Body Movers (24 page)

She said goodbye and walked out the front door, staring

straight ahead and ignoring the people and things in her

peripheral vision. Hannah stood leaning against the car,

smoking a cigarette.

“Got another one of those?” Carlotta asked, opening the

driver’s-side door.

“You betcha.”

Carlotta swung into the driver’s seat and accepted a

cigarette that Hannah offered but her hand was shaking so

badly, Hannah had to light it for her.

“Jeez, what did you and the delectable undertaker have to

talk about that’s got you so hot and bothered?”

“Nothing important,” Carlotta said, then took a deep drag

on the cigarette and exhaled in blessed release. She

looked at the cigarette. “God, this is good. Why did I stop

smoking?”

“Because it’ll kil you?”

“Oh, yeah,” Carlotta said, then thought of Angela and the

fact that there were lots of things that would kil a person

faster than smoking. “If I start up again, I can’t let Wesley

know—he’l start up, too.” Thoughts of her brother sent

pangs of anxiety to her stomach. Tomorrow, and every

Tuesday into the foreseeable future, was pay-up day.

There was no way her brother would have a grand pul ed

together to pay that brute, Tick. Her gaze went to her

Coach bag with the Cartier ring box stowed inside.

“Hannah, do you know a reputable pawnshop?”

“Sure. What do you want to sel ?”

Carlotta took another drag on the cigarette and exhaled

slowly. “My soul.”

19

The woman behind the counter sucked her teeth.

“Name?”

“Wesley Wren. I’m here to see—” He checked the slip of

paper he held. “E. Jones.”

The woman tapped on a computer keyboard. “Spel the

name.”

“J-O-N-E-S.”

Eye rol . “I meant your name, hotshot.”

“Oh. W-R-E-N.”

“Date of birth?”

He told her. More tapping ensued, then the woman jerked

her thumb to the left. “Down the hall, second door on the

right. Knock before you go in.”

He did as he was told, but dread cramped his intestines.

With his luck, his probation officer would be one of those

hard-ass military types with a crew cut and ripped arms,

bent on scaring his charges straight. Wesley stopped at the

door and knocked.

“Come in,” a muffled voice sounded.

He opened the door and stared at the back of his

probation officer—all five foot and ten wil owy inches of

her.

“Park it,” she said over her shoulder as she walked her

fingers through hanging files in a cabinet drawer.

Wesley settled into a chair facing the desk and busied

himself studying the shapely E. Jones’s rear end, encased

in snug khaki-colored pants. No crew cut here—instead,

glossy auburn hair was twisted in a knot on the back of her

head and secured with a pencil stuck down through it. But

her arms were ripped—lean and tanned beneath the

short-sleeve yellow shirt she wore. He could only hope

that her front was as hot as her back.

She whirled around and pinned him to the chair with

blazing green eyes. Damn, she was…gorgeous.

“What’s your name?” she barked, dropping into the chair

behind her desk.

Name? “Uh, Wesley,” he stammered. “Wesley Wren.” He

leaned forward and handed her the slip of paper that he’d

received in the mail.

She glanced at the paper, then sifted through a stack of

folders on her desk and pul ed one from the pile. She

didn’t look up, but Wesley didn’t mind because it allowed

him to study her unobserved. She looked to be in her mid-

twenties, and she moved like a cat, with no wasted

motion. Her lashes were dark and incredibly long, her nose

petite, her mouth ful and pink, although it was at the

moment tightened in a disapproving little bow.

“So, Mr. Wren,” she said without looking up, “you’re a bad

computer hacker.”

He bristled. “I got in, didn’t I?”

“Yes, and you got caught.” She sat back in her chair and

assessed him with narrowed eyes. “You’re what,

eighteen?”

“Nineteen,” he said, sitting straighter.

She seemed unimpressed. “Okay, I’m supposed to help

you get a job.”

“I already got a job,” he was glad to report.

“Where?”

