Page 73 of Dirty Reads

TWENTY-ONE

Jess

I sat at the table with Seton, who, ironically, was the man Dick was threatening the day I met him in the alley. With the money between us on the floor and a briefcase on the table, we sat and talked about everything under the sun while we waited.

“You’re clear on if I go to the bathroom, you need to wait just a minute, secure the money, and then act concerned, right?”

“That’s exactly what I’ll do. He’ll have the fake stone. No one in their right mind would leave the cash and the stone at the table. I’ll pick up the money and say I’m checking on you.”

Out of my peripheral I saw someone who caught my attention. It was rather strange, because he was a hundred feet from me, but his manner of walking gave me pause.

I shifted my eyes from Seton toward the man, and realized it was the man with the mustache from the soup kitchen.

“Holy shit,” I whispered, “That man over there by the bathrooms is the mustache man.”

Seton didn’t turn his head, but he shifted his eyes toward the bathrooms. “Blue shirt, blue slacks?”

“Yeah.”

I tried to shake off my drunkenness, but it wasn’t possible. I squinted and tried to look like I was focused elsewhere while I watched him. “He’s the one who was talking to Drake and Duc at the soup kitchen.”

“He’s a cop.”

My eyes shot to Seton. “Is that an opinion or fact?”

“Fact.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve seen him in court. He’s a detective.”

“I fucking knew it,” I whispered. “Which means Duc and Drake are either snitches or they’re being investigated.”

He turned his head to the side, gazed off in the distance for a moment, and then agreed. “I’d say you’re right. They’re probably both.”

I didn’t like Drake from the minute that hotdog eating motherfucker tried to shake my hand. And Duc looked scary, and not the sexy kind of scary, the scary kind of scary.

Seton sighed lightly. “Let’s hope he’s not the guy who’s meeting us. He may recognize me. It’s been a few years, but I’m sure it’s him. Detective Ortiz.”

“What if you introduce yourself as my legal counsel?” I asked. “You could be my legal consultant and my diamond expert. It might make us look more valid. More, I don’t know, real.”

“Not a bad idea,” he said.

Mustache man started walking in our direction. When it was apparent he was going to be the one who met us, I stood up.

“Hi, I’m Mrs. Wheeler.”

“Thurston Tribideaux,” he said, “The third. I’m a broker with Southern Equity.”

“Seton Hallsworth,” Seton said. “I’ll be acting as Mrs. Wheeler’s legal counsel throughout the transaction.”

Tribideaux didn’t flinch. “Very well.” He glanced around, must have accepted the dining areas as safe, and reached into his jacket pocket.

He reached toward Seton and handed him a folded cloth. “The stone.”

Fuck yes. This might work.

While Seton unfolded the cloth, I leaned onto the top of the table and turned up my southern Texas accent. A whiff of an unidentifiable something caused my nostrils to flare. I shook it off and smiled at the mustache man. “I must apologize in advance, Mr. Tribideaux. I’ve been so darned excited for the last few hours, I’m as drunk as a skunk, as loose as a goose, and my pea sized bladder is as full as a tick on a bloodhound’s ear.”