She pulls back, lips a thin line, and I realize she knows what I’m thinking. “Frank will find you if he wants to.”
She leaves me there, balls aching and stomach on fire. I know she’s right. But in the short run, keeping my identity under wraps is the one thing I got going for me.
V
The next day I call Dahlia from a clean pre-pay cell and we meet at a pub out on the edge of the Old Forest. I expect her to bring the pseudo, but that’s not how it’s going to work. Old Man Miller doesn’t know about me, and she wants to keep it that way. He’s so skittish with Frank on his way out of the slam he’ll never let a stranger near his boost. Once upon a time he’d have had his own people to do the work, but between Frank and the Crabs, his operation is down to two twigs in the wind. Apparently he’s been angling to just sell the pills and be quit of the whole mess, flee Newcastle before Frank returns. Dahlia insists she can cook the crystal herself, make them some real bullion, but he’s unconvinced.
She tells me I’ll start with one case of Sufa-dream only. I’m to make a batch overnight and get it back to her first thing so her old man can check it out. I’m not thrilled and tell her so. “I’m taking a chance every time we meet. I’m not gonna do this piecemeal.”
“He says I have to prove I can do it before he’ll give me the rest.”
“I’m surprised he’s willing to let you near this stuff, a lady in your condition.”
The look she gives me makes it clear what she thinks of her condition.
I insist Dahlia provide the red phosphorus and iodine too, but that stuff’s easy enough to get, and cheap. I don’t even have to explain I don’t want a chemical trail following me into the Flats. She delivers everything in the back of a stolen wagon. Next morning, I drop the jar of crystal in a locker at the bus livery, then wait to hear how good my work is.
Dahlia and I meet in the courtyard square, lunch time. Lots of citizens around. She’s pleased as Goldilocks with a bowl of perfect porridge, and brings us each a container of kung pao mutton to celebrate. “Dad’s alchemist says it’s super clean. He says we can step on it all day, it’ll spread like butter.”
“So you’re happy.”
“We’re gonna be end of the rainbow rich.” She chopsticks a chunk of meat into her mouth and bats her eyes at me. To add cream to the pudding, her blouse is unbuttoned almost to her waist. “What do you say I come along when you make the big batch, help you out?”
“I work alone.”
“How are you gonna cook that much crystal in two days?”
“I have my methods.”
“And you can’t use some help?” She leans forward so I can see all the way to the bottom of her golden valley. I figure she’s not nearly as interested in helping me as finding out where my lab is.
“Not gonna happen, Dahl.”
“What if I insist?”
“What if I walk away?”
“What if I tell Frank I’m carrying your baby?”
I gnaw mutton. Neither one of us would live through that confession and she knows it. She’s not worried about my fate, but self-preservation runs strong in her genes. She stands abruptly and drops her lunch on the cobblestones at my feet. Greasy sauce splashes across my shoes. She heads off across the square, ass hard as stone.
“Don’t dawdle, Dahl,” I call after her. “The wheels of justice are turning.”
VI
I’m not troubled by the idea that Dahlia is cooking up a double- cross. I know she won’t move against me until I deliver the finished meth-she can’t help but be jacked about the quality of my crystal and the bullion it’ll command. So the next day the transfer of the pseudo goes off without a hitch. I even pretend not to find her transmitter in the wheel well of the delivery truck. It’s easy enough to drop it down a storm drain as I drive away.
A few hours later, I get wind of a couple of Dahlia’s trolls prowling the Flats looking for me. Guess they figured out I don’t live in the sewer, so they’re dropping green and asking for a name, a location, anything they can get on me. I take the news in stride. They’re not alone. Frank’s shark is working double-time, and word is already out on the street about the dwarf who picked up his girl at the High Tail. That hurts, to be honest. Five-four is hardly a dwarf. I leave my pre-pay cell turned off on the theory she has enough juice to arrange a track on the phone’s GPS. Even if she doesn’t, I know Frank does.
I don’t have time to chit-chat on the phone anyway. The delivery Dahlia is expecting is a big one. The arrangements make for a busy couple of days, but that’s good. Before I know it, the truck is packed with the goods and all I have to do is get ready for the meet. It’s supposed to be a three-way exchange: me, Dahlia, and her buyer. I’m to call a number an hour beforehand with the location, enough time for Dahlia and her guy to get there but not enough time to arrange anything untoward. Even with that precaution, it’s a bad set up for me. But what Dahlia doesn’t know is I don’t care about the money. From where I sit, it’s long odds the meet will even occur.
I stop by the High Tail a little after noon. A risk, but it’s too early for Biff, and no one else would think to look for me there. I’ve got my eye out for a particular guy, a big-eared street gnome I know from around the Flats. Good source of poop, and not too expensive. He’s sitting at the rail, a pint of piss-yellow ale in each paw. Only one listless nymph works the pole.
“What do you hear?” I say. The I.D. of Dahlia’s buyer would be nice, but I don’t expect that. Mostly I just want a sense of the street.
“You hear about Frank?” he says without taking his eyes off the g-string three feet from the end of his nose.
“His conviction was formally vacated yesterday afternoon. They’re supposed to let him out today.”
“Bet you’re glad it’s a long drive down from Little Liver.”
“You could say that.”
He grins and quaffs ale. “He arrived back in Newcastle this morning.” The place is only a quarter full, and even though the mopes around us all seem to be concentrating on the nipples on stage, I still feel like I got Argus eyes staring at my back. I’d hoped for one more day.
“Thanks. What do I owe you?”
“You live to see next week, you can buy me a steak.”
I walk down to my garage. Another risk, but one I’ve calculated. I can see from half a block away that the padlock is on the ground. I lower my head and turn, head back the way I came. In that instant, lead hits into the wall beside me, right about where my head would be if I was of average height. I break into a run without looking to see who’s shooting. I hear more gunfire, pretty damned brazen in broad daylight, but it’s not like Felony Flats sports a neighborhood watch. As I move, I pull out my cell and thumb the power. I’m not worried about GPS now, and in any case once I make my call I won’t need the phone any more.
I turn at the next corner and run flat out. A bullet tears through my jacket under my arm as I lift the phone and press the only speed dial number I have programmed, a number Dahlia wouldn’t be happy to know I’m calling. I zig left into the street in front of a taxi, horn blaring. I hear footsteps behind me as the phone rings in my ear.
“I’m hot,” I huff when the call connects.
“Where?”
“West pickup, and make it now.”
I drop the phone as I turn into an alley mid-block. Two hundred feet, straight shot. Dangerous, but necessary. One of my pursuers yells, “Where you think you’re going, munchkin!” The voice echoes against brick. My hands are starting to shake.
