Body Movers 4 - 4 Bodies and a Funeral (7 page)

“’Course not,” Wesley said with a cough. “I need to get my

jacket back.”

Mouse shook Wesley until his glasses went askew. “What

happened in there? You’re not planning to rat out The

Carver, are you?”

“No,” Wesley said, swallowing past the pressure on his

windpipe. “I told the D.A. I don’t know anything. He was

pissed and threatened to throw me in jail, but my lawyer’s

good. So all I have to do is more pain-in-the-ass

community service.”

Mouse looked doubtful. “You fuckin’ with me?”

Wesley couldn’t imagine anything on earth more

unpleasant. “Nah, man. The Carver’s off the hook.”

Mouse released his grip. “You’d better not be lying.”

“Dude, The Carver’s attorney has probably already been

contacted.”

As the big man chewed on his lip, his phone rang. He kept

one paw on Wesley while he answered the call. “Yeah…?

Yeah…Yeah.” He ended the call and jammed the phone in

his pocket.

“Okay, you little shit, I just got verification. Now, give me a

payment and we’re square for a while.”

Wesley lifted his hands. “I don’t have any money.”

“Wrong answer.”

“Dude, I thought I was going to jail today. I didn’t bring any

cash.”

Mouse frowned, then released Wesley and stepped back.

Wesley exhaled in relief, but winced as his back twinged in

pain. When he looked up, Mouse was carrying his dented

bike to the rear of the car.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

Mouse used a keyless remote to pop the trunk. “Making

your life miserable.”

Wesley could only stand and watch the man toss his bike

into the cavernous trunk.

“Next time you leave the house, sport, you’d better find

somewhere to stash some cash—in your wallet or up your

ass, I really don’t care. I’m gonna need a payment.”

“Wil I get my bike back?”

“Don’t count on it.”

Mouse slid into the car and slammed his door. Wesley

jumped up on the curb to keep from being clipped by a

mirror as the Town Car roared away. He swore through

gritted teeth as the car disappeared—this day just kept

getting better.

He pul ed his cel phone from his pants pocket and brought

up his buddy Chance’s phone number. His hands were

trembling badly and his skin felt itchy. Under the intense

sun, he felt like an egg sizzling in a frying pan.

Chance’s phone rang and rang, then rol ed over to voice

mail. Wesley cursed and disconnected the call. Chance not

answering his cel phone meant one of two things—he was

dick-deep in some big-butted girl, or he was dead. His

guess was the former.

Wesley set off walking unsteadily toward the Five Points

MARTA station. He had enough money for train fare to get

him to midtown. From there he’d have to walk the few

blocks to Chance’s place. He wiped his sleeve across his

clammy brow, then loosened the tie. His throat was

parched and every step was an effort. The one thing that

kept him going was the knowledge that a bag of sweet Oxy

was waiting for him.

He’d quit the stuff later, when his life calmed down.

A honk sounded and he jumped back, afraid that Mouse

had returned to run him over.

A silver-colored dome-shaped car pul ed up next to the

curb. The passenger side window zoomed down and the

driver leaned over to shout. “Wes? Hey, do you need a

ride?”

He squinted. “Meg?” Meg Vincent worked at the city

computer department where he performed his community

service.

“Yeah, jump in.”

The car behind her honked with impatience, spurring him

forward. He opened the door and swung inside. The coed

gave him a brief smile, then looked back to the road and

stepped on the gas.

“I thought that was you,” she said. “Your bony ass gave

you away.”

“Ha, ha,” he said, then pursed his mouth. She’d noticed his

ass?

“You weren’t at work this morning.”

“That’s because I was here,” he said without explanation.

“What about you? Do you live in this area?”

“No, I live on campus. There’s a great health food store

down the street, so I came over here for lunch. Where are

you headed?”

“Midtown. But if it’s out of the way—”

“It isn’t.”

