to have nice buns, too. Polk was pleased as punch. Her face wasn’t much, though, he decided, a little too rough, nose too long and bent, and her lips too thin. What the hell, he reminded himself, they all looked the same in the dark.
Still grinning, he tugged the Jacquins out of his pocket, broke the seal with a twist, and took a warming mouthful of the burning syrup. Licking his lips, he glanced quickly around as he replaced the cap and stowed the bottle once more out of sight. There was no one looking in his direction except the town tramp, Mr. Pockets, who was looking up from a trash can he’d been picking though. He favored Polk with a faint smile and went back to his explorations. Polk ignored him, still smiling, feeling very good.
Polk’s smile froze into a mask of semicurious delight. It occurred to him that if he leaned over until his forehead was pressed against the frame of the closed door, he could probably see down Melanie’s shirt. Hmm. His tongue searched for more of the brandy residue on his lips, and, once again checking the street, he eased himself forward. The cold metal of the door frame felt nice against his forehead, and as he shifted and squirmed for just the right angle, he could see the top inch of cleavage, caught in shadows cast by the vest and the folds of the shirt, but there sure as hell. Dotted with freckles, too, and Polk thought that was just the cat’s ass.
“Still going for the cheap shots, Jimmy?” a voice asked him.
Polk jerked erect and spun around, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest. A pickup truck that he hadn’t even heard drive up was idling five feet away. Vic Wingate leaned against the fender by the open door, arms folded across his chest, head cocked to one side, and a mean little smile on his face. Polk stared at him for a moment, flicked a guilty glance back at the quietly snoring Melanie White, then faced Vic again. He shrugged and walked over to Vic’s truck, lowering his voice. “My new partner.”
“No shit,” Vic said blandly. “You fuck her yet?”
“Shh! Christ, she’ll hear you!”
Vic chuckled. “Who cares? Ugly bitch anyway. Face like a stone wall.” He considered for a moment. “Nice jugs, though.”
Polk took an unconsciously covetous step to one side to block Vic’s view. “What’s going on, Vic? You want something?”
“Can’t a guy stop to say hi to one of his buddies?”
Polk made a face. “Yeah, right. You wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire, so don’t jerk me off, Vic. I’m on the clock here, so what do you want?”
Unfolding his arms, Vic turned, reached into the truck, fished around on the floor of the passenger side, and then turned back. He had an old grease-stained rag in his hands and he handed it to Polk, who took it with a puzzled frown, then felt the weight and shape of it. Polk almost unwrapped it, but Vic touched his hand and shook his head. Instead, Polk felt the shape of it again, judging it by its thickness. He looked at Vic with a face like an expectant schoolboy’s. “This is…”
“Yeah,” agreed Vic.
“But…wha….?”
Vic leaned close and spoke very quietly. “For services rendered.”
“For what? I don’t get it. I haven’t done anything for you since…”
“Let me put it another way. It’s for services
“About…?” Clouds formed slowly on Polk’s face and he stared through confusion for several minutes as traffic swept past the double-parked truck. Vic let him work it out. Finally, Polk’s face cleared of doubt and a mask of shock formed instead; his eyes grew very wide. He could actually feel his knees starting to tremble.
“Don’t even fuck around, Vic—”
“It’s no joke, Jimmy. You’ve known all along it was gonna start someday.”
“Oh, come on! That’s just crazy shit. It was a joke. Stuff we talked about when we got high back in school.” Polk was shaking his head back and forth.
“Jimmy…” Vic said softly, coaxing. “Don’t let’s play games. You know what we were talking about, and what it meant. Don’t play like it was all LSD trips. You know, man, you
Polk looked at him for a minute, still shaking his head. He could feel a burning in the corners of his eyes and a tingling in his nose and realized with horror that he was about to cry. He made a face and started to turn away. “This is bullshit, Vic—”
Vic’s hand caught his shoulder in a grip so fast and hard that Polk was jerked back around to face the mechanic. The wrapped bundle of money fell to the ground. “Don’t you fucking walk away from me, Jimmy.” He leaned close and his voice was a whisper as cold and hard as the edge of a new razor blade. Polk didn’t want to look into Vic’s eyes, but they bored into him, the intensity compelling and unmanning at the same time. Polk was terrified, but he was trapped, too.
“You took money from me before, Jimmy. Hell, you took money from
Polk caught his balance and quickly looked up and down the street to see if anyone had seen him get roughed up. His partner was still asleep in the front seat of their cruiser, and no one but the old tramp Mr. Pockets had seen anything. The hobo stared at him for a moment and then continued rooting in the trash.
“Now,” Vic said softly, “pick up that money.” His eyes were hard as fists.
Polk didn’t even try to stare him down; his eyes dropped and he bent over and picked up the bundle wrapped in the greasy rag.
Vic nodded his approval, and then suddenly smiled. “It’s gonna start happening soon. That’s your starting salary, man. It’s an advance, and there’s a shitload more where that came from. I’ll call you to tell you how to earn enough of it to let you buy all the broads and scotch whiskey in the world. I’ll call you soon.” He paused and pointed a hard finger at Polk’s face. “You be ready.”
With that, Vic turned and climbed back into his truck. He slammed the door, put it in gear, fought his way aggressively through the evening traffic, and vanished around a corner. Polk stood and watched him go, his eyes still wide, his heart hammering in his chest, and his mind reeling with the implications. Melanie slept through it all, waking only when she heard and felt the trunk slam shut. She raised sleepy eyes and looked at Polk as he climbed in beside her.
“Something wrong?” she asked.
Polk dabbed at the sweat on his brow and upper lip. “No,” he said huskily. “I…uh, I suddenly don’t feel all that good.”
She shrugged, turned the key in the ignition, and eased the patrol car into the lane of traffic heading south.
“I gave her a sedative and she’ll sleep through,” Weinstock said as he settled into the bedside chair.
Crow nodded. About ten minutes after Val had snuck into his room, a tribe of nurses had come hustling in, scolding and clucking and scowling at Crow as if her elopement from her own room had somehow been his idea. They bundled her off to her room, shooting looks of disapproval over their shoulders as they went. A few minutes after that Saul Weinstock had come in.
“She tell you why she slipped out?”
Weinstock nodded. “Bad dreams. Who can blame her? I’m probably going to have my fair share of them tonight, too.”
“She only told me that she had a dream about that guy Ruger. No details.”
Weinstock sucked his teeth. “She said she saw Karl Ruger in her room. Oh, don’t look at me like that. With all that she’s been through I’d have been concerned for her sanity if she didn’t dream of that prick. But with the stuff we pumped her up with she’ll probably be dreaming of nothing more threatening than Santa Claus for the rest of the night.”