“It’s not in a location. I’m a body mover.”

“Excuse me?”

“I work with a guy who contracts with the morgue for

body retrieval.”

She pursed her pink mouth and nodded. “It’s a niche. But

I’l need a note from your employer, or a paycheck stub.”

“Okay.”

“And you need to set up a payment schedule with the

court to pay your five-thousand-dol ar fine.”

He winced. “How wil that work?”

“Make regular payments to the court cashier, with a check

or money order, preferably every week.”

Another weekly payment. He was stil feeling queasy over

the fact that Carlotta had met Tick at the door yesterday

morning and handed over a grand before fatso had a

chance to ring the doorbel . His sister didn’t want to say

where she’d gotten the money, but when he’d insisted on

knowing, she’d admitted that she’d pawned the

engagement ring that Peter Ashford had given her. She’d

mooned over the guy for ten years, and now that he was

available, she’d pawned the ring.

If he lived to be five hundred years old, he’d never

understand women.

Of course, between Father Thom and The Carver, his

chances of living to be a hundred didn’t look too good.

The rapid snapping of fingers caught his attention. “Are

you with me?”

He flushed, embarrassed to be caught daydreaming.

“Sorry.”

She frowned. “Are you high?”

“No.”

She pul ed open a drawer and produced a cup. “Then you

won’t mind giving a urine sample before you leave.”

His neck and ears warmed. “No.”

“Drug use, possession of a firearm and any other legal

violation wil land your ass in jail, do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Your probation also stipulates that you aren’t to access a

computer, except when you begin your community-service

work with the city to improve their computer security.”

“Right.”

“And I see from your file that your driver’s license has

been suspended for multiple speeding violations.”

“Right again.”

“How do you get around?”

“I ride the train or walk.”

She frowned and reached inside yet another drawer and

pul ed out a Marta train pass. “Here.”

“Thank you.”

“Now…back to paying off your fine. Can you swing fifty

dol ars a week?”

“Probably.”

“Can you or can’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She made a note in his file. “How soon can you begin your

community-service work?”

He perked up. “The sooner, the better.”

“What about your work schedule?”

“My boss knows my situation. He’l work around it.”

“Okay, I’l make a couple of phone calls and get back to

you.” She asked for and wrote down his cel -phone

number. “Regardless, you’l need to meet with me once a

week. Are Wednesdays okay?”

He nodded.

“Any questions?”

“Yeah. What does the ‘E’ stand for?”

“I beg your pardon?”

He stabbed at his glasses, then pointed to the nameplate

on her desk. “Your first name—what does the ‘E’ stand

for?”

Her pink mouth twitched downward. “You don’t need to

know.” She handed him the cup for his urine sample.

“Down the hall, to the right. Leave the sample with the

officer there. I’l see you next week. Don’t forget to bring

your paperwork.”

Feeling thoroughly dismissed, Wesley stood and walked to

the door.

“Mr. Wren?”

He turned back, eager to have more contact with the

intriguing E. Jones. “Yeah?”

She tapped his file with an ink pen. “For some reason, your

probation has been flagged by the D.A.’s office for close

scrutiny. Why is that?”

Deciding he could be mysterious, too, Wesley shrugged.

“You’l have to ask the D.A.”

For the first time, he detected a light of curiosity in her

green eyes. “I wil .”

He left her office with a bit of a spring in his step and, after

depositing a sample of his whizz with the dour-faced guard

in the john, walked out of the building, whistling under his

breath. Suddenly, probation was looking like a more

pleasant prospect. He certainly could get used to looking

at E. Jones every week.

With his probation officer’s warning about possessing a

firearm ringing in his head, he used the pass she’d given

him to take a Marta train to the Midtown station, then

made the several-block walk to the Sonic Car Wash, a huge

enterprise that was always jammed with business. He

asked a fel ow in the exit lot who was hand-drying the

windshield of an SUV to point out Louis Strong. The man

pointed across the lot to a short, rawboned guy

supervising the tire-cleaning of several vehicles, shouting

orders and waving cars forward.

