The Last JoyRide

Part 5

The blaring alarm still set from my previous job woke me early the following day. I pissed, showered, and went back to sleep, waiting for nine am. I ate and then paced in my underwear, carrying the phone until it was time to call. I began to think about my motives. It was not all about money. I had not thought of the money yet. I was after the girl. Damnit, it WAS about the girl. What the fuck was this? No wonder I was a nervous wreck.

Tuesday 9:00 AM

I phoned, and she answered on the first ring.

"I was hoping you'd call."

"Oh yeah?"

Yeah, I was serious about you working with me."

"Oh yeah?"

"Meet me at Joe Muggs on Busby. Do you know where that is?"

"Yeah," I said confidently, " I know right where it is. Give me twenty minutes."

"Okay, see you inside."

She hung up before I could say anything else.

I dressed and drove over, speeding a little. She was sitting inside at a pub table when I got there, her back against the glass wall. I could see the back of her head. She smiled and winked at me when she saw my face. Her eyes sparkled, and she had on a little more make-up than the previous evening. Dressed in black fatigue-looking pants and polished black lace-up boots, a tight-fitting light gray v-necked tee shirt rounded out the ensemble. She looked neat in a street-tough video game sort of way. A girl I would not ordinarily approach but would love to bend over a chair. Looking at her made me feel both old and yet immature at the same time. And truth be told, it made me feel pretty damn awesome to be seen with her. There was a life to her eyes that I thought, that I needed, like a drug.

Looking at her was addictive.

"You made it," she said, looking at the chrome watch on her wrist, "in good time too."

I sat down while she drank her coffee and explained the job.

"Repo isn't that difficult, well," she looked into her cup, "once you get over the guilt."

"Guilt?"

"Yeah," she answered, snapping out of her gaze, "but I try not to take any of the hard-luck cases. Still, you never know these days. So many people buy cars way out of their price range. Typically I stay away from minivans and station wagons unless they are like Benz's."

"So, who is Betty?"

"That's me."

She looked pleased that I had looked at her card.

"I thought your name was Joy."

"It is. Betty is a nickname. You know Betty Boop, a Betty, like a pretty girl."

"Do you really need help doing this?"

"Oh yes, absolutely. Josh used to help me. You know the guy at Mac's. He was my roommate for over a year. He got his ass kicked a couple of months ago and decided he would rather be a server."

"Can't say that I blame him."

"I guess not, but he has been a total asshole to me ever since. He was always too soft for this thing, but he is a huge guy and intimidating in the right light. The problem was he couldn't keep his mouth shut. A few words from him, and no one is intimidated any longer. I do feel bad that he got hurt."

She talked as if we were old friends while she gulped her steaming ash-tray-smelling coffee. I wondered how she didn't burn her tongue. I wondered how her tongue would feel. Her voice was soft but with an odd, decidedly neutral accent that did not match her looks. She explained how she worked her repossession lists, storing the vehicles in an old warehouse garage she leased. She tore off a page from a computer printout and handed it to me. It was a list of cars, the loan companies they belonged to, and the last known address of the person or persons who had the car. There were stars in purple ink next to several of them.