Pain Management

“It’s about Gem, ?comprende?”

“No,” I said, flatly, squaring up to face him. Glad to finally be getting it on.

“She didn’t ask us to do anything,” Flacco said, hands extended on either side of his face, palms out, as if ready to ward off a blow. “But we know how you and her . . . and . . . we’re with her, you see where I’m going?”

“Yeah. But I don’t even know how it is between me and Gem. So you shouldn’t be—”

“That’s not our business,” Gordo said, quickly.

“But you just told me—”

“Gem, she wouldn’t want nothing to happen to you. We don’t know what you’re doing. From what you say— what you say now—maybe she don’t know what you’re doing, either. Don’t matter to us. You know how it is with women. You don’t have to be with them for them to be with you.”

I didn’t say anything, listening to the quiet of the big garage, trying to decode what they were telling me.

“You know a guy . . . a cop, named Hong?” I asked them.

If anything, their faces went even flatter than usual. When neither of them said a word for a long minute, I tossed them a half-salute and walked out.

I made the first run just before eleven that night, driving the Corvette. Ann was standing in front of a vacant lot, about a third of the way down the block from the corner where some working girls were showing their stuff. Her location would make sense to the watcher that we hoped was on the set: close enough to the action, but not right in the middle of it. Just about right for a new girl who didn’t have a pimp with enough muscle to clear a prime spot for her.

She was wearing neon-lime hot pants, chunky stacked heels with ankle straps, and a not-up-to-the-job black halter top. Her hair was short, straight, and black. She looked luscious . . . but already too used to stay that way for much longer. Perfect.

She played it perfect, too. Let the Corvette cruise by the girls on the corner, then stepped out and waved like she was greeting a friend. I pulled over. She poked her head in the window.

“Any sign of him?” I asked her.

“Nothing.”

“Okay. Get in. If he is out there, let’s give him something to see.”

I brought her back about twenty minutes later. She jumped out quick, still trying to stuff her breasts back into the halter top as I left rubber pulling away.

At the corner, I passed the Camaro, Flacco behind the wheel. Making sure Ann wouldn’t be spending any time out there alone.

And by the time Flacco came back, I was ready with the pickup.

“Anything?” I asked, as soon as she climbed in.

“No. But he’s there.”

“How do you know?”

“I got the high-sign from one of the girls on the corner. He’s been around tonight. Collecting. I figure I’ve been doing so much business he hasn’t had a chance to move on me yet.”

“We’re going to do one more. You remember?”

“Yes,” she said impatiently. “Black Corvette, yellow Camaro, blue pickup—all done. Next up’s a rusty old Pontiac.”

“Good. Now, don’t be—”

“Just relax, B.B. I’m not getting in any strange cars.”

“And if he does make his move . . .”

“I just turn it over, and watch where he goes, if I can. I don’t try and follow him,” she recited, sighing deeply to show she didn’t need another rehearsal.

“Okay.”

“At least it’s easier to do it in a truck.” She chuckled.

“Ann . . .”

“Just stop it, all right? I’m fine. I know what I’m doing. He’s not going to do anything if I turn over the money.”

“And you think Kruger will really pay off? Tell me what he knows?”

“If you get it done? Sure. That’s his rep. He’s had it a long time. And he wants to keep it.”

I pulled over where she told me. Saw several other cars full of the same cargo. But this was no Lovers’ Lane; it was the checkout line in a sex supermarket, and I wasn’t worried about disturbos interrupting the action. Ann made herself comfortable on the front seat, her head in my lap. From the outside, it would look like the real thing.

“Are you going to do it?” she asked, softly.

“What? This isn’t a—”

“Not this,” she said harshly, giving my cock a squeeze. “Help me get the Ultracept.”

“I told you before. I don’t know if—”

“I don’t have much more time.”

“Then maybe you’d better go ahead without me.”

“Didn’t anything I showed you mean anything?”

“You’ve got me confused with one of the good guys,” I told her.

“No, I don’t. How does a hundred thousand dollars—in cash—sound to you?”

“Like nice words.”

“Not just words.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Never mind. Just take me back and let’s get this part done. Then we’ll . . . then you’ll see.”

I met Gordo where we’d arranged. Flacco and I changed places. I took the passenger seat of the ’Vette, he got behind the wheel of the pickup and moved off. Gordo drove me around to the back of the vacant lot, kept the peek while I pulled on a black hooded sweatshirt. I was already wearing black jersey pants, black running shoes, and black socks. A thin pair of black calfskin gloves covered my hands. I pulled a navy watch cap so low down on my head that only my eyes showed . . . then I slashed some light-eating black grease below them, and pulled the hood up. The Beretta went into my waistband, concealed by the sweatshirt. I fitted a heavy rubber wristband over the black leather slapjack, and I was ready.

Gordo looked me over, nodded approval, and vanished. He’d be close by, in case I had to exit fast.

I’d been over the waste ground a couple of times in daylight, and had a sense of where things were. I found a deep pool of pitch-black near a pile of rubble that was an open invitation to rats, and settled in.

From where I knelt, I could see the old Pontiac pull up. Watched Ann climb in. I knew I’d have some time to wait, so I concentrated on my breathing, letting the ground come up inside of me, settling my heartbeat, trying to become one with the rubble I was lurking in.

By the time I’d achieved that state, I knew we weren’t alone.

It took me a few minutes to focus him out of the shadows. Tall and slender, wearing a denim jacket with some kind of glitter design sewn along the sleeves, light-colored slacks that billowed around the knees, then narrowed to the top of shiny boots that looked like plastic alligator, at least from the thirty yards or so that separated us.

He wasn’t so much lurking as lounging, his stance as lame as his outfit. Whoever schooled him forgot to mention that predators don’t pose. There’s always bigger ones around. Or smarter ones.

He stuck something in his mouth and fired it up. From how long it took him to get it going, I figured it for a blunt. Pathetic little punk. Then I thought about the white knife, and let the ice come in.

All he did for the next fifteen minutes was watch the street, drag on his maryjane stogie, and fidget like a guy who thought he was going to get stood up. He was about as inconspicuous as a macaw on a glacier.