Now it was my turn to raise an eyebrow.
He shrugged. “We're rich. Rich people get kidnapped.”
“Hardly ever in Jersey,” I said. “Too much overhead. Hotel rooms and food bills. The payoff's better on extortion.”
His gaze dropped to my chest. “You ever do it with a sheik?”
“Excuse me?”
“You could get lucky today.”
“Yeah. And you could get shot. How old are you, anyway?”
He tipped his chin up an eighth of an inch. “Nineteen.”
My guess would be closer to fifteen, but hey, what do I know about Arabs? “You have luggage?”
“Two bags.”
I led the way to baggage, snagged his two pieces, and rolled them out of the building across the pick-?up lanes to the parking garage. When I had my charge settled into the backseat, I cruised off into gridlocked traffic.
After a couple minutes of creeping along Fahed was antsy. “What's the problem?”
“Too many cars,” I said. “Not enough road.”
“Well, do something.”
I glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “What did you have in mind?”
“I don't know. Just do something. Just go.”
“This isn't a helicopter. I can't just go.”
“Okay,” he said. “I've got an idea. How about we do this?”
“What?”
“This.”
I turned in my seat and looked at him. “What is this?”
He wagged his wonkie at me and smiled.
Great. A fifteen-?year-?old sex fiend, exhibitionist sheik.
“I can make it do tricks,” he said.
“Not in my car, you can't. Put it back in your pants, or I'll tell your father.”
“My father would be proud. Look at me . . . I'm hung like a horse.”
I pulled a knife out of my shoulder bag and flipped it open. “I can make you hung like a hamster.”
“American whore bitch.”
I rolled my eyes.
“This is intolerable,” he said. “I hate this traffic. And I hate this car. And I hate sitting here doing nothing.”