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10/17/08
1:15 PM
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Tom Piccirilli
“You are now.” “That’s not what I do. You’ve got plenty of hired muscle in the crew for that. I’m a driver.” “While you drive, you are the bodyguard. That’s the job. If you’re not up for it, tell me now.” Having just watched a guy get aced, Chase figured the time to say no had already wafted past. “All right,” Chase said. “Good. You have a piece?” “No.” “You don’t carry a gun?” “I told you, I’m a driver,” Chase said, sounding stupid even to himself. It was impossible to make some people understand that the best wheelmen never carried hardware. Reaching into his briefcase, Moe appraised Chase once more, searching deeper this time, his face heavy with thought. Chase did the same thing, studying Moe and seeing a man who was used to running a dangerous but lucrative machine that was suddenly breaking down all around him through no fault of his own. A carefully hidden, slow-burning anger leaked out at the seams around Moe’s mouth and eyes. He was around sixty, well kept and solid, with silverwhite hair receding from a prominent widow’s peak. He had the kind of maple-syrup tan that you had to spend months working on, slathered in baby oil in the backyard holding a metal reflector up around your neck. A broad spatter of caramel-colored freckles flecked his nose and cheeks. They looked this