 |
 |
|
|
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] leather jacket and shades. She looked mean enough to eat shoe leather and spit out the nails. The smaller, skinnier woman was some drugged out hippie type with long dirty hair, stinking of dried sweat and disinfectant. From the way she was dressed and restrained, he figured her to be a Framingham girl. Pity was she went all to hell in the looks department. She could have been a real heart breaker with a bit of soap and water and a lot of scrubbing. Make up wouldn't hurt none either. She wasn t his type, though. He liked his woman well-padded and friendly. This one looked cold enough to freeze the balls off King Kong. There was something about the eyes. They were empty, nearly dead. The tall, mean looking one caught him staring at the other woman out of the corner of her eye and flashed a gold shield at him. It was enough to get his fat ass moving and more than enough to keep his yap shut before any questions dribbled out of his sunken cheeks. Pickman slowly nodded and focused his eyes on the task at hand. He hated the goddamned pigs. No need asking questions when the cops were involved. It never did any earthly good to talk when it was police business. Piss off the wrong one and before you knew it a swarm of regulatory agencies would be descending on his auto shop like hungry locusts all wanting a piece of the pie. He learned his lesson the last time he asked a Statie if he was drunk after the man tried to bend his cruiser around a tree. It took three years and ten grand of clean up money he didn t have to get the Environment Police out of his life. Nope, it was definitely not worth sticking his neck out as far as he was concerned. The she cop could rip the ice queen s head right off in front of him and she wouldn't hear a peep out of him. As long as she paid him, he didn t give a damn what she did. After Pickman finished securing the chain to the rear of that sweet ride, he stopped a while to blow on his hands trying to warm them up. It was rotten weather to be out on a job, but the bills didn t pay themselves not in this economy. The weatherman on the news said it was spring, but it didn t feel like spring to him. Old Man Winter was not ready to give up his grip on New England and, in spite of brilliant sunshine, it was windy and cold. He got to the winch and prepared to hoist the Charger ass end up and out from under the sign. He checked over his shoulder at the last minute to make sure the cop and the other woman were back far enough from the disabled vehicle. It was bad business policy killing the customer before you collected. Pickman noticed this time around that the smaller woman was shivering in her thin orange scrubs; her bare feet ghastly white against the cold concrete. She looked young but badly kept. Looked a little like his daughter, Sue Anne, first thing in the morning after a really wild Saturday night, except for those dead fish eyes of hers. There was something wrong with those eyes. They belonged in an old woman s face not one as young and pretty as hers. But then Pickman figured he wasn t the best judge in the world when it came to these matters. Truth was his baby, Sue Anne, was no spring chicken herself. She was pushing thirty five with nothing to show for it, but a dead end waitress job at a highway rest stop and a string of no good boyfriends. But he decided that except for the leather restraints, the ice queen looked harmless enough. Her cop friend however, was another story altogether. Against his better judgment, Pickman abandoned the winch and approached the cop. Her eyes narrowed into slits and her lips were a colorless straight line. He imagined it had something to do with her bleeding thigh. He didn t know how she managed to cut herself there, but he didn t like the look of the dark colored stained. She was bleeding out like a stuck pig. Her shoulders noticeably stiffened when he was within five to eight feet of them. The pain was making her cagey and he knew to be careful, only thing worse than a cop was a cop nursing a wound. He respectfully bobbed his head in her direction before he spoke, no point in making things more awkward than they already were. Lady, you want to wait in the truck? Pickman cleared his throat and added, You look kind of cold. Just take care of the car, Colby snapped. She didn t want to admit it, but the pain, the cold, and the waiting was getting to her. She needed a drink and some place warm to lie down for a bit. Pickman raised his hands in surrender. If this was how the bitch wanted to play it, it was fine with him. He was just being a Good Samaritan. Just tryin to be helpful Lady, is all. Car s gonna need a day or so to fix up. Thought you d need a ride somewhere, is all. Pickman quickly turned to walk back to the winch when Colby asked, in a somewhat strained voice, A day? Pickman nodded and hurried back to the truck to put some distance between them. He didn t want to be anywhere near that bitch in case she took out her gun and started pointing it at him. The goddamned pigs were all crazy as far as he was concerned. Why a day? It's a fuckin flat! Why do you need a whole day to fix a flat? Colby bellowed, the veins in her neck standing out in bright relief against her white skin. Pickman engaged the loud winch system before shouting his reply. Charger here needs special tires. They gotta match or you ll flip. You got an extra in the trunk? A spare ready to go? Colby shook her head. The spare was the flattest of her five. She meant to get it fixed, but somehow never got around to it. Now she was stuck out in the middle of nowhere, bleeding from a puncture wound to her thigh, and arguing with a tow truck driver who was giving her the evil eye. She wanted to punch something hard. Pickman nodded with a grin, Figured that. Most people don t keep good spares, cost too much. He stopped speaking for a minute to gently edge the Charger out from under the sign. It was a thing of beauty, it was. Just slipped out like a well-greased hog from Old MacDonald s hands. The damage rendered to the sign and the hood wasn't too extensive. Neither would win a beauty contest, but neither were gonna keel over which was all right by him. Pickman secured the settings for the winch before turning back to the cop. At the jangle of the chain, the cop mumbled, "F." "Huh," Pickman asked but the cop waved him off. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] |