The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(68)

“James R. Bond?”

Lewis nodded. “Not his real name. Doesn’t exist anywhere else. Got no credit cards, owns no property, no Social Security number. No criminal record. No James R. Bond with that date of birth found in any open state or federal database.”

Peter looked at him. “I thought you were some kind of armed robber or something.”

Lewis smiled his tilted smile and put a little extra street in his voice. “Maybe I is, maybe I ain’t. But a man can’t make no kind of living these days without a computer.”

“So how’d you find that Ford?”

“Drove around. Kept my eyes open. Finally got lucky and found it parked. Stuck my GPS on it. Haven’t laid eyes on Mr. James R. Bond. But that Ford ain’t moved since I found it.”

“So where is it?”

Lewis’s eyes gleamed. He was clearly enjoying himself. “You want to know where it is?”

“Yes, Lewis, I do. Where’s the fucking Ford?”

“Parked around the corner.”

“Jesus H. Christ.”

“So you gonna sit on it, or am I?”

Peter looked at his watch. He had something else he wanted to do, and the timing was important. “How good is that GPS?”

“Good enough. My phone’ll let me know if that Ford starts moving. And where it goes.”

“Okay.” Peter nodded at Lewis’s Yukon with its elaborate tubular steel bumper. “Are you legally connected to that truck?”

Lewis eyed Peter suspiciously. “It’s my damn truck,” he said. “Why you asking?”

“I’m asking if the plate and registration have your name on them. If it could be traced back to you if something happened.”

“Nothing gonna happen to that truck,” said Lewis. “That’s a police special, bought at auction. Cop engine, cop suspension, cop tires. I love that damn truck.”

“You’ve seen my truck,” said Peter. “It’s a classic, but not exactly tactical.”

“No shit, jarhead. But you ain’t driving my truck.”

“Hey, that’s fine,” said Peter. “You can drive if you want. All you had to do was ask.”

Lewis gave him a look.

“It’ll be fine,” said Peter. “Really. But first I need someone to take care of the dog.”

“What, you got one of those little toy poodles? Won’t it fit in your purse?”

“You’ll like him.” Peter walked around to the mahogany cargo box, taking out his keys. “You’re not carrying a hamburger in your pocket, are you?”

“Man, I don’t like dogs.”

Peter turned the key and unlatched the cargo box door. Lewis backed away the whole time. Mingus punched the door open with his nose and launched himself out of the box like a guided missile. He landed four feet from Lewis at full stop, crouched, growling.

“What the fuck!” Lewis had bent his knees and brought up his hands automatically.

The growl ramped up past tank-engine levels as Mingus showed the serrations of his teeth. He had a lot of teeth.

Lewis slowly reached behind him for the Glock tucked into his belt.

“Better not,” said Peter, enjoying the moment. “He’s a lot faster than you.”

Lewis stilled his hands, eyeing the animal. “What the fuck kind of dog is this?”

Peter smiled. “His name is Mingus. He was Jimmy’s dog. I kind of inherited him. But he doesn’t listen to me. He pretty much does what he wants.”

“You jarheads are fucking crazy.” Lewis was pinned in place by that growl.

“Mingus?” The dog cocked an ear back, willing to listen, but kept his focus totally on Lewis. “You ready for some dinner?”

Mingus came out of his crouch, licked his chops, then yawned, showing fangs like a maniac’s knife collection, bright with saliva under the streetlight. He stretched, then trotted around and jumped effortlessly through the open window of Peter’s truck.

Lewis had his breathing under control. “This is why I don’t fucking like dogs.”

“Why don’t you follow me to Dinah’s house. But stay in your truck when we get there,” Peter said. “She’s going to be mad enough at me without her seeing your ugly ass.”

—

“You want me to what?”

Dinah stood in her open doorway, blocking access to the house, a look of horror on her face.

Mingus sat on Peter’s foot, panting happily, his teeth gleaming in the dim porch light. Peter realized that this was the first time Dinah had seen the dog without the rope-and-stick contraption. The dog looked less ridiculous without it. And more dangerous.

“It’s just for one night,” said Peter. “Maybe two. I brought his food.”

“Peter, that dog terrorized this neighborhood for weeks.”

“I think he was just hungry,” said Peter. “He’s actually a nice dog. Very protective.”

“Peter, if you think for one minute—”

“Mom, who is it?” Charlie came to his mom at the open door. Then he saw Peter and the dog. “Mingus!” He pushed past his mother, who grabbed for his arm and missed. The boy dropped to his knees and hugged the dog, who washed the boy’s face thoroughly with his wet slab of a tongue.