Waverly pulled the hotel curtains back just far enough to get a sideways peek of the nightscape, saw nothing but the storm and a few errant headlights punching through it, and let them fall back. On the bed was Bristol’s money, being pushed around by Su-Moon’s index finger. Ten thousand dollars was a lot, more than Waverly made in six years. It made her palms sweat. “If Bristol isn’t out to kill us yet, he will be when he finds his little friends gone.”
Su-Moon looked up.
“We’ll split it evenly,” she said. “Five G’s apiece.”
Waverly shook her head.
“I don’t want it. It’s all yours.”
“What’s wrong? Are you afraid he’s going to call the cops?” She laughed. “Don’t worry, his reputation’s worth more than that.” She tapped a finger on the black book. “That’s his reputation, right there. That’s every bit of everything he is and ever will be.”
“That’s my point.”
“What’s your point?”
“He’ll kill to get it back,” Waverly said.
Su-Moon pushed the money and then looked up.
Her face was serious.
She scooped the bills up, stuffed ’em back in the envelope and stood up.
“Come on.”
“Where we going?”
“Out.”
“You mean down to the bar?”
“No, I mean out.”
“Outside? I’m just finally getting dry-”
They took a cab to Chinatown and pulled over two blocks short of Su-Moon’s apartment. Su-Moon paid the fare, then tore a ten-dollar bill in two, gave half to the driver and said, “Me and my friend are going to take a little walk. We’ll be back within a half hour. If you’re here when we get back, you get the other half.” The driver turned off the headlights and killed the engine.
“I’m already waiting,” he said.
The women stepped out.
The storm assaulted them.
They walked briskly, hugging the lee side of the street and taking as much refuge as they could. Inside Waverly’s left sweatpants pocket was Bristol’s black book. Su-Moon had the money in hers.
The streets were empty.
By the time they got to the corner Su-Moon’s pants were close to dropping off from the weight. She stopped long enough to tighten the drawstring as she studied the street.
No one was there, not a soul.
Su-Moon grabbed Waverly’s hand and pulled her into the street, on the opposite side of the massage parlor, which was closed.
Suddenly she stopped.
“My apartment lights are on,” she said.
Waverly looked.
The curtains were drawn.
Light came from behind them.
“Did you leave them on?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
Yes.
She was.
Positive.
“So what do we do?” Waverly said.
Su-Moon exhaled.
“We’ll walk past and see if we can see who’s inside,” she said.
They did.
They saw no movement.
They kept going and stopped at the end of the street.
When they looked back, the lights were off.
69
River dumped the car at the BNSF service lot a half-mile from his place and walked west through the pitch-black silhouettes of boxcars and gondolas. The gun was in his left hand, cold and wet. January followed two steps behind, saying nothing, hunkered against the rain.
The storm was dangerously wicked.
Wild arcs of lightning flashed low and mean.
His heart raced.
Someone was positioned to kill him.
Someone was waiting silently in a black recess with one thing and one thing only on his mind.
River could feel him.
He slowed from a brisk walk to a timid one, then stopped altogether and put his arms around January.
“Stay here,” he said.
“No.”
“Yes.”
He kissed her hard and headed into the darkness without looking back. The gun was slippery in his hand. His aim-if he got a chance to have one-might well be off, in fact would probably be.
Shoot again.
Fast.
A hundred yards away, that’s how far he was now.
Yeah.
That was it.
That was definitely it.
That’s how River would do it.
River got to the end boxcar, took a position under it on his stomach with the gun pointed outward and waited for an explosion of lightning. It didn’t take long. A wild electric jolt punched the nightscape.
Shapes lit up.
