“Baby, don’t waste time on him. Look at him—probably doesn’t even recognize our hood ornament.”
“Guys like him, running rides at night, wouldn’t know the name Tony Moretti—the Midwest kingpin.”
I narrowed my eyes, smiling coldly.
“You won’t let me call the cops… Could it be you were drunk driving—and already killed someone tonight?”
My words struck home. Tony snapped, shoving me hard.
“Whether I drank or not is none of your damn business. Call your insurance and pay up. If you keep yapping, I’ll make sure you can’t survive in Chicago.”
I’d spent years dealing with the dead. I’d never even heard of this so-called Tony Moretti.
If I weren’t pressed for time, I’d have shown him what a psychopomp could really do.
“I don’t care if you’re Tony, Vince, or whoever. I don’t give a damn.”
“I’ve still got a passenger. Move your car.”
The bystanders watching the commotion gasped.
“Holy shit, this kid’s got balls—he hit Tony Moretti’s car and dares to talk back?”
“Tony runs half the Midwest crime districts. Even the cops don’t mess with him after midnight.”
“Poor bastard. Wrong car to hit. Even if he doesn’t die tonight, he’ll be skinned alive.”
As the whispers grew louder, Tony’s grin widened.
“Kid, if you want to run, at least make up a better excuse. What passenger? There’s no one in your back seat.”
But I noticed the spirit’s aura flaring redder. If I stalled any longer, she’d lose control.
“Tony Moretti, right?”
“If you value your life, you’ll kneel at my rear bumper and knock your head to the ground forty-nine times—or else…”
“Or else what, punk?” Tony rolled up his sleeves and charged at me, reeking of booze.
“Dodge again, I’ll kill you!”
I didn’t strike back—I only slipped out of reach. Not because I feared him, but because of my father Gabriel Hale’s warning when I first entered the trade:
“As a ferryman, you guide souls. Never entangle yourself in mortal grudges.”
A psychopomp never raises a hand against the living lightly. If we do, the result is always fatal.
Vince Moretti, Tony’s lackey, lunged at me with wild swings. Every punch missed, only enraging him further.
“You bastard, still dodging? Fine! You just wait.”
He pulled out his phone right in front of me.
“18th Street, Chicago—bring the boys and the hardware. Now!”
Meanwhile, some sympathetic drivers dragged me aside.
“Kid, you’d better run. Once his men arrive, you won’t walk away.”