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from Mama needs new shoes by Shirley Holder Platt

Copyright © 2019–2020 Shirley Holder Platt

Chapter 8

My mind raced as I drove out of the park. This was a bad idea. I might be better off going to jail. If Jimar figured out what I was up to, he would have no qualms about killing me and dumping my body in the bayou.

“I can’t show up out of the blue on the same day he’s lost business like this. He’ll be suspicious, to say nothing about how angry he’ll be.”

She had the gun out again, and she pointed it at me. I was really getting tired of that.

“I’m telling you, this is a bad idea.” I pulled out onto Memorial Drive and took a left toward Jimar’s complex. “No one goes there uninvited,” I said. “You’re gonna get me killed, then where will your investigation be?”

“Call him then,” she said. She pulled my phone out of my purse and threw it into my lap.

I fumbled around, but caught it before it fell into the floorboard. I threw it back at her.

“You call him, I’ll talk. He’s on speed dial, number 4.”

She held the phone up to my ear with one hand and kept the gun pointed at me with the other. It rang several times and went to voicemail. I started talking as soon as I heard the beep on the other end.

“Hey, J,” I said. “I’ve been thinking about your proposal. Maybe I could be interested in a deal. I’m heading over to your place.”

“Good thinking,” she said after ending the call. “He’ll be ready to make some kind of deal with you already. Get him off the idea of the chop shop. Make sure the deal includes using prostitutes.”

“I don’t like this. Am I supposed to set up a flop house in my apartment too?” I slapped the steering wheel. “I like my place to myself,” I said.

“Tough. Tell him you want fresh girls, not stale hookers. See what he says.”

“He’ll think the timing is too coincidental. I’m telling you, the guy isn’t an idiot.” I was pleading for my life. All Jimar had to do was flick a wrist at one of his goons, and I’d be the other white meat on his floor.

“Don’t forget, we’re listening,” she said as I pulled into the complex and found a parking spot. I cased the area. Nobody loitered around the parking garage. There was an elevator from the garage into the building. I had only been once before, but I remembered a spacious lobby with revolving doors at the front, a concierge desk facing the front doors, and a wall of windows facing the bayou at the back. No place to run. No place to hide. I was sure the FBI goons would shoot me as easily as Jimar’s would if I tried to make a break...

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