“No.”
“Dammit, I fucking earned this, this is mine! I take half, at least I’m left with something!”
“You’ve already got something,” Parka Man said. “You’re still breathing.”
Brian fired.
The gunshot was so loud it made my whole head ring, and I saw the Parka Man stagger back, and I thought that was it. I turned my back to the wall, started to push off it, driving toward Brian, knowing I was next, knowing he wouldn’t wait, couldn’t afford to count.
I was looking right at Brian when the bullets hit him. He had started to turn, and the first shot hit him in the side and made him bend, and then the second hit his neck, and made him twirl and spray. I faltered, catching myself, scrambling to reverse my balance and momentum all at once, and I fell backward, into the wall again.
On the ground, Brian’s right arm twitched.
I covered my mouth, turned away, and Parka Man was back on his feet, one hand clapped to his chest. Through the black parka, I could see a fuzz of white. His mouth was moving, but I couldn’t hear him, the gunshots still playing in my ears.
Parka Man gestured at Brian with his gun, then at me, and I understood that nothing had changed, that he intended us to resume where we’d been interrupted.
I stepped over to the body. Brian had fallen on the backpack, and I had to roll him to free it. I couldn’t look at his face.
“We’ll try this again,” I heard the Parka Man say. His voice sounded strained, fighting pain. “Send it over here.”
I used the strap, tossed it toward him. It landed short about four feet, and the thud echoed on the stone.
Parka Man reached for the backpack, leaning forward and down, and it was clear just from his body language that I didn’t threaten him at all, that he was sure there was nothing I could do to him physically. I hated him for being right.
He knew something was wrong the moment he lifted the backpack, and I wondered if Brian hadn’t ruined it for me, if he hadn’t turned things so sour that Parka Man would lose his temper and send me bleeding to the floor, too. When he ran the zipper back, I could see the violence in the movement, the mounting suspicion. Once the backpack was open, he stared at the contents for a moment before turning it upside down and emptying it out. The sound of the paper hitting the dirt floor of that tunnel was like distant slaps, and it echoed like a blow against soft flesh.
Then he just stood there, staring down at the photos, the black-and-white promo shots, me and Click and Van, Tailhook triumphant together. I’d raided every press kit, filling the backpack to capacity, and the images slipped like a glossy puddle around his feet, reflecting the shadowy light.
“Is this supposed to be funny?” Parka Man asked me. “Is this supposed to be a joke?”
“I want my dad,” I said. “You don’t get shit until I get my dad.”
He dropped the backpack, brought the gun up in both hands. “You get your father
The shout made me wince, took a couple of seconds to echo away. The muscles in my chest were trembling, now, I felt like all of me would start to shake apart at any second.
Somehow, I said, “I want my dad. You don’t get shit until I see him, until I see him walking away from you.”
“Little Miriam, you’re about to become little dead Miriam.”
“You shoot me you get nothing, you did all of this for nothing.”
“Where’s my money?” he screamed.
“Somewhere else! Somewhere else, you kill me, you don’t get it!” I was screaming back at him, just as loud, and certainly far more hysterical. “Where’s my dad?”
He ran his thumb over the back of the gun, and there was a metal sound, clicking.
“Fucking kill you right here, little girl.”
I closed my mouth, willed myself to keep breathing.
“Then do it,” I told him. “Just do it and don’t waste my time anymore.”
The gun rose slightly, then settled on me again, and I saw the tension ride up his arms, saw his eyes readjust inside the hood, and I thought that this time he was going to go all the way. This time, I would die.
But he didn’t shoot. Instead, he said, “Your daddy’s just fine, Miriam. He’s just fine, I’ll let him go as soon as we’re done.”
“You’re going to kill him as soon as we’re done. You’re going to kill me, too. I’m not the sharpest fucking tool in the shop, but I’ve figured out that much. So you have to decide something, you have to make up your mind. You want the money or don’t you?”
“You’re so sure you’re a dead girl, why you willing to deal?”
The tremor was in my voice, and I hoped he bought it simply as fear, and not as something more. “Because it’s a million dollars, it’s cash, and with it you can go anywhere you want, wherever you want. I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care. I just want my father back. So we meet someplace, you pick where, but it’s in public, someplace you can’t shoot me, someplace you can’t shoot him. And when I see him, when I see my dad walking away, you get your money.”
He didn’t respond and the gun didn’t move, and I tried to get my breathing back under control, tried to slow it down, afraid I’d hyperventilate.
“You think I’m stupid?” he asked, finally. “You let this prick follow you, you think I should trust you?”
“I don’t know about Brian,” I said. “I didn’t know he was there, and I swear I don’t know how he found me, I don’t know why he was here. I’ve got you your money, like I promised, that’s all that matters. You can have it, but I want Tommy. Pick the place. I can have the money there in an hour, I swear to God. Anyplace you want, just in public, just bring my dad.”
“We play this your way, I’ve got cops coming out of my ass before the money’s in my hand.”
I shook my head, desperate for him to believe me. “No! No cops, God, I don’t care about the cops! This is about my dad and your money, that’s all this is about!”
Again, he went silent, and this time, I did, too. There was nothing more to say to him. I’d dropped the score in front of him, shown him the parts, and either he’d play or he wouldn’t, and I couldn’t press him anymore. But he was thinking about it. Trying to find a way to have his cake and eat it, too.
“Five o’clock,” he said, deciding. “Pioneer Courthouse Square, five o’clock. Be on the south side, the steps. I bring Tommy, you bring my money.”
I nodded, hardly able to speak, and he lowered the gun and turned, and went away, his steps floating back along the stone, hiding in the echoes of the water, mingling with the memory of crimps and blood money deals, old and new.
CHAPTER 38
I went to the Jeep first, still parked in Chapel’s garage, and got the Taylor out of the back. There were no cops as far as I could see, but it didn’t change the fact that I felt like I was being watched as I walked with the guitar case to the Starbucks on the corner of Morrison and Broadway, on the northwest corner of the Square.
Once inside, I got in line to get a cup of coffee. The shop was busy, with a mix of men and women, teens to fifties. The majority were high schoolers who’d come downtown to get an early start to their weekend; the rest professionals, out of offices a few minutes early, stocking up on caffeine before the commute home, or shoppers, ready to hit the boutiques in the nearby Pioneer Plaza.
Nobody was paying me any attention. I bumped one of the kids with my guitar, gently, playing at an accident, then offering an apology. The kid didn’t even look back at me.
Van never had this problem, she could draw eyes to her without effort, and hell if I knew how she did it. Now, here I was, finally wanting—needing—the world’s attention, and if I was on radar, it was as a soggy chick with an old guitar case.
