canvas bags with reinforced seams and heavy-duty zippers.
“Here’s your barkers,” he said.
“Dogs,” corrected Twinkle. He moved in closer. “Heroin is called ‘dog.’ ”
“Ahh,” said Shorty as if he understood. “Because you have to be barking-mad to use it?”
Twinkle was unamused. “You’re a lost cause. Always have been. Open the damn bags.”
Shorty turned his attention and his headlamp to the bags. They were each locked with a tiny padlock.
“Who, in their right mind, thinks these locks do any good?” he said. “I mean, really. You can get better ones out of a gumball machine.”
“Just open them,” Twinkle growled. “Save the commentary for your eulogy.”
Shorty pulled a pair of folding snips from his pants pocket and snipped off all four locks.
“Open them,” Twinkle ordered.
The first bag contained twenty vacuum-packed squares of white powder. The next two bags contained the same, but the fourth bag held money. Lots of it. One hundred dollar bills, crisp and smooth, bundled in packages of 50. If Shorty’s math was right, and it usually was, there were at least 120 bundles.
Shorty whistled. “That’s not pocket change.”
“I wasn’t expecting any money,” said Twinkle.
“Oh, good. Can I have it?”
Twinkle sneered. “You can’t use it where you’re going.”
Shorty sighed and zipped up the bags. Bigger men than Twinkle had threatened him in his time, but none rankled quite so much.
“So how you getting off?” he asked.
Twinkle nodded toward the large loading doors that ran along the side. “I sure as hell ain’t going all the way to Boston. Open the doors.”
“They’re locked.”
Twinkle lifted the gun and pointed it at Shorty’s crotch.
“I hear you only got one ball, Shorty. Want me to even you up?”
Grumbling to himself, Shorty slipped the snips back into his pocket and returned with a stubby screwdriver that held six different bits. With the flick of his thumb, he made the Torx head shoot out of the compact handle and lock in place. Shorty settled in front of the loading door and worked his magic. Within seconds, the doors were ready to be opened.
“What about the driver?” Shorty asked. “He’s bound to notice.”
Twinkle cut him off with a snort. “He’s gettin’ paid enough to ignore what’s in his mirrors.”
Shorty spun around. “So everybody’s in on this except me?”
Twinkle grinned. “Somebody had to be the fall guy.”
“Fuck!”
Twinkle brought the gun barrel close enough to caress Shorty’s cheek. “What you waitin’ for?”
Shorty heaved open the doors to bathe the compartment in blinding daylight. A hurricane rushed inside, ripping open the lids of unzipped suitcases and forcing the loose contents to take flight.
Twinkle screamed as a giant pair of old-lady bloomers leeched onto his face. Its breathable cotton crotch stuffed itself into his mouth and became lodged in his throat. When Twinkle finally yanked the choking garment free, Shorty’s clenched fist was closing in.
Shorty hit him with everything he had, sharp knuckles against soft cartilage, powered by arms, legs, feet, and toes. The punch was a beauty.
Twinkle grew two inches, his gun flying from his hand to the rear of the cabin as his nose was crushed against his cheek and his upper teeth pierced his upper lip. He flew backward, landing hard on the four black bags.
Before he could recover, Shorty was on him again. The second punch sent Twinkle’s nose to the other side of his face and the bones in his cheek went
“You were going to kill me, you son of a bitch!” Shorty scored another hit. “How the fuck do you like it?”
Twinkle cowered, his hands rising to cover his ruined face as snot, blood, and tears dripped from his chin.
Shorty wasn’t in the mood for mercy. He raised his fist again, but before he could land a fourth blow, a gunshot pinged off the wall just inches from his head.
Shorty spun to face the open doorway. A black motorbike and convertible sidecar bore down. His ex-girlfriend, LoLa, hung over the side. She fired again.
Shorty dove behind the avalanche of luggage as the second shot ricocheted around the cabin. Cursing his luck, he peered out and felt his heartbeat stutter. LoLa was looking good in tight black leather and a silver helmet with an iconic honeybee painted on its crown. That had always been his nickname for her when they shared an apartment in the Village. She had a singing voice as smooth as honey, but a temper that stung like…
Another bullet whizzed by his head.
“Your ass is grass now, Shorty,” Twinkle mumbled through a bloody mouth. “My sis knows how to hold a grudge.”
Shorty peeked from behind his wall of soft-sided cloth and cheap plastic. LoLa was closing in, her voluptuous pale bosom peeking from the unzipped V of the leather jacket as she strained against the sidecar to gain more reach. The muzzle of her.45 searched the interior for a kill.
LoLa had always possessed an unshakable will. Even when they wandered the country from sea to shining sea, LoLa working the clubs and bringing the house down while Shorty emptied the pockets of enraptured drunks, she was determined to be a star. Shorty always admired that, although he secretly wished she could just be happy with who she was: his passionate little honeybee.
Shorty yanked the lamp off his head and threw it into the darker recesses of the hold. As the headlamp flew through the air, LoLa fired another shot. The light exploded in midair.
Shorty rocked back on his heels. It was one hell of a shot, and Shorty hoped for his own sake it was more luck than skill.
He looked out again and their eyes met. LoLa was smiling behind a transparent visor, her teeth as white and perfect as he had paid for. She flicked her soft, pink tongue, proving she still knew how to use it.
Shorty automatically returned the smile, lost in remembrance of times past when they had adored every quarter-inch of each other. Then, he saw her driver. The man on the motorbike was a hairy monster with a full ginger beard and a grin that was a few kernels shy of a cob. Dressed in full leather biker gear, he must have stood at least five foot six in boots, and the sight churned Shorty’s stomach. LoLa had always liked them full-sized and the memory of catching her cheating ass writhing on top of the rent-to-own portable dishwasher was a sight he wanted burned from his brain.
LoLa shouted, “Give us the bags, Shorty.”
“Fuck you.”
LoLa laughed. “Not anymore. I’ve moved on.”
Shorty heard movement to his left and crawled over the luggage to get a better look. Twinkle had staggered to the open doors, his face a mess and his movements unsteady.
“Get the bags, Twinkle,” LoLa yelled. The motorbike kept perfect pace with the bus.
“I can’t,” Twinkle cried. “He busted me good.”
“Get the fucking bags, brother.”
“I can’t!” Twinkle moved closer to the edge. “I want off this damn bus.”
Shorty yelled: “Hey, Twinkle!”
Twinkle turned.
Shorty swung one of the heavy black bags in the air and let go. “Don’t forget your luggage.”
The bag hit Twinkle square in the chest, knocking him off balance. Twinkle screamed as he fell out the open doorway with the bag clutched in his arms.
LoLa’s driver swerved, but the sidecar still bore the brunt of the impact as Twinkle’s head slammed into the windshield and the bag he was holding burst open in a giant cloud of white powder.
With a fierce determination, the driver managed to maintain control even as the sidecar’s wheel crunched over Twinkle’s broken body. A windowless black van following behind didn’t even attempt to brake.
When the bike caught up to the bus again, its sidecar was dented and its windshield cracked. Streaks of blood dusted in powder flowed over LoLa’s leathers. Even her pretty silver helmet was webbed with gore.
