“That it is,” I mumble, turning back to the paperwork, feeling bad for the guy. He’s just doing whatever he has to so he can take care of his family. “So, inventory...”
“Self-explanatory. Number beside it is the quantity of whatever’s inside.”
“What is inside?”
He grabs a crowbar, waving it. “Open them and find out.”
One at a time, Seven pops open the crates, exposing layers of straw with all sorts of stuff tucked between. Guns, ammunition, liquor... a lot of damn liquor. A hundred and seven bottles of Cuban rum.
Not to mention the crate full of cigars.
Cuban, too, I’m guessing.
We make it through most of the crates in about two hours before he pops the second to last one open and pauses. “You’ll want to be careful with this one.”
“Why? What is it? Bombs?”
I laugh as I walk over to it, while Seven sort of just shrugs, not laughing. What the hell? The list says there are fifty of whatever it is, but all that’s in the crate are two more small wooden crates with metal latches on them.
Carefully, I brush some of the straw away before picking up the first crate, damn near dropping it when I catch sight of what’s stamped into the side.
“Grenades?” I hiss. “Seriously?”
Fucking grenades.
Seven shrugs again as a loud ring cuts through the air, startling me. I jump, jarring the box, but I keep a tight grip on it. Seven pulls out a cell phone, glancing at the screen with a sigh before shoving it back away.
“Just flip the lid and make sure there are twenty-five tubes in each,” he says.
I set the crate down, opening it to count. I check the other crate before putting them away, grateful to be done with those.
“So, okay, the guns I understand,” I say. “But what the hell does he need with grenades?”
“He says it’s because he’s got terrible aim, but truthfully? He likes to be dramatic.”
“Well, then,” I mumble, waving toward the last crate. “What’s next?”
“Probably the most valuable thing of all.”
I can’t even imagine what that might be.
Grenade launchers?
Seven pops the lid, and I laugh. No straw in this one. Nope, nothing but oranges. A lot of oranges.
“You’re kidding me, right?” I pick one up, eyeing it. “What, are they filled with cyanide or something?”
“No, they’re one-hundred percent authentic Florida oranges, straight off the Gambini groves.”
“What does he do with all of them?”
“Eat them, squeeze them and drink them… most get sent out to market, but the rest he keeps.”
I glance at the paperwork. 953.
“Get to counting,” Seven says. “The sooner you finish, the sooner we can leave.”
Counting oranges, it turns out, is harder than you’d think. I pull them all out, a few at a time, trying to divide them into smaller piles to count, but the sons of bitches want to roll all over the place. I try three times, losing track and miscounting, ending up so far off the mark I have to start over. Ugh.
It takes me two hours.
Two hours to count nine-hundred and fifty-three oranges, clutching the last one in my palm as I motion toward Seven, who opted more so to take the supervising role than help with me, also. “All there.”
I tear at the orange peel, piercing it with my thumb and pulling it apart. Seven watches me warily. “What are you doing?”
“Eating a damn orange,” I mutter. “I think I’ve earned it.”
Seven doesn’t look like he agrees with me on that, but he says nothing as he shoves the lid back onto the crate. I stroll out of the warehouse and down the alley as Seven locks everything back up. He joins me on the corner, hands shoved in his pockets.
Again, he says nothing.
I follow Seven down the street, to where the car is parked, and tear the orange apart, tossing the scraps on the sidewalk.
I look up as we approach, seeing Lorenzo perched on the hood of the car, waiting.
“Boss,” Seven says, nodding in greeting.
“Took you long enough,” Lorenzo says, pulling an envelope from his coat and handing it to him.
“She’s not the fastest,” Seven says. “Felt like I was dealing with the Count from Sesame Street.”
I scowl. “Fuck you, Snuffleupagus.”
Lorenzo waves toward us. “Go home, Seven.”
Seven hesitates. “You sure you don’t need me to drive you, boss?”
“I’m sure,” Lorenzo says, his eyes fixed on me, watching as I pull a piece of orange off and pop it in my mouth. “I’ve got it covered.”
Seven surrenders the car keys as well as a cell phone, turning it over to Lorenzo before walking down the block, casting a worried glance back at us.
The concern on his face makes my skin prickle.
Lorenzo sits there, clutching both objects in his grasp, his eyes fixed to me so intently I can feel his gaze burrowing through me, crawling under my flushed skin.
“You’re making him walk?” I ask.
“He lives nearby. It’s not an inconvenience.”
“Oh.”
That’s all I say. Oh.
This is starting to feel awkward.
He’s still staring at me.
“What? You look like there’s something you want to say.”
“There’s a lot I want to say. Just debating how much to keep to myself.”
“Oh.”
Again, that’s all I say. Oh.
Wow, he sure brings out the eloquence in me, doesn’t he?
I just stand there, eating the orange, not sure what else to do. It’s sweet, really juicy, and I can tell it’s fresh.
Lorenzo waits until I finish before shoving off of the car and approaching me on the sidewalk. I stand still, sucking the juice off of my fingers, as he pauses in front of me, standing toe-to-toe.
“Did you enjoy that?” he asks, his voice low.
“The orange?”
“Stealing from me again,” he clarifies. “Did it give you a thrill taking what wasn’t yours?”
His question makes my heart pick up pace. “Well, the orange was delicious.”
He doesn’t react to that. After a moment, he pulls an envelope from his coat. “Your payment.”
My fingertips barely graze the thing before he yanks it back away.
“A thousand dollars,” he says.
“You’re paying me a thousand dollars?”
“No,” he says, handing the envelope to me, this time letting me grab it. “That’s how much you’re paying me for that orange you just ate.”
“Wait, seriously? An orange costs like a dollar at the store.”
“Well, then, you should’ve gotten one from the store instead of helping yourself to mine, huh?” He takes a step back, tossing his keys at me. “You’re driving.”
I try to catch them but miss, the keys clattering to the sidewalk. As I pick them up, Lorenzo climbs into the passenger seat to wait for me.
This is a terrible idea.
The worst, really.
“In the interest of full disclosure,” I say as I climb behind the wheel. “I don’t have a driver’s license.”
“Have you ever driven before?”
“Yes, but…”
Lorenzo waves me off, silencing me with the flick of his wrist, before saying, “I’m sure you can handle it.”
Sighing, I start the car, hesitating again. “Out of curiosity, on a scale of one-to-ten, how much are you going to want to kill me if I hit something?”
“Just drive the damn car, Scarlet.”
Putting it in gear, I pull away from the curb. It’s not far, from Greenpoint to Lorenzo’s house, but it’s a long enough drive to have me on edge, wound tight by the time I’m parked safely in his driveway.
“For the record, I wouldn’t kill you for crashing my car,” he says, leaning closer to whisper, “I’d just bill you instead.”
Lorenzo goes inside, leaving his phone lying there, not bothering to take the car key back. I sit there for a moment, staring at the steering wheel, before grabbing my envelope, tearing it open.