“Baby, don’t waste time on him. Look at him—probably doesn’t even recognize our hood ornament.”
“Guys like him, running rides at night, wouldn’t know the name Tony Moretti—the Midwest kingpin.”
I narrowed my eyes, smiling coldly.
“You won’t let me call the cops… Could it be you were drunk driving—and already killed someone tonight?”
My words struck home. Tony snapped, shoving me hard.
“Whether I drank or not is none of your damn business. Call your insurance and pay up. If you keep yapping, I’ll make sure you can’t survive in Chicago.”
I’d spent years dealing with the dead. I’d never even heard of this so-called Tony Moretti.
If I weren’t pressed for time, I’d have shown him what a psychopomp could really do.
“I don’t care if you’re Tony, Vince, or whoever. I don’t give a damn.”
“I’ve still got a passenger. Move your car.”
The bystanders watching the commotion gasped.
“Holy shit, this kid’s got balls—he hit Tony Moretti’s car and dares to talk back?”
“Tony runs half the Midwest crime districts. Even the cops don’t mess with him after midnight.”
“Poor bastard. Wrong car to hit. Even if he doesn’t die tonight, he’ll be skinned alive.”
As the whispers grew louder, Tony’s grin widened.