Eighty-eight

The ten-minute wait for Brandon soon extends to thirty, my feet drum into the floor and I clench my phone in sweaty palms, waiting for a message to explain his lateness. Tree branches hang above me, providing relief from the heat but my underarm still perspires.

Curly hair’s card is still on the bench, the name written in Calligraphic letters at the top is David. After much contemplation, I snatch it and put it into my bag. I can rip it later.

A Google search of the name David whispered to me reveals nothing but an image of Brandon and a girl who looks less than five years old. Tapping on the link leads me to a site temporarily down, I hiss. Okay, this David guy is an unserious hustler. He will need to give me more than a name the almighty Google can not identify if he wants my help.

Brandon’s car, a black BMW, slows to a stop in front of me, I slide to the passenger side before he has the chance to get out, closing the door with more force than necessary.