Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [31]
So when I wanted a few preliminary observations about Holtzer Point, he was the man to ask. While I was at it, I double-checked the envelope and added a query about “Jordan Roe,” whatever that was. As far as the Internet was concerned, it didn’t exist. And in this day and age, if the Internet says it doesn’t exist, it’s either dead boring or totally fascinating in a top secret men-in-black kind of way.
After hitting SEND, I leaned back and pondered my next move. The scrap of paper beside my laptop was still staring at me, with that one word “Major” snagging my eyeball every time it rolled past.
I picked it up again, made an educated guess as to whether the first number was a five or a six, and plugged the sequence into my cell phone. Someone else’s phone rang twice, and was answered by a scowl I could hear all the way over on my end of the line.
“Who is this?”
I don’t want to sound like one of those bitchy old ladies who fusses all the time about how kids these days have no manners at all, but just once I’d like to hear someone answer a phone with “hello.”
I said, “Hello?” And maybe it was just because I’d had army-on-the-brain all evening, but I went ahead and guessed, “Major?”
“Who is this? How did you get this number?”
He didn’t answer my question. This called for multitasking. While I laid out the fresh-from-my-ass story, I went into the kitchen and opened a drawer. “I got the number from Trevor,” I said. I pulled out a cheap prepaid cell phone. (I keep a small stash. I’m paranoid, remember?) “He said you wanted to talk about the website?” I put a Valley girl question mark at the end of the sentence because I had now officially exhausted every ounce of information I possessed.
“The website? Trevor?” he grumbled, sounding confused. For a minute, I was afraid I’d blown it.
“For Northwest Parcours Addicts?” While I fumbled with the conversation I fumbled with the extra cell phone, too. I dialed in the digits of the number I’d just called. “You know. Trevor. From the website. I think you talked to him already, and he said I should talk to you, too.”
I was repeating myself, trying to keep him on the line—even if I sounded like a moron.
I guessed lucky and he ignored the in-beeping of my other call.
He said, “Oh yeah. Him. I didn’t tell him he could pass this number along to anybody!”
“But I’m … special,” I said lamely. I totally winged the rest. “Trevor said you were looking for the best, but he wouldn’t say what you wanted. He said I’d have to talk to you myself if I wanted in.”
“Did he, now?”
“Yes sir,” I said, and right at that moment the voice-mail system picked up on the other phone. I struggled to listen to both devices at once.
He replied, “If you’re looking to pick up some extra cash, we might be able to talk, but I don’t need any weekend tea parties, honey. You said Trevor pointed you my way?”
Great. A terrible phone persona, and a sexist pig to boot. “Yes, and I don’t do tea parties but I’m a world-class trespasser.”
I would’ve said more, but the voice mail was prattling in my other ear. It said, “You’ve reached the desk of Major Ed Bruner, I’m unavailable right now …,” and the rest was typical phone etiquette denouement. But I had a name. Major Bruner. Aka Ed. I snapped the other phone shut and gave the living, breathing major my full attention.
“Trespasser, eh?” he said. “I thought you kids didn’t like that word.”
“Some kids don’t, but I like to call a spade a spade,” I told him. I don’t really sound like a kid on the phone. If anything, I have a somewhat low-pitched voice for a woman, but I got the impression it didn’t matter. I had tits, so I was going to get talked down to. I played along for expediency’s sake.
“That’s good, that’s fine,” he said. “All right, then. What’s your specialty?”
“My … my specialty?” He had me there. I was all out of bullshit, and I needed a prompt.
“Yeah. Specialty.