A Wanted Woman by Eric Jerome Dickey

Author:Eric Jerome Dickey
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Romance, Contemporary, Fiction
ISBN: 9780698148659
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 2014-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

THIRTY-THREE

Sheraton Mall, Parish of Christ Church

The photography studio was near the KFC entrance to the contemporary food court, near Nature’s Discount Nutrition Centre. I entered the establishment dressed in a green business suit, long strawberry-blond hair in a workday ponytail, lips dark, my face in makeup, but not too much. Using a Russian accent I asked for Nigel, then I stepped to the side and pretended to read the morning newspaper. Nigel appeared. Made eye contact. I nodded. He motioned for me to follow him.

He was nervous. Sweating. Reputation preceded me.

In a back room, I became six people from various countries. Combinations and permutations. I created six new names. Once the photos were taken and printed, I made sure they were deleted from the camera and the computer, then instructed Nigel to pass the prints on to the big guy who had sent me.

I went to the ladies’ room, locked myself inside of a stall. By the time I made it to the three-level parking structure, I was in Levi’s, boots, and a wrinkled UWI Cave Hill T-shirt over one of the black tees I had been given to conceal a.380, my hair red with blue streaks, my walk quick and impatient as I devoured a slice of pizza. When I finished my meal, I called Big Guy’s cellular number. I called five times before he answered. The moment he mumbled hello, I blasted him with curse words. He hadn’t answered right away, and that had left me swimming in paranoia. In a voice that made the message clear, I told him the clock was ticking, and his clock was ticking a helluva lot louder than mine. I had calmed enough to hear his drugged-up voice as he explained. He had been rushed to the hospital. The head injury. Dizzy. Vomiting. Hadn’t been right since he’d met me. I didn’t give a fuck. He could talk. He was conscious. He could answer a phone. Hospital was better than the morgue. In a tone that left no room for ambiguity, I instructed him to get a bucket of strong coffee and wake up and get up off his ass. I told him to contact Nigel right away and get out of that damn hospital bed and go collect the package that I had left behind within the next hour, and to send a message to this number to confirm it had been collected. He said he needed more money for the friend of the friend of the friend who did the passports. I told him I would get him more fuckin’ cash. If I had to rob every Butterfield and First Caribbean and RBC and Scotia and Republic and CIBC bank, if I had to become Bonnie without a Clyde and stick up every Texaco, Rubis, Shell, Esso, and Sol gas station on the island, I would get the fuckin’ money. Was losing it. I snapped, barked, told him to remember the cricketer, told him to read about that death, imagine

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