The Emerald Lie

A woman came in, stood before me, in that indeterminate age group of forty-fifty. Well groomed, long black coiffed hair, and a face that was striking more than pretty. Her clothes quietly whispered,

“Money and, yeah, class.”

I don’t know if God donates class but I was pretty sure that the devil handed out style. Whatever she was selling, I didn’t want it. I raised my glass, conveying,

“Take it elsewhere, lady.”

She sat. I mean, fuck it, just sat. Said,

“You are Jack Taylor.”

How many times I’d begun a case with just those words and never, fuck never, did it end well. I looked her right in the face, measured,

“I don’t care whether your husband/dog is missing or whatever, your son/daughter/... you hear me? I can’t help you.”

She was unfazed, just leveled those lovely sad eyes on me, said,

“It’s my nephew, Parker Wilson.”

Name rang a bell but I couldn’t be bothered figuring it, said,

“Please go away. Find somebody who gives a rat’s arse.”

She leaned into me, said,

“They are calling him the Grammarian.”

Whoa.

Had to do a whole double take, then,

“Well, lady, he is fucked, signed, sealed, and delivered. Get him a good lawyer, cop for insanity.”

She sat back, took me in with a full eye search, and nothing warm was there. She said,

“You have a rep for finding information that the Guards can’t.”

I shrugged, said,

“You need a miracle, I don’t do miraculous.”

She put a fat envelope on the counter, said,

“I believe you can be... bought.”

Was I outraged?

Indignant.

Nope.

I could be bought — and cheaply.

I asked,

“What is it you want?”

As I asked, the strangest feeling hit me. I began to feel a tingle all along my spine, as if someone trod heavily on my grave, and fuck, barely recognized the feeling, it had been so long, so dormant.

Attraction.

Ah, shite, I needed that like a wallop to the head. My mind muttering,

“No way, no fucking way, not going through all the shit again.”

Even as my treacherous heart began to sing. And I swear, she saw it, in that uncanny way that women have. A tiny smile at the corner of the mouth as she sussed it.

She said,

“My name is Sarah, Sarah Compton, and I want you to prove that Park is innocent.”

Piece of cake.

All biz, I asked,

“Where is he now?”

She looked at her watch, slim Rolex, said,

“Just about making bail.”