
“Yeah, so I just heard. But I’m not in the business of—”
Loan-sharking
. Or whatever you wanted to call it. “I help people take care of their money, you know?” Jake said carefully. “Invest it, diversify it …”
Launder it, get it out of the country
. She’d set this appointment up only as a favor to one of those other clients, and she was already regretting it.
“Yeah, I know,” Garner conceded. “I just thought …”
“How much are we talking about?”
He looked up, his eyes alight with hope for a moment. But when he saw her expression, his own face fell again. “Fifty.”
The amount he’d named shocked even her. “Thousand? You’re into them for—”
“Yeah. Don’t
“Steven. My mother calls me Junior.” The boy blinked once, slowly. From the white bits around his mouth, she gathered that the ones on her carpet were from something that he’d been eating.
“Are you going to let the bad men kill my father?” he asked.
His voice held an odd, remarkably unchildish undercurrent of menace. Then it hit her, who he must be.
Oh, for Pete’s sake
.
She should have known; under that new haircut of his, the kid’s ears stuck out a mile.
Just like his dad’s.
“Hi, Jake. Sorry we’re a little early.”
Steven Garner Sr. appeared in the doorway behind his son. “I slipped the guy downstairs a little something; he let us up,” he confided.
Unlike the boy, he did not look freshly laundered. He wore rumpled slacks over white high-top sneakers that had seen better days, a polo shirt with dryer wrinkles still in it, and a blue cotton warm-up jacket with an egg splotch on the front.
“I saw Baumann in the lobby just now,” she said, and watched Garner’s face tighten with anxiety.
The kid was still staring at her. “You hungry?” she asked him, despite the evidence of a recent meal—a doughnut, probably—around his lips.
The boy nodded; what little kid wasn’t always hungry? “But my mom doesn’t let me …” he began as she brought out the bagel.
“Steven,” his father told him gently, “go sit down over there and eat the bagel, okay? Go on,” he repeated as the boy looked doubtful. “I’ll make it okay with your mom.”
The boy rolled his eyes, giving Jake the idea that making things okay with his mom generally wasn’t so easy. But he did as he was asked.
“And don’t do anything else,” his father told him, which Jake thought was a little strange. The look he gave the kid was odd, too: stern, but with a thread of fear in it. “Just sit.”
“Come on,” Jake said, waving Steven Sr. back into her inner office, which was even more spartan than the outer one.
The desk was a gray metal cube squatting in one corner, the chairs like ones in the Motor Vehicle Department’s waiting area, square andserviceable. No pictures or diplomas hung on the walls or stood on the desk; venetian blinds covered the windows.
All business here, the room’s bare, utilitarian chill said clearly. She sat at her desk, gestured at the seat in front of it, and watched Steven Garner sink onto it gratefully.
“So. How can I help you?”
Although she already knew. His hangdog expression, a mobbed-up minion down in the lobby … even the security guard had known enough to go deaf and blind with Baumann around.
Garner, by contrast, was just a low-level errand boy, the kind of guy who lived for the moment he would be invited along on a truck highjacking.
And who would die waiting, because guys who were always as much in need of cash as Garner was could never be trusted. So she would be his last hope, and his next words would be …
“I need money.” He glanced up at her. At his day job he was a school photographer, she knew.
Not exactly a big earner. “A lot,” he added, “of money.” He leaned across the desk. “Because they’re going to kill me if I don’t get it to them.”
“Yeah, so I just heard. But I’m not in the business of—”
Loan-sharking
. Or whatever you wanted to call it. “I help people take care of their money, you know?” Jake said carefully. “Invest it, diversify it …”
Launder it, get it out of the country
. She’d set this appointment up only as a favor to one of those other clients, and she was already regretting it.
“Yeah, I know,” Garner conceded. “I just thought …”
“How much are we talking about?”
He looked up, his eyes alight with hope for a moment. But when he saw her expression, his own face fell again. “Fifty.”
The amount he’d named shocked even her. “Thousand? You’re into them for—”
“Yeah. Don’t
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