Free At Their Own Game by Frank Zafiro Page A

smiled, his lips looking like two stretched sausages. “’Course, it’s more of a problem for you than it is for me. I got paid.”  
    “It’s not a problem.”  
    “See, I think it is. Not so much because you don’t have your shit, because honestly, I don’t care about your cash flow a whole lot. But I think it’s a problem because it’s unprofessional. It raises questions. Like, why the fuck didn’t your guy show?”  
    “Look,” I said, “I’m sorry the logistics got screwed up, but—”  
    “See, I heard he didn’t show up because he got picked up by a patrol cop. That true?”  
    I hesitated. Then I nodded. Obviously, he knew, so why try to lie about it?  
    Ozzy lifted his chin inquisitively. “And you didn’t think to tell me this?”  
    “It’s not your problem.”  
    He scratched his chin. “Not my problem, huh?” He leaned forward, glaring at me. His voice lowered. “Are you telling me this is none of my business, motherfucker?”  
    “No. I’m telling you it’s not your problem.”  
    “That sounds like the same thing.”  
    “It’s not.”  
    “Well, why don’t you break it down for me, professor? Before I snap one of the bones in your hand or something.”  
    I took a breath. “It’s your business, all right? It’s your business because it seemed to involve our business together. But it doesn’t. He got popped on a bullshit misdemeanor warrant out of Idaho. Completely unrelated. So that’s why it’s not your problem.”  
    Ozzy stared at me for a while, not blinking. Waiting.  
    After a while, I shrugged. “What else do you want to know?”  
    Quick as flash, his right hand lashed out and caught me on the tip of the nose. The force of the blow wasn’t overpowering, but stinging pain shot through my senses. My eyes immediately teared up. I grabbed for my nose with both hands.  
    “Next one’s to the throat,” Ozzy said, still low and mean, but matter of fact. “Now tell me the rest.”  
    “What rest?” I asked, my voice thick. Anger churned in my gut.  
    “There’s more. I can tell.”  
    I blinked. Blood was starting to flow into my hands. I pinched my nostrils shut. I wanted to lean back, but I believed what Ozzy said about my throat, and I didn’t want to make it any easier for him.  
    “Spill it,” he growled.  
    For a moment, I considered telling him about Falkner. If he knew Matt got arrested, he might know about the conversation with Falkner, too. But I doubted it. And if I told him, I might graduate from someone he did a little business with into a loose end. A risk.  
    Plus, he hit me. So fuck him.  
    “You got a rag or something?” I asked.  
    “You’re stalling,” Ozzy snapped. “And I swear to Christ, if you don’t start talking –”  
    “I want my money back,” I said shortly.  
    He blinked at me. Slight surprise registered on his face. Then he shook his head slowly. “You…what?”  
    “You heard me. I changed my mind about this line of product. I want out.”  
    Ozzy leaned back again, regarding me with curiosity, as if I were some new kind of weed that had grown up in his lawn. “Are you fucking kidding me?”  
    “No.”  
    He glanced up at Randall. “You believe this shit?” Without waiting for a reply, he returned his gaze to me. He shook his head. “This isn’t fucking Walmart. I don’t take returns. You bought the product. It’s yours. You don’t want to buy any more, the fuck I care? You don’t want it at all, I’ll keep it. But I don’t give refunds.”  
    “You can always sell it to someone else,” I told him.  
    “I can always…” He shook his head at me again. “I oughta go ahead and hit you in the throat, just for trying to tell me my business.” He pointed at the silver tool chest in the bed of the truck. “Your package is in there. Your money ain’t. You want your package, or not?”  
    “I want my money.”  
    “You can’t have it.”  
    “Why not?”  
    “I