reverberated with the tromping of feet and shouting passengers.
I feigned a scream of pain. Horrified faces appeared through the tire smoke. I scanned them for the two grim ones. I saw one. Then it disappeared. I watched his brown shoes rush toward the back of the bus. I spun my body around like a break-dancer and pulled my knee up for a karate kick. The shoes stopped. One big-knuckled hand touched the pavement. I saw a gun with a silencer in the other; then the emotionless face angled over. I launched the kick as hard as I could, heel out.
I heard the satisfying crack of bone, teeth, and sunglasses, as blood spurted from his nose and mouth. Then his unconscious head smacked on the pavement. The gun lay in his limp hand. I scanned around me. More faces.
I caught sight of the second guy, midway up on the fruit-stand side. He saw me look at him and smiled, then disappeared. His black shoes headed for the back. My only thought was to get to the other guy’s gun. As I lunged for it, the shoulder of Pendelton’s big jacketsnagged on a piece of the bus frame. I tugged at it frantically, once, twice, a third time before it tore loose.
The black shoes stopped next to the rear tire. I dove for the gun, but someone picked it up. I looked back at my pursuer. Sunglasses, sideways smiling face. Gun with a silencer pointing at me, finger on the trigger.
Rolling out from under the bus, I sprang to my feet, looking for the shooter, and saw Ginny. Then through the throng I saw a male figure wearing a cap and a big coat rushing toward her in the midst of confused people and scattered fruit.
“Ginny!” I shouted.“He’s got a gun!”
She turned toward the sound of my voice and covered her face in terror. The man reached into his pocket. Then, as if in slow motion, I saw him press something into Ginny’s hand and rush off, disappearing into the milling crowd. Astonished, I dashed over and dragged her away.
We ran as fast as we could, zigzagging through the tangled streets until we were out of breath and certain that no one had followed.
Sweat pouring, we stopped in an alley and leaned side by side against a dirty brick building.
I took in the sight of Ginny—drenched hair, heaving chest. I wanted to hold her and smother her with kisses.
Ginny wiped perspiration off her face, leaving a bright red streak.
“Are you cut?” I asked desperately.
“I-I don’t think so. I . . . it’s . . .” She checked her hand carefully and licked the red liquid. “Cherry juice. You pushed me into a goddamn fruit stand, you asshole!”
“Yeah,” I said, breathing a big sigh of relief. “I did.”
She frowned at me. “Please tell me what the hell just happened.”
I did, although I refrained from admitting that I would have let thebus flatten me or taken a chestful of bullets if it would have kept her safe.
“So the third guy—the one who ran toward me—he shot that other one who was going to kill you?”
“He must have.”
“And you thought he was going to shoot me? You know how much you scared me?”
“Yes I do. Did you get a look at his face?”
She shook her head. “You think it was your friend Archie?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t tell. What did he put in your hand?”
“This,” Ginny said, handing me a crumpled business card.
I flattened it out. A phone number and the handwritten name Dracco.
The wail of police sirens several streets over made Ginny shudder. “Dracco?” she said. “Who the hell is Dracco?”
“I have no idea.”
Crammed into a telephone booth, Ginny standing on tiptoe next to me, leaning in to listen, I dialed the number. A gruff voice on the other end of the phone said,
“Dracco?” I asked.
Silence.
Nothing, then click. He’d hung up.
Ginny and I looked at each other, puzzled. I dialed again.
Same voice.
Click. I was starting to get mad. So was Ginny.
“Give me this,” she said, ripping the phone out of my hand. She jabbed in the number. The same voice answered,
