"Hardly ever in Jersey," I said. "Too much overhead. Hotel rooms and food bills. The payoff's better on extortion."
His gaze dropped to my chest. "You ever do it with a sheik?"
"Excuse me?"
"You could get lucky today."
"Yeah. And you could get shot. How old are you, anyway?"
He tipped his chin up an eighth of an inch. "Nineteen."
My guess would be closer to fifteen, but hey, what do I know about Arabs? "You have luggage?"
"Two bags."
I led the way to baggage, snagged his two pieces, and rolled them out of the building across the pick-up lanes to the parking garage. When I had my charge settled into the backseat, I cruised off into gridlocked traffic.
After a couple minutes of creeping along Fahed was antsy. "What's the problem?"
"Too many cars," I said. "Not enough road."
"Well, do something."
I glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "What did you have in mind?"
"I don't know. Just do something. Just go."
"This isn't a helicopter. I can't just go."
"Okay," he said. "I've got an idea. How about we do this?"
"What?"
"This."
I turned in my seat and looked at him. "What is this?"
He wagged his wonkie at me and smiled.
Great. A fifteen-year-old sex fiend, exhibitionist sheik.
"I can make it do tricks," he said.
"Not in my car, you can't. Put it back in your pants, or I'll tell your father."
"My father would be proud. Look at me . . . I'm hung like a horse."
I pulled a knife out of my shoulder bag and flipped it open. "I can make you hung like a hamster."
"American whore bitch."
I rolled my eyes.
"This is intolerable," he said. "I hate this traffic. And I hate this car. And I hate sitting here doing nothing."
Fahed wasn't the only one experiencing road rage. Other drivers were coming unglued. Men were swearing to themselves and tugging at ties. Fingers drummed impatiently on steering wheels. Someone behind me leaned on his horn.
"I'll give you one hundred dollars if you let me drive." Fahed said.
"No."
"A thousand."
"No."
"Five thousand."
I glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "No."
"You were tempted," he said, smiling, looking satisfied.
Ugh.
An hour and a half later we managed to reach the New Brunswick interchange.
"I need something to drink," Fahed said. "There's nothing to drink in this car. I'm used to having a stretch with a bar. I want you to find a place to get me a soda."
I wasn't sure if this was limo protocol, but I figured what the hell, it was his nickel. I picked up Route 1 and looked for fast food. Not much of a challenge. The first thing that came up was a McDonald's. It was dinnertime and the drive-through lane looked like the Jersey Turnpike, so I junked the drive-through and parked the car.
"I want a Coke," he said, sitting tight, clearly not interested in standing in line with the rest of New Jersey.
Don't freak out, I told myself. He's used to being waited on. "Anything else?"
"French fries."
Fine. I grabbed my bag and crossed the lot. I swung though the door and chose a line. Two people in front of me. I studied the menu over the counter. One person left in front of me. I hiked my bag higher on my shoulder and looked out the window. I didn't see my car. There was a small twinge of alarm just below my heart. I scanned the lot. No car. I left the line and pushed through the door into the cool air. The car was gone.
Shit!
My first fear was that he'd been kidnapped. I'd been hired as a chauffeur and bodyguard for the sheik, and the sheik's been kidnapped. The fear was short-lived. No one would want this rotten kid. Face it, Stephanie, that little snot took the car.
I had two choices. I could call the police. Or I could call Ranger.
I tried Ranger first. "Bad news," I said. "I sort of lost the sheik."
"Where did you lose him?"
"North Brunswick. He sent me into a McDonald's for a soda, and next thing I knew, he was gone."
"Where are you now?"
"I'm still at the McDonald's." Where else would I be?
"Don't move. I'll get back to you."
The connection was severed. "When?" I asked the dead phone. "When?"
Ten minutes later the phone rang.
"No problem," Ranger said. "Found the sheik."
"How'd you find him?"
"I called the car phone."
"Was he kidnapped?"
"Impatient. Said he got tired of waiting for you."
"That little jerk-off!"
Several people stopped in their tracks and stared.
I lowered my voice and turned, facing the phone. "Sorry, I got carried away," I said to Ranger.
"Understandable, Babe."
"He's got my jacket."
"Bones will get it when he gets the car. You need a ride home?"
"I can call Lula."
* * * * *
"YOU SHOULD HAVE taken me with you," Lula said. "This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't hauled your skinny ass off on your own."
"It seemed like such an easy job. Pick up a kid and drive him somewhere."
"Look at this," Lula said, "we're passing by the mall. I bet some shopping would cheer you right up."
"I do need shoes."
"See," Lula said, "there's a reason for everything. God meant for you to shop tonight."
We entered the mall through Macy's and blasted into the shoe department first thing.
"Hold on here!" Lula said. "Look at these shoes!" She'd pulled a pair of black satin shoes off the display. They had pointy toes and four-inch heels and a slim ankle strap. "These are hot shoes," Lula said.
I had to agree. The shoes were hot. I got my size from the salesperson and tried the shoes on.
"Those shoes are you," Lula said. "You gotta get those shoes. We'll take these shoes," Lula said to the salesclerk. "Wrap 'em up."
Ten minutes later, Lula was pulling dresses off the rack. "Yow!" Lula said. "Hold the phone. Here it is."
The dress she was holding was barely there. It was a shimmery black scrap of miracle fiber with a low-cut neck and a short skirt.
"This is a genuine hard-on dress," Lula said.
I suspected she was right. I looked at the price tag and sucked in some air. "I can't afford this!"
"You gotta at least try it on," Lula said. "Maybe it won't fit so good, and then you'll feel better about not being able to buy it."
It seemed like sound reasoning, so I dragged myself off to the dressing room. I did a fast computation of money left on my credit card and winced. If I caught Randy Briggs and I ate all my meals for the next month at my mother's house and I did my own nails for the wedding, I could almost afford the dress.
"Damn skippy," Lula said when I tottered out of the dressing room in the black shoes and black dress. "Holy shit."
I checked myself out in the mirror. It was definitely a "damn skippy, holy shit" outfit. And if I could lose five pounds in the next two days, the dress would fit.
"Okay," I said. "I'll take it."
"We need some french fries to celebrate with," Lula said after I bought the dress. "My treat."
"I can't have french fries. Another ounce and I won't get into the dress."
"French fries are a vegetable," Lula said. "They don't count when it comes to fat. And besides, we'll have to walk all the way down the mall to get to the food court, so we'll get exercise. In fact, probably we'll be so weak from all that walking by the time we get there we'll have to have a piece of crispy fried chicken along with the french fries."
It was dark when we left the mall. I had the button open on my skirt to accommodate the fried chicken and french fries, and I was having a panic attack over my new clothes.
"Look at this," Lula said, sidling up to her Firebird. "Somebody left us a note. It better not be that someone put a ding in my car. I hate when that happens."