HID FROM OUR EYES and Hot Red-Headed Men II: The Redheadegeddon

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: It's back to the scene in HID FROM OUR EYES with Officer Kevin Flynn undercover. I gave you a piece from it last February. Here, he's finally meeting up with the drug dealer he's been trying to get to. Plus, of course, hot ginger men, because it's always a good day for hot ginger men!

Easy lifted his chin toward Kevin. “What's your story, kid?”

“I was studying at t' university, but my money ran out.”

 

Easy's stone face cracked a little with surprise. “You're really Irish. I thought it was just because of the hair.”

“Yeah.” Kevin rubbed at his red beard. “Because I wasn't enrolled anymore, my student visa expired, so I can't work legally. I need to make money, a lot of it, and this is somet'ing I'm good at.”

“Why'nt you just go home?”

“I can't.”

“Why not?”

“T'ats my business.” He had a reason, if he had to give it, but it was better to keep something hidden. A fake secret to distract from the real one.

“You a cop?”

 

Kevin laughed. “No. Are you?”

 

Easy pulled a slim box about the size of Brock's cigarette carton out of his back pocket. He flicked a button on the device and began tracing Kevin's outline with it, like a particularly attentive TSA agent. Lights on the front of the box began cascading as Easy reached his hip pocket. “You got a phone in there?”

 

Kevin fished it out. It was a dupe phone, filled with numbers that all led to the same three people at the HIDTA office.

“Turn it off.” Kevin did so. Easy took it and handed it to Brock. “Take this and go stand by the kids over there.”

 

The Little Leaguers were playing maybe two hundred yards from them. Brock glanced at Kevin, then nodded. As he walked away, Easy continued his sweep of Kevin's body. When the box failed to light up again, he grunted his satisfaction and turned it off. “The cops don't wear actual wires no more, like in TV shows. It's all wifi, nowadays.”

“Right.”

“I'll give you a unit of one hundred, on trial. I expect eight hundred back; that gives you a twenty per cent cut. If you can sell them for more'n a dime a pill, you keep the extra. If you can't get that much, I still get my cut. You gotta flush 'em down the john because the immigration guys are coming through the door, I still get my cut. Somebody knocks you over on the street and takes 'em--”

“You still get your cut. I got it.” Kevin took a drag. “Do you have a time limit?”

 

Easy paused for a moment. “Why'nt you try to impress me, kid?”

“I will.”

 

Easy looked for a moment as if he might smile. “Couple other rules. No selling to the blacks or the Latinos, they got their own people. Don't sample too much of the stock – the minute you look like you got a problem I'll cut you loose. Try not to sell to high schoolers – they're stupid enough to keep your number on their phones and next thing you know, the parents are giving you to the cops.”

“I'm doing just fine in bars so far.”

“Well, I guess that's natural for a Mick.”

 

Kevin smiled thinly. “How'll I get in touch wit' you?”

“I'll get in touch with you. If I'm satisfied with your work, I'll give you a burner. You'll use that for business from then on.”

“Right, then. The stock?”

“You get Frat Boy and follow me. Oh, and Irish?” Kevin turned to him, and this time Easy did smile. “If you get any ideas about ripping me off and skipping back home to Leprechaun Land, know this. You will be dead before you get a chance to check your bags.”

Tell me what you think of the dialect. Too much? I want to give the flavor of an Irish accent without veering into absurdity.