I figured not giving a fuck was a prerequisite for employment in a place like this, but Leo insisted. “My father has a lot of people willing to do a lot of things,” he said, shrugging back into his suit jacket. “Right now, his one and only priority is finding me and feeding me my own nuts. The fewer people see us, the better.” “Fine.” I shrugged. My arm still twinged with every motion. I hadn’t slept much, waking every few minutes whenever someone in the walkway stumbled to the ice machine or one of the happy customers in the upstairs room moaned. Leo patted himself down for his crushed pack of Russian cigarettes and a lighter, sticking a smoke between his lips. He lit it while we surveyed the parking lot. “That one.” He pointed at an orange Sprint that was more rust than paint. I shook my head. The Sprint had left a glossy puddle on the pavement under the transmission, sported expired tags, and probably gulped gas like an end-stage drunk tackling a box of Franzia.
