I looked to the door. What the fuck was taking them so long?
“What’s in the bag?” he asked.
“Why don’t you come see?”
“Nice try. Throw it over here.”
I grabbed the plastic handles and tossed it in his direction. He snatched it up and poured the contents out onto the ground, the dirt acting like a sieve, water running into the earth while a few last ice cubes stayed on the surface along with what I’d taken from Mota’s corpse.
Carew’s face bunched in puzzlement. “What have you brought me?”
“What does it look like?”
He bent down and picked it up. He held it to the light, licked his lips. “I don’t understand.”
“Consider it a gift.”
His dark eyes didn’t know what to make of that, but he couldn’t resist. He carried it to the far corner, set it on a shelf, and grabbed an empty jar with his now free hand. He raised the jar to his mouth and blew out the dust before setting it on the ground and reaching for a glass jug. He removed the stopper and did a sloppy job of pouring with one hand, formaldehyde splashing and spraying, a rotten pickling smell wafting through the room.
He dropped my “gift” into the jar and sealed it. “We’re more alike than I thought.”
“We’re nothing alike.”
A crooked grin. “Whose is it?”
I shook my head, no intention of answering.
“I can make you talk.” He stepped to the terrarium and lifted the lid.
No fucking way. I’d make him shoot me first.
He nabbed a snail, tossed it at my feet. “Eat.”
I picked up the snail, held it up to study it. “Franz made you eat one of these, didn’t he?”
“Franz.” He said the name like it was a bitter pill. “He pretended to like me, acted like he was happy to have a new brother. He brought me to the house a few times, introduced me to Ang. Then he invited me to a party at an abandoned house near his old school.”
I turned the shell in my fingers.
He shook his head to fling hair out of venomous eyes. “He told me it would get me high, like sniffing glue.” His voice choked on emotion, the gun trembling in his hand. “Then he took me upstairs an… and he kept me there.”
“But you made him pay.”
“Damn straight. First I took his weapon.” He aimed the lase-pistol at my crotch. “Then I took his life. He learned his lesson. Believe me, he learned his lesson. Now eat.”
Fuck that. I threw the snail out the window.
The air exploded with fire. I closed my eyes against the flash of heat, the spray of stone shrapnel and burned moss. I covered my head, lungs choking on smoke.
The smoke cleared and I straightened up, the warmth of hot stone at my back. He shook his head like he was disappointed in me before tossing another snail my way. “Eat.”
I reached for the snail, tossed it back at him. “No.”
He came at me, the gun trained on my head the whole time. He stepped straight up to me, pressed the lase-pistol’s barrel against my left eye like I’d once done to him. I felt wet snail pushing against my lips. I kept my mouth closed, lips pinched tight like steel doors against the pressure.
“Eat!”
No fucking way.
A voice sounded from somewhere outside. I felt the lase-pistol lift off my eye, the snail off my lips. He leaned toward the window.
I didn’t hesitate, arms reaching, feet centering underneath me. I had him around the hips, shoulder in his gut, knees extending, legs surging forward. The lase-pistol fired, a sizzling explosion somewhere behind me. I lifted him off the ground and threw him down with all the force I could.
He hit with a thump, a cloud of dirt dusting up. I kicked at the weapon in his hand and made contact with the toe of my shoe. The gun bounced free.
I lunged for the lase-pistol, reached for it with the wrong hand, reached with fingers that weren’t fucking there. I switched hands, but he was on me before I could grab hold, the two of us tumbling to the ground, roots jabbing into my shoulder and backbone.
He was on top of me, skin like slate, forked tongue flicking. He punched with his steel trap hand, my jaw taking a bricklike impact. My vision went hazy, my arms and legs weak. A blur of jagged steel came for my throat.
I couldn’t stop him, my reflexes soaked in molasses.
The room went bright with lase-fire, shouts all around. I saw double-vision uniforms. Heard garbled voices I couldn’t understand.
I closed my eyes and let sleep come on a draft of charred meat.
Twenty-nine
April 29, 2789
We faced the curtain of strung monitor teeth, light leaking out from Chicho’s office. We’d already chased out all the hookers from the lobby. The johns too.
“You ready?” whispered Maria.
I was. Chicho had to be tamed once and for all. Prick thought he could welsh on our deal? Thought a little case of buyer’s remorse entitled him to dump me for Mota? This asshole cut up Maria’s sister and set me up to die.
But the business wasn’t mine anymore. I put my hand on Maria’s shoulder. “You need to do this on your own.”
She turned her eyes on me, heavily inked lashes and painted lids, little worry lines in the corners.
“You’ll do fine. I’ll wait right here.”
“But-”
“Remember what he did to your sister.”
She nodded and erased the fear from her face, the lines becoming deep, angry cuts. She extended the telescoping steel baton in her hand.
“Be strong but stay under control. Never lose control.”
She tilted my way to give me a peck on the cheek. I leaned into the kiss, took a welcome shot of perfume up the nose.
She went through the curtain. I listened to the strands of teeth clacking and chattering. I heard him argue. Then a thump. Followed by more thumps. Apart from the yelps and whimpers, it sounded like somebody using a rug beater on a heavy rug. A dirty, filthy, mud-caked rug.
I found a seat and reclined into the cushions. Rug like that might take a while to clean.
Thirty
May 10–12, 2789
I watched the street, a woman sweeping her sidewalk, another pushing a squeaky-wheeled cart piled with fried dough. Signs of a waking city.
I waited on Maggie’s steps just like I had a couple weeks ago. She would come out soon. Almost time for work. I hadn’t tried to contact her until now. Keeping my distance seemed like the right thing to do. Let her take time to cool. Let her reason things through.
