The Fall(7)

“A few weeks. Just until I find a better solution.” Jimmy’s eyes dropped down to the sealed envelope sitting on top of his otherwise meticulous desk before snapping back to mine. “Not so quick to leave now, are you?”

A hundred K for a few weeks work was too good to be true. And in my experience, lottery wins didn’t exist. So unless Jimmy had decided he was trying on a red suit and giving the fat man a run for his money, this spelled out bad news.

“This isn’t just a baby sitting job, is it?”

I didn’t usually get chatty. In fact, the less I knew the f*cking better, but something about this seemed off. Too many unanswered questions. Like why a man like Jimmy f*cking Amaro, who had more money than the douchebag who owned Facebook and infinite resources, wouldn’t put this girl on a plane and have her chill in the Bahamas. Or hook her up in one of his undisclosed properties; the ones that made the Pentagon look like a freaking Wal-Mart.

“You don’t usually ask questions.” Jimmy’s brow rose, my need for elaboration unprecedented.

“And you don’t usually hand out favors.” Nor was I in the habit of accepting them. “So if you’re tossing out those Benjamins, I’m expecting I’m going to be earning them. I’m not going in blind. What’s the catch?”

“She’s my daughter and not so thrilled with my way of earning a livelihood. Children, they really are sent here to test us.” He gave me a tight smile before continuing. “She recently has been making more noise than usual, which might suggest she has actually found something. And her vendetta has extended to people who aren’t so friendly and who aren’t so tolerant. And I promised her mother that no harm would come to her at their hands.”

“There’s a price on her head.” It was a statement, not a question and the look in Jimmy’s eyes gave me all the confirmation I needed. The large stack of bills he was offering suddenly not so big. “Who?”

“Take your pick.” He waved his hand dismissively, his poker face slipping slightly as he eyed the other men in the room. Our audience had wisely remained tight-lipped, but I was sure this hadn’t been the first time they were hearing it. “She’s a cop and she has very few friends in this world. There are some who will do it for free. Which is why you are here.”

Great.

She was a cop.

Nothing could chill a room a few degrees more than the mention of law enforcement. Especially when her father’s rap sheet looked like a Pablo Escobar’s greatest hits. And let’s not forget that every * in Chicago would probably be out looking for her. Wanting to either collect the cash or the notoriety of putting her in the ground. Jimmy’s kid and a cop—f*ck, that alone would be worth seven figures.

“How do you know I’m not going to flip and kill her myself?” Considering what I was up against, it would make sense. Bigger pay out, less hassle and we’d already established my need to please was non-existent.

“Because, despite all that you are, you have never flipped. It’s why you’re in such high demand in a city full of shady individuals.” Jimmy smiled in appreciation, the respect I’d earned a result of years of keeping my word. “But just to be sure, I’m going to give you more than just the money.”

“What?” I laughed, wondering what the bastard could offer me that would be worth more than money.

“Your mother’s identity.” The words fired out of his mouth like a double-barreled shotgun. The name of the whore who’d spawned me obviously housed in the envelope he’d been fingering since I’d walked in.

It was no secret that my lack of give-a-f*ck had evolved by my less than stellar upbringing. Dumped at a hospital a few hours old, barely hanging on to life. No f*cking clue as to who my parents were, and if not for a couple of nuns who thought saving me might earn them a higher place in heaven, I’d have been six feet under before my nightmare began.

For years I’d wished they let me die. Because, unless you were in a Hollywood movie, orphans didn’t get a happy ending. Thrown into the system that farmed out kids to f*cktards who shouldn’t be trusted with a dog, much less a kid. And boo-f*cking-hoo, poor me ended up a punching bag for a piece of shit drunk who liked to sneak into my bedroom while “mommy” worked nights. No, he didn’t f*ck me. The limped-dick * couldn’t have got it up even if he tried, so instead he used my back as an ashtray, holding lit cigarettes against my skin until I screamed.

He was the first man I’d killed.

I had already left. Running away from home when I was fourteen, much to everyone’s delight, only to return a couple of years later and slit his throat while he slept. The police investigation was inconclusive, his murder chalked up to a botched robbery, and for the first time in my miserable existence I’d felt empowered. I no longer gave a f*ck who my parents were or what cards I’d been dealt. That light at the end of the tunnel wasn’t coming unless I climbed down there and lit the f*cking thing myself.

Which is what I did.

Self-made *, at your service.

“You think I give a shit about some crack-infested slut dumb enough to get pregnant?” I couldn’t help but laugh. “Let’s just make it two hundred, and you can keep your bedtime story to yourself.”

While I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about my family ties, for an extra hundred K I’d take care of his problem. Especially if it meant we could stop talking.