Jimar lives in one of the newer loft buildings in town. He’s got an outstanding view of the green beltway that follows Buffalo Bayou. They’ve recently updated the surrounding area to be parkland with trails for walking, jogging, bicycling, etc. Jimar uses the trails to meet and make drug deals. Ms. Miu Miu told me to get within a mile, so I pulled into an empty space along the jogging trail of Memorial Park and put the car in neutral.
“What now?” I asked.
“Now you shut up,” she said.
“You’re a real sweetheart. Aren’t you?” I asked.
She ignored me. Her eyes were glued to a couple of guys jogging by without shirts on. They were tanned and buff. Nice to look at, but I needed to get out of this situation.
I made a grab for the gun that she’d seemingly forgotten in her lustful state. She didn’t move a muscle, just said, “Don’t even think about it.”
Damn. I was used to stoners with slow reflexes and small brains. This chick was not making me happy. The car was starting to heat up.
“You must be hot in that coat,” I said. Might as well make conversation, one sided as it was.
She didn’t say anything.
“Love the shoes. Miu Mius, right?”
“Thought so. I prefer Jimmie Choo myself,” I said.
“I told you to shut up.”
I huffed through my nose. Patience is not one of my strong suits. Having a gun pointed at me is not one of my favorite things either. I felt like I was Butch Cassidy wanting to ask the Sundance Kid, “who is this chick?”
Her phone played a classical tune. She picked up immediately.
“Yes,” she said. “We’re in the park in a junker car. If he runs, you’ll have to give chase. This thing would never catch him.”
“Hey,” I said. “This car has an excellent engine…”
She waved the gun in my direction again, so I shut up.
“Who was that?” I asked when she clicked off.
“I ask the questions,” she said.
“Well, ask then, dammit. I’m curious as hell. You know ...