Wesley glanced sideways at the girl who was probably his

age—she was a freshman at Georgia Tech, the same as he

would’ve been if he’d gone to col ege. She was whip-smart

with a funky, independent style. Today she wore

camouflage pants, a plain white T-shirt, and her dark blond

hair was covered with a smiley-face bandana.

“What kind of car is this?” he asked, glancing around at

the interior.

“It’s a Prius.”

“Electric?”

“That’s right.”

It suited her, he decided. Meg’s father was a famous

geneticist and apparently megawealthy, but she had a

work study at the ASS office, and dressed like every other

col ege kid who was scraping by. Plus she was living on

campus in a dorm when she could easily afford her own

condo in Buckhead.

“Why aren’t you riding your bike?” she asked.

“Flat tire,” he lied.

“Aren’t you a little old to be riding a bike anyway?”

“I used to have a motorcycle.”

“Used to? Is that supposed to impress me?”

He frowned. “No.”

“So what happened to it?”

“My driver’s license was suspended. I sold it.”

“Oh, right,” she said drily. “I forget that you’re an ex-con.”

“I’m on probation,” he said irritably. “Big difference.”

“Uh-huh.” She glanced over at him. “Don’t take this the

wrong way, but you look like shit.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Seriously, are you okay?”

Meg had once accused him of being hooked on something,

and he’d flatly denied it. “Just hot and tired.”

She reached around her seat and rummaged blindly in a

container on the floorboard behind her, then came up

with a Red Bul . “Knock yourself out.”

He took the can and cracked it open. “Thanks.” A couple of

hearty drinks started to revive him. He laid his head back

on the headrest.

“Are you moving bodies today?” she asked.

“Not today.” And after the stunt he’d pul ed, he’d be lucky

if Coop ever called him again.

“Doesn’t it creep you out?”

He shrugged. “It’s not pleasant, but someone has to do it.”

“So it’s something you intend to keep doing?”

If he went to work for The Carver, there’d be no time for

body moving. The realization bothered him more than he

expected. “I don’t know. I have a line on a new job.”

“What kind of job?”

“I don’t have all the details yet.”

“You like being mysterious, don’t you?”

“Not particularly.”

“Does that mean you won’t be coming back to ASS?”

“No, I’l be there for a while longer.”

Something flashed across her face—relief? He must be

mistaken. Meg had been apathetic toward him from day

one.

“Am I taking you home?” she asked.

“Nah—to a friend’s place.”

She grinned. “You have a friend?”

“Ha, ha.”

“Is he a dropout, too?”

“I’m not a dropout.”

“Fine. Is he also too sexy for col ege?”

That made him smile. The only person who thought

Chance was sexy was Chance. And anyone he paid to sleep

with him. “He attends Georgia State.”

Her eyebrows climbed. “Really? What’s he studying?”

“Business.” Wesley shifted in his seat over the idea of Meg

being more impressed with his buddy than with him.

“Chance isn’t much of a student, though.”

Meg shrugged. “Most of life is about showing up.”

Rankled, he took another long drink from the can. When it

came to col ege, he’d shown up as much as Chance—to

take his friend’s exams when necessary.

“Where am I dropping you?” she asked.

He gave her the address of Chance’s condo building a

couple of blocks away.

“Nice building,” she murmured when they pul ed up.

“Yeah.” She probably wouldn’t think much of the cramped

town house where Wesley and Carlotta lived. Living in a

“transitional” neighborhood was fine if a person did it for

philanthropic or moral grounds, like Meg. But it was a

different ballgame if you were there because you couldn’t

afford to live somewhere else. Or if you were afraid to

move because your parents wouldn’t be able to find you,

should they decide to come home.

Wesley realized Meg was staring at him. “Are you sure

you’re okay?”

“Fine,” he said, opening the door to climb out. “Thanks for

the ride.”

“No problem. See you tomorrow morning?”

Her smile made his stomach feel funny. “Yeah, later.”

The Prius rol ed away, and Wesley dismissed the nausea as

hunger pains.

