Page 17 of A Little Naughty

“Martha Jackson is fixing up her house.” I pass him without stopping, going straight to the refrigerator and pulling out a Budweiser of my own. “I’m working with her for a few weeks.”

“Then what?” He says it all pushy, like I should have some great career all lined up.

“Then I’ll find something else.” I bang the cap off my beer on the porch railing. “They’re building that new resort over in Ridgeland. I could get something there. Hell, you probably could too.”

He huffs out a disgusted noise. “Fuck that. I’m not busting my ass for chump change anymore.”

“Then what are you planning to do?” I don’t really care.

Glancing at the front door, he steps closer. “I’ve got a job coming up, and I need somebody I can trust to serve as a lookout. You in?”

Rocking back on my heels, I walk over and sit on the couch. Porkchop puts his head on my leg, and I pat him a few times. Then he goes and lies down, and I cross my ankle over my knee and look up at my brother.

Bull isn’t a good person. I imagine at one point he might’ve had a chance at being decent, but after Mom died and Dad gave up, there wasn’t anybody left he’d listen to. Now he doesn’t care about things like the law or staying out of jail. I’m not sure what he cares about.

“What’s in it for me?” I’m not really planning to say yes.

Anything Bull might offer me is sure to be trouble, and I’ve managed to keep my record clean this long. My plans include staying that way.

“Three thousand dollars for an hour of work.”

I don’t react, but that’s a lot of money. It would be enough to put a downpayment on a good idea, but it also has me on alert.

“Three K for one hour? Doing what?” He knows my limits. We’ve been over this in the past.

I don’t hold guys when they’re getting the shit kicked out of them. I don’t carry a gun when they’re sifting merchandise off the barges. I’m not a fucking mule.

“A guy I know has a shipment coming through Rockport, and he needs to get it on the trucks and out of the docks without a hitch.” Bull leans against the post. “There’s enough guys to do the swap, but we need a lookout, someone outside the perimeter watching. Someone to signal us if anyone comes snooping around or if the cops show up.”

“So this person would be offsite?”

“Yeah, strictly a lookout.”

I’m thinking about three thousand dollars combined with what Martha’s paying me. I won’t have to look for more work right away. I could take my time, put together a real business plan, and get the ball rolling on my ideas.

I’d be one step closer to being the next Eureka millionaire.

Move over, Alex Stone.

“What kind of cops are they expecting?” Whichever branch of law enforcement he’s worried about will clue me in on what I need to know about the job, and whether it crosses a line for me.

If it’s FBI, they’re stealing goods. If it’s DEA, it’s drugs. ATF means guns, and ICE means they’re moving people. I don’t mess with guns, drugs, or people.

His dark brow lowers, and I know he knows what I’m asking. “Any kind of cops.”

No help there.

I’m quiet, thinking. “How close does this person have to get to the action?”

“As close as you need to do the job.” Bull takes another long drink of beer then throws the empty can in the direction of the trash. “If you can see it from the moon, you can sit on the moon. As long as you don’t let us get caught. If we get caught, you’re going down with us.”

My throat tightens, and a cool wave passes over my chest. Outside of the rap business, I’ve never heard of any millionaires who’ve done time, and I don’t have the talent for rap.

“How soon do you need an answer?”

He straightens, exhaling before he heads into the house. “It all goes down on the fifteenth, so before then.”

The door slams behind him, and I tilt the bottle on my knee, studying the elaborate red and white label a moment before putting it on the table. That’s a little less than a month.

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