Nikki opened her mouth, shut it again, shook her head. Was that a little smug smile on Baby Sister?s face?
* * *
Jack Sprat followed the Bentley west on I-10 to New Orleans. He kept well back, always just on the edge of losing her. Ortega had told him the first kill team had bought the farm, and he was damned if he and the missus would go in until he got some more information. The woman had killed six street-tough men. One tough Sheila. At least the men were assumed killed. Nobody had seen any sign of them. Who was this lady?
Louis Ortega had admitted he didn?t know, but considering the source of the contract, it should be assumed the woman was dangerous.
Even as Sprat followed Nikki, Mavis cased the house, finding out about alarms, trying to get a read on who else might be in there. When they went in, they were going to do it smart.
Sprat had always been careful. As a kid he?d been a runt. Picked on. Pushed around. He had to be smart. He used his brains because he had no brawn. He?d done a stretch for armed robbery, and brains had saved his hide in the clink. He was good at heights and climbing in through little windows. At five-foot-five he was still a short guy, but he was also a tight wad of sinewy muscle. His nose was flat from too many jailhouse fights. Knuckles swollen and scarred. His shaved head was hard as granite. But each fight had taught him something, how to move, when to duck, when to strike. And he could put a knife between your eyes from fifty paces.
No amount of muscle was better than his brain. He?s seen a lot of strong, tough guys go down for being stupid. Sprat was too smart to underestimate Nikki Enders. He knew strong, tough guys who?d underestimated women too. Men who?d underestimated Mavis had lost teeth.
Such a good old gal, Mavis. Maybe he?d take the money from this job and take her on a proper holiday.
26
The Cadillac needed two more tanks of gas before Oklahoma City finally swelled into view on the horizon. Mike Foley pulled into a convenience store, used the bathroom, and bought a bottle of orange Gatorade. He changed the tape and gauze under his eye patch. He looked up Louis Ortega in the phone book, scribbled down the address, but had to go to another convenience store to purchase a map of the city.
Mike realized he didn?t look right. Jeans, hiking boots, checkered short-sleeved shirt. Standard Okie ranch wear. When he?d been a hired gun back in the day, the right image was nearly as important as a clean pistol.
He took the first exit once he hit downtown, zigzagged the streets until he spotted a men?s clothing store. He parked, went inside.
All the other customers were black. The first suits he saw hanging on the rack were yellow, blue, red, and purple. But it didn?t take long to find what he wanted, a black suit. He found a white shirt and black wing tips in his size. Black socks. He picked out two ties. One solid black. The other black and red paisley. He took them up to the counter, told the salesclerk, ?I want to wear these out.?
?Got to pay for ?em first.?
?Okay.?
The clerk rang up the clothing, and Mike paid with his American Express.
?Changing room in back,? the clerk said.
Mike changed into the suit. It was a bit loose but not bad. The pant legs were short too, but not enough to worry about. He put on the paisley tie. He went back out to the clerk and asked how he looked.
?Like an undertaker,? the clerk said.
Perfect.
On the way out he saw a mannequin wearing a black pork pie hat with a yellow feather in the band. He took it from the mannequin?s head and plucked out the yellow feather. He returned to the counter and paid for it. It fit snugly on his head.
Back on the road, he headed for Ortega?s neighborhood. He felt good in the suit. He was starting to remember who he?d been.
