Choice of Evil

much less do it.”

“All wrong,” Mama said.

“What?”

“All. . . timing, yes? All wrong, also. Your woman die. Not the only one, right?”

“Right. They just sprayed. . .”

“Yes. And then killer comes walking.”

“Right. That must have blown his fuse. Last-straw kind of thing, I don’t know.”

“I know,” Mama said.

“You know. . . what?”

“How many die?”

“I don’t know. A few dozen, at least. He’s been—”

“Not him. With your woman?”

“Just one other. The rest were wounded, but. . . Jesus. Mama, you saying it was a hit? And they just made it look like a fag-bashing?”

“Not. . . how you say, credit, right?”

“Right,” I said, thinking it through. Sure. What terrorist kills without bragging about it? And nobody had. So when this Homo Erectus started making his move, everybody thought they knew why, but, maybe. . .?

“So you think. . . maybe it was just a murder? And Crystal Beth died for camouflage? They knew who they wanted, but just covered it up? Like setting fire to a whole building full of people to kill one of them—the cops think it’s an arson, but it’s really a homicide. Sure, could be. But the only man I ever knew who worked like that was. . . ”

Mama looked at me. Into me. I got it then. That was his style. Almost his trademark. You paid him for a body, you got a body. If he had to make a whole bunch of bodies to cover his tracks, so what? I remember the first time the Prof had pulled my coat to the truth. Years after we’d all been released. “No man knows Wesley’s plan, brother. Nobody knows where he’s going. But everyone knows where he’s been.”

“Wesley’s dead,” I said to Mama.

She just shrugged.

The pay phone rang about an hour later. I picked it up, said, “What?”

“Didn’t the Chinese lady tell you I called?” Nadine’s voice, edged with irritation.

“She said someone who said they were my girlfriend called. Somehow, I didn’t think to make the connection.”

“I told you before,” she said softly. “You have to start telling the truth. I always do.”

“My platonic girlfriend, then, right? I guess they didn’t get the joke here.”

“What joke? Your nose is so open I can see your brains.”

“That’s what happens when you use those fake-color contact lenses, bitch. They really cloud your vision.”

“Keep playing, honey. It doesn’t change anything. I’ve got what you want.”

“Not a chance.”

“In fact,” she purred into the phone, “I’m holding it right now.”

“There’s guys who’d pay you three ninety-five a minute for that kind of crap—why you wasting it on me?”

“Oh, I’m not wasting anything. And I’m not playing with myself either. I was playing with this. . . . Listen!”

What I heard on the phone was the sound a sheaf of paper makes when you riffle it against your thumb.

“Where and when?” I asked her.

I almost didn’t recognize her when she first showed, striding along the sidewalk in front of the joint like a yuppie businesswoman going to an important meeting, a fitted dark suit with a white blouse over plain dark pumps and sheer stockings. Her hair was in a tight bun. And the requisite attache case was in her hand, a tasteful shade of blue.

I swung the Plymouth into place. She opened the door like it was a cab she had hailed, only she got in the front seat.

“Where’s your partner?” was the first thing out of her mouth.

“She’s working,” I told her.

“I thought you took her everywhere.”

“Not everywhere,” is all I said. Pansy had been sick all day. Some kind of flu, my best guess. Upset stomach, lethargic. I kept her warm, gave her some homeopathic stuff I got from a vet. She was running a little fever, but her appetite wasn’t that much off, so I wasn’t worried. But she needed her rest.

“I don’t know what kind of old heap this is,” Nadine said, “but at least it’s got plenty of legroom.” She demonstrated by crossing her legs. Her perfume smelled coppery—the way blood tastes in your mouth.

“You wouldn’t understand,” I said.

“Wouldn’t understand. . . what?”

“This ‘old heap,’ ” I replied.

“Oh Christ, you’re sensitive about that too? You love your dog, you love your car. You should be driving a pickup truck with a gun rack behind the cab.”

“If I was, in this city, you think people’d remember seeing it?”

“Well. . . sure.”

“You think anyone’s gonna remember seeing this?”

“I. . . Oh. I get it.”

“No, you don’t. But the kind of broad you are, you always think you do.”

We were just pulling onto the highway when she said: “What does that—?” But she lost her breath as I mashed the throttle and the reworked Mopar 440 fired a giant torque-burst down the driveline to the fat rear tires. The Plymouth rocketed past traffic like it was a multi-colored picket fence. I slid across three lanes and drifted it around the exit ramp, scrubbing off speed with a downshift, and merged smoothly into the Riverside Drive traffic. The Plymouth went back to purring, its stump-puller motor barely past idle. Quiet inside enough for me to hear her whisper “Jesus Christ!” when she got her breath back.

“This thing is purpose-built,” I told her. “For work, understand? Not for show.”

“I get the point.”

“Good. Let’s stop playing, all right?”

“I haven’t been playing. I was just—”

“Playing, gaming, teasing. . . I don’t care what you call it. You got this whole ‘I-never-lie’ routine you want to run, go for it. What you’re really good at is making judgments, little girl. Bad judgments.”

“Little girl? Take a look, mister,” she said, sucking in a deep breath so none of her subtlety would be lost on me.

“I’m not talking about your age. Just your experience. I’ve seen it all my life. You know stuff, but it doesn’t translate, understand?”

“No. No, I don’t.”

“When you’re a tourist, the natives all look slick to you.”

“Huh?”

“You know all about the. . . stuff you do. The roles you play, the language you use, the. . . props, whatever. You don’t know a damn thing about the only thing that’s happening where you and me are concerned.”

“And that is. . .?”

“Hunting.”

“I’m not trying to tell you your business. I was just—”

“—running your mouth,” I finished for her. “That’s the part you need to keep in neutral, all right? I don’t do word games. This isn’t about getting me to admit I want to fuck you, understand?”

“I—”

“That’s all you’ve been doing since I first laid eyes on you. What do you want that’s so important? You don’t need me to tell you you’re a fine-looking woman.”