Page 29 of So Smitten

"Does he seem nervous, fearful, or nervous like he's ready to rip something apart at any moment?"

“Definitely the second one.”

“Then he’s in character. What about you? Are you in character?”

“Well, I look like I sell weed to college kids and blast death metal from my old Ford Econoline van at stoplights. Does that count?”

Faith smiled. “That works.”

She tapped her earpiece twice to mute it, then turned to Garvey in the seat next to her. “Do we have a lock on him?”

“GPS has him,” Garvey said, “Since he’s indoors, it won’t be accurate within more than ten or fifteen feet, but we have him.”

“What about microwave?” The microwave transmitter was more sensitive than the GPS, especially in close quarters.

“No luck there,” Garvey said. “The receiver’s fried.”

Faith swore and double-tapped her earpiece again. “Michael, the microwave’s fried. We’re relying on GPS.”

“That’s fine with me,” he said. “Are you expecting trouble?”

“I’m expecting tension,” she said. “Hopefully it doesn’t go any farther than that.”

“Well, I’ll do my best not to look anxious,” he said. “I have to tell you, I stick out like a sore thumb, though.”

“That’s okay,” Faith said. “You’re from California. You don’t need to look like them, you just need to look like you belong.”

“Where are you guys parked?”

“We’re two warehouses down and one across,” Faith said, “about a half mile away. We’re hidden from view, so no one wonders what a gray van is doing loitering across the street."

“Good,” he said, “Gotta go. Someone’s coming with a dog. I need to act like Turk’s straining at the leash. What’s the command again?”

“Be mean,” Faith repeated.

“Got it. Turk, be mean. Jesus!”

Faith couldn’t resist a smile as she heard Michael struggle with the leash while Turk barked and snarled. She heard an anxious voice on the other end say, “Hey, keep your dog in line, man. It ain’t his turn tonight.”

She double tapped her earpiece to mute it but kept listening to Michael. “How about you take your dog away before Turk decides to have an evening snack?”

“Motherfu—”

“Jamal!” a third voice interrupted. “What are you doing up here? Bruiser’s the third fight. Get his ass—and yours—down to the damned pit! Sorry about that, Mike. This Turk?"

“Easy, Turk,” Michael said, the command for Turk to stop being mean. “Yeah, this is him.”

The new voice scoffed. “He looks like a bitch.”

“Yeah?” Michael replied. “Bring Bruiser back here, and I’ll show you how much of a bitch he is.”

Faith knew it was just an act, but she tensed anyway. Michael was just a guest tonight, watching the fights to see if he believed it was a good place for him to make money with his dogs, but he was surrounded by legitimate gangsters with legitimate dogfighters, and while backup wasn’t far, it might as well have been on the other side of Canada. They wouldn’t get to Michael or Turk fast enough to help them if something went down.

“Your boy’s laying it on a little thick,” Garvey said.

“What should he do?” Faith asked.

The answer to their question came when the stranger chuckled. “Relax, Mike, relax. You want Bruiser, you’re gonna have to earn him. Bruiser’s a champion. You gotta work your way up.”

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