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"What the fuck happened?" he asks. The speckles of gray and black hair poking through his face age him. The gray hair's not an indication of his age, but more of the stressful life he lives.
"I was set up. Flew into JFK tonight and the car service I use, I think the driver's been paying attention to me. I got too comfortable."
"Shit, what they take?" He glances at me but keeps his eyes vigilant for any repeat performances of my night.
I give him the short version of the story. "Some custom watches I made for Slim. The driver was taking me on the scenic route when we got jumped at a stop light. They tossed him into the trunk and left me stranded."
"Called the cops?" he asks, looking into the rearview mirror. My eyes glance to the passenger side mirror as well, wondering if merely mentioning NYPD summons them to pull you over.
"Yeah," I admit. "I need a police report for the insurance claim of the watches. I didn't tell them about the asshole in the trunk because something's telling me he's in on it. Whatever happens to him is what it is, and I just hope they leave enough of him left for me. Which is one of the reasons I called you. I need the basement, Clive."
There are some grumbles of frustration before he reaches into his pocket and tosses me a set of keys. The basement isn't an actual place in someone's home but a studio apartment on a piece of abandoned property just outside of the city.
A relic from my old life. It's the perfect place to get the information I need to find people or things that I want. I've been leasing it to Clive for the past few years, leaving him no choice but to help me.
"I thought you were out, man." He sighs, shaking his head. "If you start kicking up dust, you're going to set off a lot of alarms."
"I'm still out of that life and have no intention of going back. But, what I won't tolerate is the gall to set me up for a robbery when I'm a law-abiding citizen these days. This driver is going to pay, and when I find him, I'm going to make sure his buddies pay me in a pound of flesh too. Just drop some food off for me in about an hour or so. I have a feeling I'm going to be working all night."
"Alright." He shrugs and drives through the night until he brings me to a street a few blocks away from my actual address. Clive doesn't know my home address. I prefer it that way, but he knows the area and lets me out of the car at a train station.
Once I walk to my house, I'm grateful to still have my wallet and keys. My watches, however, my work for the past few weeks is all in that briefcase they snatched. Frustration and anger bubble inside of me, and I need a release. I need to hold someone responsible for this right now.
The safe in my bedroom holds dupes of everything I own since I travel often. After pulling out a spare phone and texting Clive from the new number, I grab the keys to my car to make a beeline to the Gold Royale Luxury Transport office. I wish I have time to relax, but money is on the line.
The minute I step inside the office, I'm drawn to the beauty behind the desk. The place is small and bare in every sense. Two plastic chairs give the appearance of a waiting area with a large glass window overlooking the quiet streets of a block in Midtown Manhattan.
Two desks sit side by side, but it's clear that only one is in use. The other desk seems to be a large perch for the sign telling customers the only bathroom on the premises is for employees. A single door about a yard away from them has the word ‘Management’ etched into the smoky glass. However, my focus is on the blazing beauty behind the only desk in use.
Tits and the most beautiful pair of green eyes I've ever seen stare at me with shock and borderline fear.
"Good evening, sir. We're actually sold out of reservations for tonight. However, I can schedule you for a future pickup." Her voice is familiar, but I've never actually seen the woman on the phone from the times I make my reservations.
"Evening, I'm Knox Sanders. I need to speak to management. I'm looking for a particular car and driver I rode in tonight," I tell her. She could be in on it, too. The surprise in her eyes can be from not expecting anyone at all or from not expecting me. I have to feel her out.
"Oh, okay, was there something wrong with our service this evening, Mr. Sanders?" She busies herself with everything on the desk, shifting keys around and making notes in a calendar while speaking to me.
"Yes. Have you spoken to the police?" I ask her.
"Uh, no?" My question forces her to stop moving to focus on me, confusion covering her face.
"My car, well, your car, was high-jacked a few hours ago—" I begin but she cuts me off.
"Oh shit, are you alright?" She gets up from her desk, rounding it to stand in front of me. There's genuine concern in those eyes, but no matter how beautiful she is, she won't distract me from the rage burning inside.
"I'll be fine as soon as I'm compensated for the items taken from me that your driver lost." I don't want to take my anger out on her, but someone needs to pay for the bullshit that I went through tonight.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Sanders. I'm still trying to get a hold of our driver. He was actually due back in over an hour ago. Our other reservations are backing up."
It's insane, but it makes me feel good that the asshole driver is still potentially in the fucking trunk of that car. I grin as I tell her, "As soon as you find your car, he's probably in the trunk."
Her eyes widen. "He's in the trunk? How? Why?"
"The thieves thought it would be best to take him with them. They left me stranded somewhere in Far Rockaway."
There's panic coming over her as she rambles, "We should call the police. No, you asked me if I spoke to the police, which means you called them already. Good call, Mr. Knox, I mean, Sanders. Shit. Wait. If he's in the trunk, how is he responsible for the items you lost?"
"Because that jackass drove me around fucking Queens instead of taking the Belt or the BQE to Bay Ridge like any fucking normal hack from JFK. He knew where he was going. He drove us to the stickup point," I growl and jab a finger onto the top of the desk.
