Free Loose and Easy by Tara Janzen Page B

beyond her comfort zone at the time, way beyond, though she’d obviously since adjusted her parameters. Johnny, as she recalled, had been quite comfortable and surprisingly skilled at picking pockets. He’d gotten a couple of wallets the night he’d done it. Fourteen years old and running freaking wild on the streets.
    It was a wonder he’d never gotten arrested. Or maybe he had been. Hell, for all she knew, he was an ex-con on probation, which made her wonder what in the hell she was doing going to the O’Lounge with him.
    Getting away from Dovey and the Bear, and staying out of Franklin Bleak’s clutches
—the answer really was straightforward, and honestly, it didn’t matter how many crimes and misdemeanors John Ramos had committed as one of the city’s more skilled juvenile delinquents, or at any other time. He’d already redeemed himself by rescuing her off Wynkoop.
    And wasn’t it funny how quickly a girl’s perspective could change, from abduction to rescue.
    She walked into the pantry after him, looking concerned and serious, and like any number of the most expensive items in her entire inventory had been misplaced by one of her delivery drivers—up until he closed the door.
    “We better—” he said.
    “Yeah,” she finished his thought, looking around. The pantry was small, the shelving high and narrow, and there was a step stool pushed up against a crate.
    She shoved it toward him, and he lodged it between the wall and the shelving unit closest to the door, then further reinforced the blockade with two five-gallon tubs of Greek olives. By the time he was finished, she’d moved three cases of premium mixers for the bar away from the small door in the back of the room.
    “There’s a—” she said, noticing a lock on the door.
    “I’ve got it.” He took his mechanical pencil and shoved it hard between the hasp and the door. When he pulled, half the hasp and its screws came out of the wood, and the door swung wide.
    She was impressed.
    She ducked inside the door and started up the stairs. “Steel pencil?” It had to be.
    “Titanium.”
    Very cool.
Dax had a titanium pencil. It had saved his life once, when he’d buried it in…
    Her thought trailed off for a second. The narrow stairwell was dark, and it took her a couple of seconds to get her flashlight out of its pocket on the messenger bag. There were a few things she never went anywhere without; a small flashlight was one of them.
    What Dax had buried his titanium pencil in was some guy’s throat. He’d recommended she get one for the same reason. She’d decided to stick with her knife instead, and even then, even with the training she’d had, she wasn’t sure how effective she’d be if the moment ever came for the throat-burying move. Not because her training wasn’t good, but because she hadn’t had enough of it—yet. Working with Dax meant there was plenty more on her horizon.
    And Johnny Ramos had a titanium pencil and had been giving her directions like “incoming,” and “two o’clock,” for the last five minutes. Possibly, he had risen above street level.
    The stairs were short, not up to code, and she was taking them two at a time, quickly, following the pool of illumination cast by her flashlight.
    “You said there were two problems.”
    “Yeah…two.” He was right behind her on the stairs, coming on fast, keeping her moving.
    “So what’s the second problem?” she prompted, when he didn’t explain. Franklin Bleak was on her ass. She needed all the information she could get, and she needed it immediately, and she needed to get ahold of her dad again, her dad who had
not
called her back yet.
Geez,
he knew what she was up against tonight, and now she had this little sidebar into O’Shaunessy’s, and then the damn second running of the double dog dare. It was all just plain eating into her schedule. She needed to get to Nachman’s and get that damn money or the whole damn night was a bust, and her father was