Page 111 of Pretty Nightmare

Moore kicks the door closed with his foot and slumps down in the nearest chair facing a small table. “I’m telling you, if you make her gargle with lemon juice, cures that shit right up.”

I cross the room and take a seat at the small desk in the corner. “I don’t even want to know what you guys are talking about. Did you get it?”

I’m talking to Moore so he looks at me and nods with a sly grin. “What do you think? Have I ever come back empty-handed?”

“Plenty of times.”

He points his meaty finger at me. “None of which count. Circumstances beyond my control are considered acts of God. Not even insurance policies cover those.” He reaches into his jacket, produces a thick envelope, and slaps it down on the table. “What’s this?” He makes a mocking surprise face. “Looks like peaches, motherfucker.”

Beck laughs into the mini-fridge as he grabs a bottle of beer.

“What does that even mean?” I ask.

Moore blows on his fingernails. “Means I got the job done, son. Passports, IDs, and birth certificates. Order fulfilled.”

I walk over and pick them up, studying the passports the longest for the telltale hologram that declares them to be legit. “Damn, Moore. These are perfect.”

“All I did was pick them up. You’re the one in debt to that chick now.” He throws a strap of cash down on the table. “She said to tell you to keep this. She did this as a favor. But there’s no such thing as favors.”

Beck nods his head, agreeing, as he takes a sip of his beer and then flops down on one of the beds. “Not in this business, there ain’t.”

“Did she say anything else?”

Beck looks at me. “She said to tell you…” He squints his eyes like he’s thinking.

“She said to tell me what?”

“Something about… ice cream? You owe her now and she wants a…”

“A strawberry shortcake,” Moore says, flicking the TV on with the remote.

“Yeah.” Beck snaps his fingers. “That’s it. A strawberry shortcake.”

“Hmm.” I consider this.

“What’s it mean?” Moore is mostly focused on the TV, but is still shooting me a sideways glance.

“Don’t ask me,” I lie. I pick up the cash and shove it and the documents into the safe. “I’m going out. I have a few calls to make and—”

“Don’t do it,” Moore says as I lock up the safe. “Calling him now, after we’ve made up our minds, is just gonna get him all riled up again.”

“Agreed,” Beck says. “I want to get the fuck out of here. I hate this state, I hate this weather, I hate the way people talk—”

“Hey,” Moore objects.

“I swear to God,” Beck continues, “I have an unnatural urge to kill every little blonde girl who looks in my general direction. Little fuckers creep me out.”

“I know.” I sigh. “But I owe him. We all owe him.” Moore snorts, but doesn’t look at me. “I’ll be back in thirty.”

Neither of them says anything as I walk out the door.

I don’t take Beck’s truck. I just walk. Outside it’s hot and humid. That’s why Beck hates it here. He’s not from the South, he’s from one of those little states up in New England. Maybe… Rhode Island? Not sure. But he hates the South with a passion. Can’t take the weather.

But I like Savannah. If I wasn’t running from a little blonde assassin and directly involved in the biggest global conspiracy in human history, I might even think of settling here. It reminds me a lot of Louisiana. Kinda makes my heart ache for times gone by.

The Thunderbird Inn is one of those throwbacks from the Fifties. All kinds of post-modern accents littering the place. But that’s not why I chose it for a temporary home base. It’s in the middle of things. Lots of traffic and people all around. And a pay phone located just half a block up Oglethorpe. Which I make use of often. It’s hard to find a payphone these days.

I jaywalk across the street, pass the Family Dollar store, and head into a shitty strip-mall parking lot. The pay phone is located on the western edge of the last shop and by the time I reach it sweat is running down the middle of my back.