Which makes me think…“Guessing the answer is no?”
“I mean…It’s not really as simple as what I want.”
“It isn’t?”
“Of course not, Rico.”
Touchy. “Why not?”
“Well, there are…familial factors to consider. Eldest bro is a lawyer, and middle bro died. Sister’s a mechanical engineer, which leaves me as heir to the porcelain throne.”
Now he’s just oozing sarcasm. Which…I have no clue how to respond to. “Sorry about your loss.”
He shrugs. “I wasn’t even born yet.”
And then I have nothing to say.
Air in the Jeep definitely feels different now, and I’m beginning to wonder what all is hiding beneath the overpriced clothes and helmet of perfect hair. It’s a bit barbaric when I think about it now, but I assumed a dude—and a white one at that—with the kind of coin Zan has access to would think pretty exclusively about what he wants and the easiest way to get it.
So this is interesting.
“You okay over there?” he says once the silence grows legs.
“Yeah, I’m—” Surprised. “Sounds like your dad’s a little tough on you.”
He snorts. “You don’t know the half of it, Danger. People think I’m ‘rolling in it,’ ‘ballin’,’ ‘making it rain,’ take your pick,” he says. “But I’m not: my parents are.”
An alarm bell rings in my head, but I let him keep going.
“Since I was small, my dad’s drilled the fact that the only money that belongs to me is what I earn from working. Definitely don’t come from rags, but he’s determined to make me feel like I do.”
Okay, so definitely possible he’s after the ticket for his own gain.
Also: screw him for his entitled-ass complaint. Wonder if he’d feel like I was adulterating the pristine nature of his Tonka upholstery if he knew I’m basically wearing the rags he *doesn’t come from*.
But I force a smile. We should be at the cab place pretty soon. Just gotta figure out a way to get the info without him having it.
He glances over and smiles back. “Thanks for asking me that.”
“What?”
“If it’s what I want. No one’s ever bothered to ask before.”
And just like that: a point of connection I would’ve never expected. Doesn’t magically make our differences—or his potential motives—a nonissue, obviously, but I’ve certainly never had anyone ask what I want. Honestly don’t even know that I’d have an answer.
“Hey, Zan?”
“Yeah?”
“Congrats on your offers,” I say. “Even if you don’t accept any, it’s a huge accomplishment, and I’m proud of you.”
He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t have to. From the way his eyes shine and his knuckles go white on the wheel, I’d say it’s exactly what he needed to hear.
* * *
—
The connection doesn’t last: our investigative visit to Checker Cab Co. is almost doomed before it begins thanks to Zan McIdiot. Excuse me: Macklin.
When we walk into the dispatch center, which is located inside a run-down strip mall, this guy sees the brown-skinned, full-figured receptionist and decides to turn on the charm. “I got this,” he whispers.
“How may I help you?” the lady says in the most nasally voice I’ve ever heard, eyes fixed on her computer screen.
“You doin’ all right today, beautiful?” from Zan.
Oh heaven help us.
She looks up then. But does not look impressed.
“Hey, listen, we’re trying to get some intel on one of your cabs,” Zan goes on, leaning over her desk. “Think you could help us out, gorgeous?” He winks.
Takes everything I’ve got not to smack my forehead. If I weren’t so determined to get this info, I’d leave his creeper ass in here and find some other way home.
The lady smiles. It doesn’t go any higher than her cheeks. “Just one sec, okay, sugar?” She picks up a phone and presses a single button. Tosses us another (fake) smile. “Hey, hon, sorry to bother ya. Need some…assistance down here,” she says into the receiver.
Zan cuts his eyes at me all smug.
This is when I know we’re in serious trouble.
The door opens behind us and a brick wall of a black man walks in decked out in his security officer uniform. KENNY is the name on his silver tag. “There a problem here?” There’s something sickly satisfying about Dolla-Dolla Zan’s smarmy smirk melting off his face like wilting ice cream on a summer day in Georgia.
At first I don’t say a word. I want Macklin to feel the weight of this defeat. To sit in its cesspool-like nature and let the stink settle into his bones. (No moist-wipe prototype to save him now.)
“You harassin’ Ms. Delores, white boy?” Kenny says.
Now it’s my turn.
“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry,” I say, stepping forward. “Officer Kenny, is it?”
He perks up at the sound of the word officer. I feel you, Kenny: value validation is everything.
“My friend didn’t mean Miss Delores any harm,” I continue, quickly scanning Delores’s desk space. There are two photos of her and a little girl.
Bingo.
“I lost a locket necklace inside one of your cabs on Christmas Eve, and I really need to get it back. I have the tag info…maybe you can give me the phone number of that particular driver?”
“Sorry to break it to ya, sweetheart, but no necklaces have been recovered,” Delores says, glaring at Zan again. “Christmas Eve was over a month ago. That’s an eon in taxi time.”
I drop my head. “I know it’s a long shot but I’d really like to speak to the driver and maybe look in the cab myself to see if it slipped into the crack of the seat.”
“We clean our taxis thoroughly once a week.”
Crap, I’m losing her. Time for the waterworks. “I understand. It’s just…” I look at the pictures, and exactly as I hope, she follows my eyes. “That locket contains the only picture I have of my little sister. She, umm…” Now the fake tears. “She passed away.”
“Oh no, that’s terrible,” Kenny says.