were bulging. “Don’t you give me no lip, Preacher John! You ain’t my cousin’s uncle’s son. You get out of here or you ain’t gonna be nobody’s relative no more, ’cause I will have done killed you!”
Preacher John took the manifest and disappeared down the dark hall, a retreating specter.
Parker stepped up to the window. The woman didn’t look at him. She slapped her note up on a magnet board. The magnets each had a word printed on them—MOJO, JC, GEMMA, SLIDE. She secured the note to the board with PJOHN.
“You want a job, honey, fill out the yellow form. You got a job for us, fill out the top of the manifest,” she said, reaching for the ringing phone. “You want something else, you ain’t gonna get it here.
“Speed Couriers,” she barked into the phone. “What you want, honey?”
Parker reached inside the window and slipped his shield into her line of sight. “Detective Parker, Detective Ruiz. We need a few minutes, ma’am. We have some questions.”
The dispatcher looked at the badge, not at Parker, as she listened to the person on the other end of the call.
“Well, whatever you got, Todd, babydoll, you better die of it. I’m already short a messenger. . . . Walking pneumonia? I don’t need you walking, honey. I need you on a bike.” She listened for a moment, huffed in offense, and said: “You don’t love me. That’s all there is to it.”
She slammed the receiver down, swiveled her tall wheeled stool around, and faced Parker with an imperious glare. “I got no time for you, Blue Eyes. You ain’t nothing but trouble. I can see that comin’ now. A sharp-dressed man with a hat ain’t never nothin’ but trouble. You gonna cost me nothin’ but time and money.”
Parker swept his fedora off, grinned, and held his raincoat open. “You like the suit? It’s Canali.”
“I’ll like it better from a distance. Aks what you gonna aks, honey. This ain’t the offices of
GQ
magazine. I got me a real business to run.”
“Did you send a messenger to the office of Leonard Lowell, Esquire, for a pickup last night around six-thirty?”
She stuck her chin out and didn’t blink. “We close at six P.M. ”
“Good for you,” Parker said with a hint of a half smile. A dimple cut into his right cheek. “But that’s not what I asked.”
“I send out a whole lotta messengers on a whole lotta runs.”
“Do you want us to interview each of them?” Parker asked politely. “I can clear my calendar for the rest of the day. Of course, they’ll have to come down to the station. How many are there? I’ll have my partner call for a van.”
His nemesis narrowed her eyes.
“What do you call those notes you put up on that board?” Parker asked.
“Floaters.”
“Every order gets put on a floater. The floater goes on the board under the name of the messenger going on the run. Is that how it works?”
“You want my job?” she asked. “You need another line of work? You want me to train you? You can have this job. I’ll go file my nails and watch Oprah and Dr. Phil every day.”
Her fingernails were as long as bear claws, with metallic purple polish and hand-painted pink rose details.
“I want you to answer a simple question, ma’am. That’s all. You can answer me, or I can take all the floaters you wrote yesterday back to the station and go through them one by one. And what about the manifests? I’m guessing you match the two things up at the end of the day. We could take them too. Let you get on with your business.”
“You can get a damn warrant,” Eta barked. She grabbed her radio mike by the throat as incoming static and garbled words crackled over the speaker. “Ten-nine? Ten-nine, P.J.? What the hell do you mean you’re lost? You ain’t gone but two minutes. How could you be lost? You’re lost in your brain, that’s where you’re lost. What’s your twenty? Look at a damn street sign.”
The messenger answered, and Eta rolled her eyes. “You’re hardly
Preacher John took the manifest and disappeared down the dark hall, a retreating specter.
Parker stepped up to the window. The woman didn’t look at him. She slapped her note up on a magnet board. The magnets each had a word printed on them—MOJO, JC, GEMMA, SLIDE. She secured the note to the board with PJOHN.
“You want a job, honey, fill out the yellow form. You got a job for us, fill out the top of the manifest,” she said, reaching for the ringing phone. “You want something else, you ain’t gonna get it here.
“Speed Couriers,” she barked into the phone. “What you want, honey?”
Parker reached inside the window and slipped his shield into her line of sight. “Detective Parker, Detective Ruiz. We need a few minutes, ma’am. We have some questions.”
The dispatcher looked at the badge, not at Parker, as she listened to the person on the other end of the call.
“Well, whatever you got, Todd, babydoll, you better die of it. I’m already short a messenger. . . . Walking pneumonia? I don’t need you walking, honey. I need you on a bike.” She listened for a moment, huffed in offense, and said: “You don’t love me. That’s all there is to it.”
She slammed the receiver down, swiveled her tall wheeled stool around, and faced Parker with an imperious glare. “I got no time for you, Blue Eyes. You ain’t nothing but trouble. I can see that comin’ now. A sharp-dressed man with a hat ain’t never nothin’ but trouble. You gonna cost me nothin’ but time and money.”
Parker swept his fedora off, grinned, and held his raincoat open. “You like the suit? It’s Canali.”
“I’ll like it better from a distance. Aks what you gonna aks, honey. This ain’t the offices of
GQ
magazine. I got me a real business to run.”
“Did you send a messenger to the office of Leonard Lowell, Esquire, for a pickup last night around six-thirty?”
She stuck her chin out and didn’t blink. “We close at six P.M. ”
“Good for you,” Parker said with a hint of a half smile. A dimple cut into his right cheek. “But that’s not what I asked.”
“I send out a whole lotta messengers on a whole lotta runs.”
“Do you want us to interview each of them?” Parker asked politely. “I can clear my calendar for the rest of the day. Of course, they’ll have to come down to the station. How many are there? I’ll have my partner call for a van.”
His nemesis narrowed her eyes.
“What do you call those notes you put up on that board?” Parker asked.
“Floaters.”
“Every order gets put on a floater. The floater goes on the board under the name of the messenger going on the run. Is that how it works?”
“You want my job?” she asked. “You need another line of work? You want me to train you? You can have this job. I’ll go file my nails and watch Oprah and Dr. Phil every day.”
Her fingernails were as long as bear claws, with metallic purple polish and hand-painted pink rose details.
“I want you to answer a simple question, ma’am. That’s all. You can answer me, or I can take all the floaters you wrote yesterday back to the station and go through them one by one. And what about the manifests? I’m guessing you match the two things up at the end of the day. We could take them too. Let you get on with your business.”
“You can get a damn warrant,” Eta barked. She grabbed her radio mike by the throat as incoming static and garbled words crackled over the speaker. “Ten-nine? Ten-nine, P.J.? What the hell do you mean you’re lost? You ain’t gone but two minutes. How could you be lost? You’re lost in your brain, that’s where you’re lost. What’s your twenty? Look at a damn street sign.”
The messenger answered, and Eta rolled her eyes. “You’re hardly
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