“It’s okay, I expected that,” I said calmly. “Just sit tight, we’ll be out of here in a minute.”
I got out of the car, locking the doors.
Went through some motions, with peripheral vision working like sonar.
Raised the hood.
Scanned the garage.
Looked at my watch while pretending to look at the engine.
Ten oh one. The shuttle took off in six minutes.
Got down on the garage floor. Pretended to look under the car. Palmed the key to my room and slipped it behind the front bumper.
Scanned the garage from there. With my back to the wall, I could see everything under the wheels of fifty automobiles.
Two pairs of feet…two men, coming my way.
I came up slowly, an Oscar-winning performance. It was a fat man with dark hair, flanked by a young, muscular guy in jeans. The fat man wore a business suit and waddled my way with an air of sweet benevolence.
I slammed the hood and wondered why I wasn’t surprised when they came to the car in the slot next to mine.
“Hey, buddy,” the fat man said. “You know how to get to Queen Anne Hill?”
“I think it’s on the west side, just north of town. I’m a stranger here myself.”
He looked at me over the roof of his car. “Got trouble?”
“Yeah. Damn thing won’t start.”
“I’ll have the guy downstairs call you a tow truck if you want.”
“Won’t do much good. I’m in kind of a hurry.”
“Might be something simple. Bobby here’s good with cars. Why don’t you just let him take a peek under your hood?”
“That can’t cost me much.”
I raised the hood and the three of us crowded into the space between the car and the wall. Here they were, close enough to kiss. I could see a fresh scrape on the fat man’s neck where he’d cut himself shaving. The meat quivered around his ears like vanilla pudding. The kid was carrying his right hand in a fetal position, curled inward toward his belt. He was cradling a roll of quarters, I thought—almost as effective as a set of brass knucks if he got his weight behind it.
Here I am, I thought, take your best shot. When the kid moved, I took a fast step to one side. His closed fist smacked against the car, the roll broke open, and the coins clattered across the floor. I hit him a hard right to the jaw and he went down like a sack of laundry. I could sense the fat man groping for something under his coat, but I was faster and I had the same thing under mine. I whirled around and kneed him in the groin. I punched his wind out, and the next time he blinked I had my gun in his jowls, half-buried in fat.
He was breathing hard through his nose, his eyes wide with fear and surprise. I slapped him across the mouth and spun him around, slamming him against the wall. I took a .38 snub-nose out of his belt and put it in mine. The kid was still cold. I knelt down, frisked him, and got another gun for my arsenal.
I manhandled the fat man back around the car. “Where’s Pruitt?”
“I don’t know any Pruitt.”
I grabbed his necktie and jerked him silly. He tried to roll away: I hammered him under the ribs and he doubled over, wheezing at the floor. I grabbed his hair and smashed his head hard against the car, got down there with him between the cars, and said, through gritted teeth, “You wanna die in this garage, fat man? You wanna die right now, here on this floor?” I had the gun jammed between his jawbone and his eardrum, and I had his attention.
He rolled his eyes down the ramp, into the spiraling darkness.
“That’s better. Lie to me again and you’re dog food. Tell me now, are there any more rats down there with him?”
He shook his head none.
“Gimme your keys.”
