gleamed black as the armor of a carrion beetle scuttling away from the noonday sun, and lipstick as slick and dark as black roses kissed with dew.
She wore braces on her wrists and hands. They almost looked like some kind of medical braces. . but Jack knew that couldn’t be. That was crazy. Because these braces, whatever they were, were covered with black velvet and fringed with black lace.
The slender ivory fingers that escaped the braces ended in long nails polished as black as the inside of Satan’s own pocket.
Jack kept his eyes on those fingers as the woman walked toward the limo.
Because those fingers clutched a machine gun.
The woman didn’t move fast, but the way she moved was something to see. Sinuous, almost hypnotic.
Much too quickly, the barrel of the machine gun tapped sharply against the limo window.
Spike came awake at the sound. Frightened and wary, the dog whined, shivering against Jack’s outstretched hand.
Jack snapped out of his reverie and rolled down the window.
The woman said, “Give me the Chihuahua, and no one gets hurt.”
TWO
Jack lowered the limo window. “There are easier ways to get a dog, you know. You could always call the SPCA.”
The woman in black ignored the wisecrack. “You look kind of familiar. Didn’t you used to be somebody?”
“My name’s Jack Baddalach. I used to be the light-heavyweight champion of the world.”
“You don’t look like you’re exactly in fighting trim, Jack.”
Now it was Jack’s turn to ignore her. He set the Chihuahua on the seat and opened the door. ‘Take it slow” was all the woman said, and she kept the machine gun barrel aimed at Jack’s chest as he stepped from the limo.
The desert heat hit him all at once. Jack instantly missed the limo’s air-conditioned cocoon. As he closed the door, he glimpsed Spike burrowing under his leather coat. Jesus. Maybe the pooch knew something that its bodyguard didn’t. Jack hoped he wasn’t witnessing a display of canine precognition.
Sweat beaded on Jack’s forehead, but the heat didn’t seem to bother the woman. She stood there as cool as a tall glass of lemonade, watching his every move.
Jack took a final glance at the gas station before turning to meet the woman head on. He was hoping to catch sight of Pack O’ Weenies, but his view was obstructed by a rusted tire rack heaped with tangles of twisted metal. Whatever or whoever was behind the station would remain a mystery. At least for now.
Jack wondered what had happened to the driver. He wondered if the Modesty Blaise clone standing before him had already taken Pack O’ Weenies down. Or maybe she had some help. Maybe there were a couple others just like her behind the building. Maybe they were aiming machine guns at Pack right now. Maybe he was down on his knees with a gun barrel to the back of his neck, ready to feel the sizzle of hot lead through those pink weenies. Or maybe Pack was-
“The Chihuahua,” the woman insisted. “I don’t want to drag this out. Hand it over.”
“It’s not my Chihuahua.” Jack stepped toward the woman. “Spike belongs to a friend of mine. And the fact is that Spike’s a very sick puppy. He’s got lung cancer.”
“C’mon. Dogs don’t get lung cancer.”
“Yes they do. Canine lung cancer. It’s the number three killer of Chihuahuas. See, Chihuahuas have a very small lung capacity. Once they get it, it’s adios muchacho, PDQ.” Jack shot a thumb over his shoulder in Spike’s direction. “And the muchacho in question is about two syllables into
The woman’s upper lip jerked as if she were about to laugh. Then she cocked her head to one side, just the way a dog does when it doesn’t understand something. Jack stared at her sunglasses but couldn’t glimpse her eyes through the black carrion beetle lenses, and when his gaze returned to her lips they had clamped into place once more, transforming her mouth into a determined line the color of blood oranges.
“I still want the dog,” she said.
“All right.” Jack took another step toward her. “Maybe we can work something out. You got a wallet in those tight leather pants? Make me an offer. You’ll be wasting your money, but hey, that’s your problem, not mine-”
“That’s close enough.”
Jack took another step.
The machine gun jerked in her hands. “I said stop.”
This time Jack did as he was told. He kept his eyes on the machine gun and the braces she wore on her wrists. Braces covered with black velvet and lace.
“Turn around,” she said.
“Uh-uh.
“You’re not carrying, are you?”
“Carrying?”
“A gun.”
“Not the last time I looked.”
“Maybe I’d better look for you.”
As she one-handed the machine gun and reached for him with her left hand, her right wrist dipped under the weight of the weapon. The gun barrel dipped as well, and it didn’t rise for several seconds.
Yeah. The braces weren’t for show. There was something wrong with the woman’s wrists. She might look like an Amazon, but she had a weakness.
“Arms in the air, Baddalach.”
Jack raised his arms, and her left hand eased over chest and explored his lats.
It occurred to Jack that she was playing with him. Enjoying herself. He smiled at her. Shrugged. And she smiled back.
“Pretty good, Jack. Pretty firm. About a forty-four, huh? At least when you’ve sucked a lungful of air and you’re all flexed up.”
Jack didn’t say anything. Her hand drifted lower, to his waist, lingering just above his belt.
“Thirty-two,” Jack said.
“In your dreams, Baddalach. Thirty-six, at least.”
She was only touching him with one long finger now, and that finger dipped below his belt-line.
Jack took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
The woman laughed. Jack opened his eyes. In her free hand, the woman held his cellular phone.
“I guess you won’t be needing this, Jack.”
“C’mon.” Jack reached for the phone, but she pulled away.
“Hey. . you’re wasting your time here,” he said. “You should listen to me. I know what I’m talking about. You don’t want this Chihuahua. The poor little fella’s really sick.”
The woman shook her head. The machine gun weaved a little in her right hand, the barrel dipping from Jack’s belly to his knee.
Braces or no braces, the weight of the gun was getting to her. If he could catch her just right. She was about the same height, maybe just a hair taller. If he could knock the machine gun out of her hand by smacking her on the wrist, and then clip her on the jaw with his fist-
The cellular phone rang.
The woman in black looked at it, amused.
“You expecting a call, Jack?”
That question was the understatement of the century as far as Jack Baddalach was concerned, but he wasn’t up to answering it at the present moment.
Jack was busy doing something else. As the woman in black’s lips parted and she spoke the final word of her
