The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(16)
“A girl was arrested in Manhattan last night. She’s being charged today with five counts of grand theft auto.”
“A girl?”
“She’s f ifteen.”
“We better throw in a charge for driving without a license then.”
“You’re funny,” Kingsley said, and mentally put two bullets in Dixon’s head. “I need the charges dropped.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“How much to make it happen?”
“I can’t get the charges dropped. That’s a big f*cking red f lag, and I’m not prepared to wave it.”
“Can you get them reduced? I want to keep her out of doing any time.”
“Who is this girl?”
“Friend of a friend,” Kingsley said.
“You have friends who are friends with fifteen-year-old girls?”
“I have interesting friends.”
“I didn’t know you had any friends, Edge,” Dixon said with a wide grin. Kingsley put two more bullets in him—center of his chest this time. “Or do f*ck buddies count as friends these days?”
“Are you going to help her or not?” Kingsley asked.
“I’ll consider it. What’s her name?”
“Eleanor Schreiber. She lives in Wakefield, Connecticut.”
“Schreiber? Yeah, they’re looking for the father right now. They want her to roll on him and anyone else she can.”
“She’ll roll on him.”
“Who’s the friend?”
“Why does it matter?”
“I put my job on the line helping a fifteen-year-old girl get out of going to juvie for multiple counts of car theft, I want to know the story.”
“Fine. Short story. An old friend of mine is a Catholic priest now. Her priest. He asked me to help her. I owe him a big favor. This is the favor.”
“You’re friends with a priest?”
“Trust me, no one is more shocked by that than I am.”
“Is he f*cking her? The priest?”
“What?” Kingsley asked. Did Dixon already know something about S?ren?
“It’s all over the papers,” Dixon said. “Every damn day there’s a new story about a Catholic priest f*cking some kid. Boston’s exploding. Phillie, Detroit, Chicago… I get caught helping a priest with the underage girl he’s f*cking and—”
“He’s not f*cking her.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m f*cking her,” Kingsley said, coming up with the quickest cover he could think of.
“You’re f*cking her?”
“I went to visit his church. I saw her. I f*cked her. I thought she was eighteen.”
“You thought she was eighteen,” Dixon repeated.
“Oops.” Kingsley shrugged.
“Now this is making more sense to me. I can’t see you doing a favor for a friend out of the goodness of your heart. I can see you f*cking a fifteen-year-old girl.”
“Guilty as charged.” Kingsley raised his hands in mock surrender. “She’s looking at hard time. Can we get her community service?”
“You want her out of juvie so you can keep f*cking her?”
“Not easy to f*ck through iron bars. Possible, but not one of my kinks.”
Dixon went quiet. Kingsley waited. He couldn’t stand being around this man another thirty seconds. Dixon did favors all the time for the mafia and still went to church with his wife and kids every f*cking Sunday.
“It’s not my case, but I can make something happen,” Dixon finally said. “There’s a judge who’s soft on teenage girls. Gives them community service in most of his cases, even violent ones. If I grease the wheels of justice, we can make it one of those cases.”
“How much grease?”
“Fifty thousand.”
“Done,” Kingsley said, not even bothering to negotiate. He didn’t negotiate where S?ren was concerned.
“That was easy,” Dixon said. “You must really like this little girl.”
“Le c?ur a ses raisons que la raison ne conna?t point,” Kingsley said.
“What was that?”
“I said, yes, I really like this girl. Call it destiny.”
“Let’s hope my wife doesn’t find out about you and your little destiny. She likes you.”
“Let’s hope your wife doesn’t find out about a lot things,” Kingsley said with a smile. “I’ll send someone to your house later. Or maybe I’ll just drop it off next time I’m there.”
“You son of a bitch.”
“My mother was a saint,” Kingsley said. “I’m the only bitch in the family.”
He patted Dixon on the shoulder and walked past him. As soon as he was out of the front door, he stopped, leaned back against a brick wall and closed his eyes. He breathed for ten whole seconds as the tension left his body. These pissing contests never got easier. Dixon was stupid and powerful, and it was a terrifying combination in an enemy. Why did he even have enemies anymore? Wasn’t he supposed to be retired? Isn’t that why he’d left France, left the job, taken the money and run?
Then again, he was only twenty-eight. Who retired at twenty-eight? And if he wasn’t making trouble for someone, then what was the point of getting out of bed in the morning?