“Still enjoying yourself?”
They drove up 13th Street toward New York Avenue and stopped-why hadn’t he thought of it? — at the adult store.
“That’s why you didn’t want the driver.”
“They talk,” Larry said simply.
There was a CLOSED sign on the door, nothing visible inside. Larry knocked.
“We’re fucking closed.” The ponytail.
“Joseph sent me,” Larry said.
“Who?”
“John Brown,” Nick said. The one man he’d have to know.
The door opened a crack. “What the fuck do you want?”
“We came for the girl,” Larry said. “Come on, open. Quick. Before someone sees.” He pushed the door.
The man was holding the baseball bat, his eyes widening as he recognized Nick. “Who the fuck are you? Nobody said anything about the girl.”
“Where is she?” Larry said. “ Now.”
The man nodded toward the film cubicles in the back. “Nobody said nothing about this.”
“Nobody had to. Put the bat down. You look like an idiot.”
“Yeah, well, who the fuck are you? I gotta make a call.” He went toward the register counter.
“Just put it down,” Larry said, holding the gun. “And the bat.”
“Fuck,” the ponytail said, amazed. He dropped the bat, which clattered on the floor.
“I thought you said just in case,” Nick said.
“Just get her. Where?” he said to the man.
“In the back on the right.”
Nick stared at Larry, suddenly frightened, then moved quickly into the back. Dim, after the garish front room. Doors with light bulbs over them.
“Molly?”
He heard a pounding inside one of the cubicles. His eyes adjusted to the dark. At the end, a chair was propped against a door.
“Molly.” He threw the chair aside and pulled the door open. She was standing there cowering, holding her forearm. “You all right?”
She nodded, still stunned. Her face was blotchy, and she moaned when he took her in his arms, hugging her.
“It’s my wrist. I think it’s broken. He grabbed-Oh God, Nick. What’s happening?”
“Come on.”
He held her by the side and walked her out of the dark room.
“They’re coming back,” she said. “Who are they?”
“Later. Come on.”
She blinked when the light hit her eyes, dazzled by the slick covers full of flesh. “Where are we?” Then she saw Larry holding the gun and drew closer to Nick, clutching him.
“Get her to the car,” Larry said.
“Nobody told me about this,” the ponytail said.
“Shut up.”
“Fuck you.” He moved toward Molly.
Larry raised the gun. “Don’t. I mean it.”
The man stopped, glowering.
“Get in the car,” Larry said to her. “Quick.”
She looked at Nick, who nodded and opened the door.
“You don’t know what fucking trouble you’re buying,” the ponytail said.
“I always know what I’m buying,” Larry said. “Now you can use the phone.”
The man snorted and turned toward the counter. The blast caught Nick by surprise, making him jump, so loud it was still ringing in his ears as he watched the man fall onto the counter, then slump and slide off, with magazines slipping around him. When he hit the floor Nick heard his head crack. He stared at the blood. Like the war — blood coming out, quietly. He looked up at Larry, for a second expecting the other shot. But Larry was taking a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping the gun, then tossing it next to the man.
“He saw me,” he said simply.
Nick said nothing, lost in the stillness that follows a violent death. It had been that easy. No witnesses. A girl falling out the window. Barbara next, whoever else might be a threat. His father jerking under the pillows. No end to it, ever.
“Now get out of here,” Larry said. “You’ve got her. We’re quits.”
“I saw you too,” Nick said quietly.
“Then I’m in your hands again,” Larry said, matter-of-fact. “But we have a deal.” He wiped his hands. “Come on, Nick, we have to get out of here. You’ll see. It’ll be fine.” He moved toward the door.
“You’re going to get away with it.”
“Yes, I am. Come on.”
He lifted his hand to the door, his back to Nick, the familiar shoulders. No end to it. I won’t be his executioner. Not to Hoover, giving comfort to the enemy. But no end to it. He reached down and picked up the gun. Larry turned. Nick looked down at his hand, outstretched, the way it had been at the White House gate, unable to pull the trigger. Locked together in the tangle Larry had made.
“Nick. Leave it. They’ll-”
Nick fired, the sound splitting the room again. He saw Larry’s shocked face, his graceless stumble and fall to the floor.
“Nick.” A gasp, like a plea.
Nick wiped the gun, just as Larry had, and threw it toward the clerk. Then he went over, leaned down, and took the envelope out of Larry’s pocket. No scandal. Just a crime. Larry’s eyes were still open. “Don’t worry,” Nick said to the ground. “Your secret’s safe with me. That was the deal.”
A pounding on the door. “Nick!”
He slid out, not opening it wide enough for her to see, and he took her good arm, leading her away from the corner.
“Leave the car. If anyone asks-when they ask-just say he dropped us at the hotel. We didn’t see him after that.”
“The shots-”
“They’re both dead.”
“We can’t just leave.”
He turned to her. “We were never here, understand? Nobody will ever know.”
She nodded, frightened.
“Come on, we’ll pack and get you to a hospital.”
“Pack?”
“For New York. But first we’ll see about the wrist.”
“I’m all right.”
“No, you’re not. Besides, I have one more thing to do. Stay at the hospital until I get back. Don’t leave. You’ll be safe there.”
She looked at him. “One more thing,” she said dully.
“I have to see Hoover.”
She glanced at the envelope.
“No,” he said. “Only the others. They still know about us. Now I have to.”
“But not him.”
“No.” He tore the envelope into small pieces, then bent over and tossed them into a storm drain, where they would float, like a shirt, to the Potomac. “He’s not a spy anymore.”
“They’ll find out. What would he be doing there?”
