By Joshua Ryan
It wasn’t totally dark in there. The place reminded me of a parking garage or an auto shop. Lights were hanging from the ceiling, and not far from the spot where Dean parked you could see a little inside building blazing with light against the murky background. It was apparently some kind of office where we had to stop.
Dean unlimbered his big body and stood in front of the car. Another big guy came out of the office, carrying a cell phone in his hand. This guy also looked like a cop, but he was wearing a gray uniform. He was talking loud, and Dean talked loud to match him.
“Hey bro. How’s it goin.”
“How’s it goin, Hal.”
“Not so bad. I see you got somethin in there.” He peered at me in the back seat, chained under glass. Then he pulled out his phone. “Name?”
“Meres,” Dean said. “M-e-r-e-s. Here’s his shit.”
He handed a brown envelope to the man in gray, who opened it and checked its contents against whatever he saw on the phone.
