“Talk about what?”
“A private club. For kinky stuff.”
“Is it part of the strip clubs?” Cassidy asked, wondering if maybe the upstairs rooms had a private membership option.
The waitress shook her head. A look of anguish passed over her petite features. “I’m not supposed to know about it. If Saxon found out . . . ”
“I have to find my friend,” Cassidy said, her voice catching, “before he hurts her.” Cassidy shuddered, imagining what Izzy might be experiencing this very moment.
“All right,” the waitress said, pressing her eyes shut for an instant, as if gathering courage. “Tony sometimes takes me home,” she said, her eyes focused on her hands again. “I live south of Portola. But one time, Tony got a call, some kind of emergency but I don’t know what it was. He turned off in Bayview and he made me wait outside this big building. He was only gone for five minutes but I swear I heard something from inside the windows.”
Cassidy’s skin prickled. “Do you remember where this place is?”
She shook her head. “But we passed a coffee roaster,” the waitress said. “I used to live near one, so I know the smell.”
“Do you remember what the building looked like?” Cassidy asked, holding her breath. This was it.
She shrugged. “It was dark. It was just a gray metal building with one of those big doors. But it had these windows on the second story. A row of them close together. But that’s it. That’s all I remember.”
The woman disappeared into the stall. Cassidy exited the restroom and bee-lined for the door. Halfway down the hallway, a burly man in a tight black t-shirt approached—Cassidy knew in an instant that he had to be Tony. Her heart tapping into her throat, she forced herself not to run past him, each step feeling agonizingly slow, as if she’d slipped into a different dimension. Fear crowded all the way up to her throat so that the walls felt off-kilter by the time she passed. She resisted the urge to look back while her ears waited for him to call out.
Adrenaline fizzled in her veins as she wove back through the crowd, thankful that the show kept everyone focused. Hurrying past the black curtain and ignoring the woman’s “see you next time,” she dropped the sunglasses on the kid’s table. “No refunds,” he said but she was already halfway to the corner, unknotting her t-shirt and pulling the elastic out of her hair.
Even in the diffuse light from the overhead lamps, she could see that Dutch’s condition had deteriorated.
“Okay, change in plans,” she said. “You need a hospital. I’m calling 911.”
Dutch shook his head. “They’ll just think I’m . . . some wino,” he wheezed, his eyes taking in the dark alley and shadowy street.
“Did you see her?” he asked, his voice weak.
“No, but I think I know where she is,” she replied, thinking fast. She had to get Dutch to a hospital, but she needed to get to Izzy.
Don’t let her end up broken, like me, she begged.
“Can you drive?” she asked.
Dutch tried to push himself to standing but his face cracked with agony.
“Give me the keys,” she said. “I’ll drive you myself.”
“Ha!” he guffawed, then winced. “You ride?” he asked.
“No,” Cassidy replied, remembering the two times she’d ridden Quinn’s street bike—the same one that Pete had crashed. After bringing it home, he’d insisted she learn the basics, that it was fun, and it had been, in a thrilling but dangerous sort of way. But she’d only driven it around the block, not with a wounded, full-grown man on the back. “But I’m sure I can figure it out.”
“A little . . . thing like you is . . . no match for my bike.”
Cassidy knew this was most certainly true but ignored it and pulled out her phone. “I’ll stay with you until they come,” she said, hitting 9-1-1. “I’ll explain what happened,” she added.
Dutch’s wheezing sounded worse. “No,” he said. “Go.”
Cassidy shook her head. “I’m not leaving you.” Dutch tried to wave her off, but this only caused more coughing.
She dialed 911. The dispatcher asked her a series of questions, her tone flat and businesslike.
“Please hurry!” Cassidy said, giving the woman the cross street. “I think his lung is collapsing.”
“Do you need police assistance?” the dispatcher asked.
“No,” Cassidy said. “The fight’s over.”
“A unit is on the way,” the woman replied.
“Thank you,” Cassidy breathed.
After hanging up, she began to pace, meanwhile eyeing Dutch and his heavy breathing. She knew he was in pain but had nothing to offer him.
“Which side hurts worse?” she asked.
“Both,” he grunted.
“Does it help if you lay on one side?” she asked, remembering Pete doing this to sleep after the avalanche. It had seemed counter-intuitive to her, but laying on the same side as the break seemed to help. But Dutch most certainly had other injuries—maybe internal bleeding, she wasn’t sure.
“Better . . . if I sit up,” he managed.
“Okay,” she said, walking to the edge of the corner, hoping to see the approaching lights of an ambulance. How long had it been since she’d called? Wasn’t the average response time supposed to be under seven minutes?
Grimacing, Dutch leaned to one side and slid his hand into his front pocket, removing a set of keys. “Take the gun,” he said.
Cassidy felt the air whoosh out of her lungs. The keys shone bright in his meaty palm and his gaze, though pained, shone with determination.
Slowly, Cassidy reached out her hand. The keys felt heavy but she closed her fist around them, meeting his gaze with her own.
Then, she heard the sirens.
Twenty-Eight
The ambulance doors thumped shut, and Cassidy watched the medic trot to the front and climb into the rig. She watched the vehicle accelerate, its spinning red lights washing over the buildings and darkened streets. Through the back window of the ambulance, the bright light illuminated the second medic hovering over Dutch. She breathed a sigh of
