In my line of work, money was never the problem.
A standard Rolls-Royce Phantom? My family’s garage wouldn’t even bother parking it. What was he so proud of?
“Hey, young man, I’m talking to you! Why do you keep glancing at the back seat?”
Seeing the spirit’s aura glowing hotter and redder, my own temper spiked.
“Shut up! If I lose time here, neither of us will make it through the night alive!”
My warning didn’t faze him.
“There’s nobody in your back seat, kid. Quit trying to spook me.”
He yanked open my door and dragged me out.
“Look at this car properly. You hit a Rolls-Royce Phantom worth over a million dollars! And you think ten grand cuts it? Dream on!”
He took me for just another broke driver in my twenties and dismissed me completely.
“Sir, I had the right of way. I was going straight—you swerved. I’m already being generous offering you money. What more do you want?”
“Call the cops? Ha! Kid, even if they show up, it’ll all fall on you.”
He leaned in closer, breath thick with alcohol.
“You really don’t know whose car you hit. Around all of Chicago, everyone knows Tony Moretti’s ride.”
Just then, a scantily dressed woman stepped out of his passenger seat.