Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(80)
“So, what should I do?” I ask.
“Do whatever you want, Scarlet.”
“I need to make money,” I say, because what I want is sort of irrelevant. “So am I getting paid for this?”
“Depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“On if you do any work,” he says, scanning me slowly. “You’re not really built for manual labor.”
“I’m stronger than I look.”
“I know,” he says, looking back away. “Didn’t say you couldn’t do it, just that you weren’t built for it.”
Before I can tell him how full of shit he sounds, he shoves his paperwork at me, forcing it in my hands, letting go so fast half of it clatters to the ground.
“Inventory,” he says. “Three usually does it, but he’s not here, so congratulations... the job is now yours. Go through the crates and make sure it’s all accounted for. Seven can help you.”
“I, uh, okay.”
That wasn’t what I expected.
“When you’re finished, you get paid. Don’t f*ck it up.”
“Yes, sir,” I mumble, mock saluting him, before gathering the papers I dropped and heading for the crates. The paperwork is sort of a mess, just a jumble of words that make little sense. The crates, though, have random letters stamped into them, like the wood has been branded, corresponding with letters on the top of the papers, followed simply by numbers.
GCD: 1205
HMX: 78
QPY: 9
Two dozen crates total. No mention of what’s inside.
I look around for Lorenzo, hoping for some clarification, but he’s nowhere to be found.
After the trucks are emptied, they drive away, the dock doors again lowered before the men disappear, leaving only Seven.
“Is this some kind of code?” I ask him, waving the papers. “Like some made up language or something? Ullshitbay.”
Seven laughs. “Afraidyay otnay.”
Afraid not.
“You know Pig Latin?” I ask, surprised. What are the odds?
He shrugs a shoulder. “I’ve got kids who used to think they were sneaky.”
Kids.
The man has kids?
“You’re kidding,” I say. “You’re a dad?”
“Twice over,” he says. “Two boys.”
Huh. “How old?”
“About your age,” he says, grinning. “One’s eighteen, just started at NYU... the other’s twenty-one, finishing up at Columbia.”
I gape at him. The man not only has a wife that packs him healthy snacks, but he has kids that attend prestigious universities. “Wow, that’s…” Wow. “Can I ask you something? Without offending you?”
“Sure,” he says.
“Why the hell do you work for Lorenzo?”
His eyes widen.
“Nothing against Lorenzo, of course,” I say. “You just don’t seem like the kind of guy who would ever even cross paths with him.”
“Ah, well, you see, I made a career out of crossing paths with men like him when I worked for the department.”
“You were a police officer?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Money happened,” he says. “You don’t make much with the force, and the mob offered me one hell of a deal that came with quite a few zeros attached to it. All I had to do was look the other way a few times and slip them a bit of information, you know, so they could stay one step ahead. I had a family to take care of, a mortgage, private school to pay for, and I thought, hell, wouldn’t it be nice to be able to afford a vacation? So I did it. And then I did it again. And the next thing I knew, I was so deep in their payroll there was no separating me from them.”
“So you quit the force?”
“More like they fired me.” He laughs dryly. “Got locked up six years for bribery. Came out, had nowhere to go, but I needed money, so I had to do something. My wife was working herself half to death trying to stay afloat, and with college tuition, well... there never seems to be enough money. Life is expensive.”
“That it is,” I mumble, turning back to the paperwork, feeling bad for the guy. He’s just doing whatever he has to so he can take care of his family. “So, inventory...”
“Self-explanatory. Number beside it is the quantity of whatever’s inside.”
“What is inside?”
He grabs a crowbar, waving it. “Open them and find out.”
One at a time, Seven pops open the crates, exposing layers of straw with all sorts of stuff tucked between. Guns, ammunition, liquor... a lot of damn liquor. A hundred and seven bottles of Cuban rum.
Not to mention the crate full of cigars.
Cuban, too, I’m guessing.
We make it through most of the crates in about two hours before he pops the second to last one open and pauses. “You’ll want to be careful with this one.”
“Why? What is it? Bombs?”
I laugh as I walk over to it, while Seven sort of just shrugs, not laughing. What the hell? The list says there are fifty of whatever it is, but all that’s in the crate are two more small wooden crates with metal latches on them.
Carefully, I brush some of the straw away before picking up the first crate, damn near dropping it when I catch sight of what’s stamped into the side.