For Oxy.

On the way inside the building, he called Chance again,

and his friend answered on the third ring, panting. “Yeah?”

“It’s Wes. I’m downstairs, but it sounds like you’re busy.”

“Uh, yeah…ah, hel , come on up.” Then he disconnected

the cal .

Wesley waved to the concierge who knew his face, then

walked to the elevator and pushed the call button. He

shook his head, wondering what he’d find his friend

involved in today. From the way the big guy was huffing

and puffing, he might have a whole herd of prostitutes up

there. His chubby buddy had a fat trust fund and made

tons of money selling soft-core drugs and hard-core porn

on the side. Chance worshipped vices and excess, and was

fun as hel to be around.

On the ride up, Wesley mopped at his wet forehead with

his sleeve. Just knowing he was close to the Oxy made him

almost weak with relief. He jogged down the hall, then

rapped on Chance’s door.

After a few seconds, the door opened and Wesley stared.

“Are you coming in, or what?”

Chance had answered his door in just about every outfit

and stage of undress imaginable, but this one topped them

al .

“What?” Chance looked down at his short, red, spandex

unitard. “You’ve never seen exercise clothes before?”

“Not on you,” Wesley said. “The headband’s a nice touch.”

“Get in here, shithead.”

Wesley walked inside and closed the door. Chance climbed

on a new treadmil that took up a big portion of the living

room, and increased the speed until everything on him

jiggled. In the stretchy suit and black high-top tennis

shoes, he looked like an overweight superhero.

Wesley pul ed on his chin. “What’s with the exercise kick,

man?”

“Just thought I’d start taking better care of myself. This

treadmil is great. I can work out and stil watch TV.”

The big screen TV was playing porn, as usual.

“And look—” From the tray in front of the treadmil that

was meant to hold a book, Chance picked up a reefer and

lit it with a lighter. “I can get high while I exercise.”

“Nice,” Wesley said drily. “Does this have something to do

with my sister’s friend Hannah calling you fat?”

“No.” Chance drew on the joint until his face turned red,

then exhaled a stream of smoke. “Maybe. You put in a

good word for me, didn’t you?”

“I wil the next time I see her.” Wesley shook his head. The

fierce and pierced Hannah would skewer Chance’s frat-boy

ass and put an apple in his mouth before she ate him alive.

“Dude, I’ve got Grimes working on getting you into

another card game. He knows he owes us since it was

partly his fault we got cleaned out last time.”

“Okay, sure.” Wesley darted a look toward the cabinet

where Chance kept his stock of pil s.

Chance saw him looking. “Need some more OC?”

He tried to sound casual. “Yeah, but I don’t have any cash

on me.”

“I’l get it out of your winnings. It’s in the second drawer.

Take what you want.”

Wesley was at the cabinet before his friend finished

talking. “I’m going to need more of that urine screen, too.”

To keep from testing positive when his probation officer

asked for samples.

“Top drawer on the right.”

He pul ed out a bag of the Oxy and felt a rush just holding

a pil in his fingers. He popped one in his mouth and

chewed to break the time-release coating. Instantly a

feeling of euphoria bled through his chest and arms. As he

floated toward oblivion, the thought slid into his mind that

he’d forgotten to call Carlotta to tell her he wasn’t going to

jail after al .

Oh, wel , she was probably too busy having fun on her first

day back to work to worry about him anyway.

5

Carlotta stopped by her locker for her purse and her cel

phone, feeling miserable. At least the break room was

empty—all employees had been dispatched in the

aftermath of the disturbance.

Her dress was sticky and stiff and dotted with scorch

marks from the sparklers on the cake. Cake and icing were

everywhere—under her fingernails, inside her arm cast, in

her bra. She winced as she turned toward the mirror,

dreading the sight of herself.

She gasped in horror at her reflection. Bits of cake and

icing clung to her face, eyebrows, chin and hair. She

looked as if she’d been whitewashed.