“Do it, Jeremiah. Tomorrow you’ll get a new junkie forcibly incarcerated and he or she will get the DTs and shit all over the seclusion room just like whoever did it today. What’s the difference if you hook me up now?”

Silence.

“GIVE ME THE FUCKING KEYS,” I say, loud enough for an echo to repeat me. “PLEASE.”

Jeremiah sighs. Quiet. The wind blows icicles down my back and I drag off my smoke just to replace the warmth inside the breeze is stealing away.

Eventually Jeremiah says: “Fine. But I barely put helping you out above spraying a garden hose on human feces.”

“You’re the best, Jeremiah. Where are you?”

“Sixth floor.” I step under the window I know he’s near.

“Near the break room where you guys open the window and smoke?”

“Yes.”

“So just open the window and drop the keys. I’m under you. I made it convenient.”

“Oh, well thank you. Tell me why, though.”

“I told you. A case. I’ll need the car for an hour, tops.”

“That’s not much of a case.”

“Okay, I’ll probably need it all day.”

“Tell me why.”

“Sorry. Client/detective confidentiality.”

“Goddammit, RDB, why—”

“I got you out of a drug rap. Give me the keys.”

“That was almost ten years ago when you still had juice with the department—”

“Keys.”

“I swear, if there is a dead dude stuffed in my trunk when I get off work tonight—”

“I wouldn’t do that to you, Jeremiah.”

“You already did, motherfucker.”

“I meant I wouldn’t do it again. I forgot about the last time.”

“Whatever. You forgot until I smelled the dirty bastard and surprise, surprise. RDB at work.”

“I got rid of it. I don’t have time for this.”

“What if I got pulled over? How would I explain that?”

“You didn’t.”

“You’re an asshole. I don’t know why I get involved with this shit.”

“Yes. Now drop them.”

Tags: Ryan Sayles Thriller
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