The Blonde

She was twenty-one, a blonde, a Chicago Polack with too good a face and figure to be in something like this.

        — NEWTON THORNBURG

1:56  a.m.

Little Pete’s

Kowalski’s cell rang. Someone dictated a number to him, and he scribbled the number on a Little Pete’s napkin. Added his PN, used his prepaid calling card, hit a pay phone, reached his handler. She spoke fast and furious. Things were moving.

So much for chitchat.

Anyway: Based on preliminary evidence from Professor Man-chette’s head—CI-6 thought it was best to have someone closer expedite the removal, the handler explained; like Kowalski fucking minded?—it was top priority to locate Kelly White and take her into custody.

“I’m on it.”

He’d planned ahead for this. He had the license plate sequence of the cab she’d taken from Philly International; he knew the cab company. A quick call, a bit of “Homeland Security” strong-arm stuff, and he’d have their drop-off location. That wasn’t a worry. What worried Kowalski was the bag between his feet.

“Hey—what about the, um, other head?”

“Store it somewhere safe for now.”

He wanted to ask his handler, Like where? Ask Little Pete if I can stick it in his deep freezer for a while? Right next to the hamburger patties and pork chops? Kowalski knew he was better off taking it with him. His experience with the tree house in Somerton had spooked him. The bag seemed to be in too much demand. The only risk was a cop stopping him, asking to see what was in the bag. But if it came to that, and Kowalski was unable to incapacitate the cop, he knew he had a safety net out there. It might mean some jail time, but not forever. Homeland Security had an infinite number of Get Out of Jail Free cards.

“Where’s your guy? The one who’s supposed to pick it up?”

“He’s unavailable.”

“Mad scientists usually busy at two in the morning?”

A pause.

“Discretion would serve you well.”

“Oh, I’m discreet. How could I not be? I don’t know a thing. Except that I’m the guy who’s stuck holding the bag. And I meant that literally as well as metaphorically.”

Another pause.

“Is that all?”

“I guess so. Unless you’re want to wish me luck.”

“Good-bye.”

“Bye …” he said, then silently mouthed her name. He felt dirty saying it.

1:57  a.m.

Security Office, Sheraton Hotel

When the phone rang, Charlie Vincent jolted. He had nodded off with a book in his lap. It was a small paperback sampler of Japanese manga his kid had given him, published by some company called Tokyopop. Charlie had been giving him money for these things for a few weeks now, and during weekend visits he’d steal glances at some of the art. Looked like Asian porn stuff he’d seen on the Skinternet, but his kid reassured him they were just stories—mystery, sci-fi, romance, comedy, fantasy, action. He gave Charlie the sampler to check out, and Charlie was confused as shit until his kid told him they were meant to be read back to front. Like that made any fucking sense. Charlie wondered if his kid was going to tell his mother about it, give her a good laugh.

Charlie put the book on his desk, picked up the phone. It was the front desk.

“We got a call about a domestic dispute in seven oh two. From the neighbor across the hall. Can you check it out?”

“Christ. What’s the name?”

“Jack Eisley. Like the Eisley brothers, I guess.”

Charlie paused, then decided he had to ask. “Is the guy black?”

“Does that matter?” asked the desk clerk, who was also black.

“C’mon. You know what I mean.”

“I’m looking…. Here’s his license. Nah, he’s a white dude from Illinois.”

“Okay. I’ll be right up.”

“One thing you should know.”

“What’s that?”

“I think we got a case of woman-on-man violence. Guy upstairs said it sounded like it was the dude who was getting beaten.”

Now that’s something different, he thought. “Okay, I’ll be gentle.”

Charlie hung up the phone and wondered if he was suddenly living in a backward world. Comic books you read in the opposite direction, women smacking around guys. What was next? His ex-wife being nice to him?

1:58  a.m.

Jack and Kelly lay on their backs on the carpet, joined at their wrists by Pleasure Chest handcuffs. Jack’s tongue was throbbing; Kelly was crying softly. Once again, Jack found himself in the strange position of feeling guilty about how he was treating his captor. Never mind that she’d head butted him in the face, cracked a rib, squeezed his chest, and bit his tongue nearly in half. He felt awful about kissing her. As if he’d tried to date-rape her.

“I don’t know why you’re crying.”

“You didn’t believe me. You lied, and listened to me like you believed me. But if you believed me, you wouldn’t have done that.”

Jack sat up and looked at her. Kelly moved her free hand up and placed it on his chest, almost as if she were expecting another kiss.

“Don’t worry—I’m not trying that again. There’s no need for a restraining order.”

She stared at him, through him. Her eyes were rimmed with tears, and her face was racked with exhaustion. Her lips trembled slightly.