American Monsters. Derek Landy

people.”

      “Don’t mind ambulance drivers, neither,” said the slob. “Paramedics and such. My brother was a paramedic.”

      “Is that so?” Byrd asked, sounding bored.

      “No,” said the slob. “He was a meth addict. I just tell people he was a paramedic because that’s an actual job and it’s a good one. Being a meth addict isn’t really a job.”

      Sutton nodded. “More of a vocation.” He showed the slob a photograph. “We’re looking for two people, this girl and a man, driving a black 1970 Dodge Charger.”

      Amber’s eyes widened.

      “Yep,” said the slob.

      “Have you seen them?” Byrd asked.

      Amber got ready to bolt for the Fire Exit door behind her.

      “Nope,” said the slob.

      Byrd folded her arms. “Would you tell us if you had?”

      “Well,” said the slob, “that depends now, doesn’t it?”

      “It does?” Byrd said.

      “On what?” Sutton asked.

      “On what you can do for me,” the slob answered.

      The agents looked at each other, then back at the slob.

      “I’m sorry,” Byrd said. “What?”

      “I know how these things work,” the slob informed them. “I scratch your back, you scratch mine.”

      Amber watched Sutton frown. “But yours is probably really hairy.”

      “Sir,” Byrd said, “that’s actually not how things work. We are Federal Agents in pursuit of two suspects in a string of murders. If we ask you for information, you are obligated to tell us what you know. That’s how things work.”

      The slob looked at her. “But I don’t know anything.”

      She sighed. “Okay. Fine. Thank you.”

      “But if I did …”

      Byrd pinched the bridge of her nose. “Yes?”