Wesley walked over to the man who sported tattoos

across his knuckles. “Louis Strong?”

The man turned and eyed Wesley up and down. “Who

wants to know?”

Wesley leaned in. “Cooper Craft gave me your name. I

need a gun.”

Panic flared in the man’s eyes as he grabbed Wesley by the

shoulder and looked around. “Keep your voice down, man.

Are you trying to get me arrested?”

“No.” Wesley pushed his glasses up. “Sorry.”

“Where’s your car?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Wel , come back when you get one,” he said, disgust in

his voice. “If people just walk up and start talking to me,

my boss is going to get suspicious, got it?” He walked

away, shaking his head, leaving Wesley feeling like a fool.

Cursing under his breath, Wesley walked off the lot, dialing

his buddy Chance Hol ander’s number.

“Yeah?” Chance answered.

“Dude, it’s Wes.”

“I thought you’d died or something, man. Where you been

since you got out of jail?”

“Working.”

Chance laughed. “Working? You flipping burgers?”

“No, man, I’m moving stiffs to the morgue.”

“You’re fucking with me, man.”

Wes’s chest expanded. Chance wasn’t easily impressed.

“No, I’m serious.”

Chance guffawed. “That’s righteous.”

“Listen, dude, I need a gun.”

“What kind?” Chance said, instantly all business.

“Handgun.”

“You in trouble?”

“A little.”

“You can borrow one of mine.”

Wesley’s shoulders dropped in relief. “You sure, man?”

“Absolutely. Come on over.”

“I’m on foot. I’l be there when I can.”

“Oh, right, you don’t have a license.” Chance’s hearty

laughter sounded over the line. “Man, you should’ve taken

care of your own speeding tickets, too.”

“I know,” Wesley said, hating to pretend that he was

dumb.

“Where are you? I’l come and get you. I’m bored as shit

anyway.”

Wesley told him where he could pick him up, then walked

to the corner and waited. A few minutes later, Chance’s

black BMW coupe came into view. He stopped in traffic

and gestured for Wesley to get in. When a car horn

sounded behind him, Chance gave the guy the finger and

swore out the window.

“Fuckers need to chil ,” Chance said. His chunky body was

dressed in Tommy Hilfiger and sprawled in the driver’s

seat. He smiled behind his Oakley sunglasses, but even

without seeing Chance’s eyes, Wesley knew he was

stoned.

“Did you bring the gun?” Wesley asked as they pul ed

away from the curb.

“Glove compartment,” Chance said happily. “In the black

case. It’s a .38 special, easiest gun in the world to fire.

There’s a half box of shel s in there, too.”

Wesley opened the case and removed the small revolver

to heft its weight in his hand. His heart beat faster as he

stroked the cold metal. “Thanks, man.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Chance said. He was always

generous when he was high. “Just find a good hiding

place.”

“Is it registered to you?”

Chance snorted. “No way. It’s practical y untraceable.”

Wesley nodded, thinking that his friend was pretty street-

smart for a frat boy. He put the revolver and the shel s in

his backpack, then asked, “So how’s school?”

“Sucks a big, hairy one. You’re lucky that you don’t have to

go.”

“Yeah,” Wesley said, thinking that Chance didn’t realize

how lucky he was that his parents provided the means for

him to go to school, have a great apartment and car, and

all the spending money he wanted. They would’ve paid for

an Ivy League school if Chance could’ve gotten accepted,

but as it was, he’d barely scored high enough on the SAT

to get into a state college.

“So tel me about this body-moving gig,” Chance said.

“Oh, it’s cool. We go to hospitals, people’s houses,

anywhere there’s a stiff, and transport them to the

morgue or to a funeral home.”

“Worked any traffic accidents yet?”

“A couple.”

“How bad was it?”

“Not pretty,” Wesley said, bracing himself against the car’s