Page 10 of The Love Scam
“Seriously? You wanted to take me to Rapetown—or at least Robbedtown—andyou’reyelling for help?”
More yelps. Disparaging remarks about her mother. She was a twat, a whore, she should bugger herself with her own ass
“Uh, what?”
and choke on her father’s cock and die and after that she should jump off a cliff
“How would that even work? Logistically?”
onto her worthless father’s cock, etc., etc.
“You boys don’t get a lot of second dates, do you? It’s tough out there. Being single. Ugh, donotbleed on me.”
She stepped back as he trotted past her, abandoning his comrade in arms/dirt. She bent, fished out the other guy’s wallet, helped herself to the cash, cards, and IDs (either business had been booming tonight or his name was Matteas and George and Carrie and he lived in Rome and New York and was also a woman in Arkansas), and left the alley in a much more cheerful frame of mind.Too bad there weren’t a couple more of them; I might’ve broken a sweat. Self-defense counts as working out, right?
Right.
Besides, it had been over a month since her last hit. Getting rusty was never smart. In her line of work, it could be fatal or, worse, a ticket to a prison term.
“S’okay, I got ’em!” an all-too-familiar slurred voice assured her, and then here came Rake Tarbell, grinning a big grin and hauling the broken-nose thug back toward the alley.
“No, no!” she scolded. “I just got him to getoutof the alley; this is all wrong. Bad! You arebad!”
“Don’ worry. N’one’s gonna hurtcha while ’m ’round,” he slurred, then promptly stepped on her foot.
“Ow!”
“S’okay, baby. Rake’s here.”
“You smell like you took a shower in vermouth.”
“Nuh-uh, don’ wear cologne. S’all me, baby. That’s Eau de Rake you’re likin’.”
And the evening had startedsowell.
Even if she hadn’t followed him, she could have found him by listening for the yelling and laughter and splashing and, very occasionally, the tiny explosions. It had been a long day, and the only thing she had to look forward to was a longer night.
And there he was, yukking it up at the bar, hip-deep in men and women, tourists as well as locals, all intent on having a good time while ignoring the gorgeous man-made beach behind them. Lake Como: playground of the rich who were sick of Saint-Tropez but had no interest in scuba diving in Bora Bora.
Eh, cut ’em some slack. It’s dark out. Gotta be able to see to appreciate, right? Stop indulging your inner brat because you’re still on the outside.Contrary to pop culture clichés, her job didn’t always require lurking in darkness. Tonight, yeah. But sometimes she got to skulk in the daytime. She spent a whole day skulking in Boston once, occasionally stopping mid-skulk for strawberry Italian ice. That was a hack that never became a hit; the mark had seen sense, and agreed to her demands. Also: strawberry Italian ice! And the New England Aquarium!
This time of night, the sunbathing gazebos were used for, um,notsunbathing—though people were stripped down as though they were—so she kept walking, listening to the sighs and murmurs with not a little envy. How long since she’dbeen on a date? Or was hit on when not on the job? Or hit on during the job? Ages.
The beachside restaurants kept the drinks coming, from glass after glass of Valtellina-produced wine tolimoncelloto (ugh!)grappatocappuccinoordered only by tourists who didn’t know any better. She learned quickly the best way to make an Italian wince was to order a cappuccino after lunchtime. And as she got closer to the main bar, she could hear the American.
“I thought I didn’ like vermouth, but it’s good! Or at least not terrible. D’you know, it used to be medicine? I mean, people used it like medicine? Cuz it tasted bad, I think. S’not, though. Med’cine, I mean. Think I better switch, though. Somethin’ not vermouth, so I’m not too hungover. Gotta fly back to the States. Hate flyin’ hungover. C’n I have a Rob Roy? Or a Gibson?”*
Yep, that was him: Rake Tarbell, happily drunk off his ass at nine o’clock at night, cheerful and occasionally vulgar, generous with his money and a smile for everyone: the life of the party. She’d never seen someone try so hard to convince themselves they were having a great time. And she’d been to Disney World four times.
And ohhhh, boy, he was practically hanging aPLEASE ROB MEsign around his neck. He’d caught the attention of at least two of the locals, large men with big hands and small eyes, who smiled with their teeth while the rest of their face stayed slack. Dark shorts, dark T-shirts—it was unseasonably warm for spring—and one of them sporting a too-small T-shirt, which he’d probably lifted from a tourist.
Locals… or employees of the Colorado asshole. Or independent contractors. How much did hired muscle make, anyway?
The life of the par-tay was too blitzed to notice or, if he did, see them as a threat. She wasn’t sure he had ever seen anything as a threat. Rake Tarbell was a determinedly happy fellow.
He flaunted his money
“Rob Roys! Like, all over the place! I want wall-to-wall Rob Roys for everyone! Who wants to suck down Roys with me?”
