“I almost feel bad, you know?” She tossed a braid over her shoulder and cocked her head coquettishly. “Ah, who am I kidding? Robbing y’all’s going to be the most fun I’ve had all day.”
My first thought when she’d gotten into the car was that she was playing us, if only a little. But somewhere between foot rubs and stories about a crackerjack grandma I’d let even that mild suspicion drift to the back burner. I’d forgotten the lesson of Wendy and the stripper at Koschecka and gone with the conclusion that the ride and a free lunch were all that Fisher was after. Too bad deductions such as that came from thinking with my smug ass instead of my empty head. In my business, I’d made my living outthinking predators, and yet here I stood . . . taken down by a pregnant girl in braids. Trying to live the straight and narrow—I wanted to be better for my brother, but being better could get us both killed.
I could try to get her gun before she shot Michael or me, but I had serious doubts. Her peaches and cream complexion was high with bright color and the grip she had on her weapon was as practiced as that of any three-time loser. Her eyes met mine with the same lighthearted cheer she’d shown since we’d picked her up. There were no reservations, no guilt, but worst of all . . . there was no fear. She didn’t care that someone might leave the restaurant and see her or that someone could drive by and call the police. Being utterly amoral and completely fearless . . . There was no deadlier combination.
“What do you want?” I asked neutrally. “My wallet? Fine. Take it.” There was a little less than seventy dollars in there. She was welcome to it. Slowly and carefully, I pulled my wallet from my back pocket and tossed it at her feet. I could’ve tried for my gun hidden under my shirt, but what then? Shoot a pregnant girl? Granted, she was a sociopathic, thieving pregnant girl, but that wouldn’t make pulling the trigger any easier.
“I love men who share,” she purred, discarding the bag of food to one side. “Albert, sweetie, pick that up and hand it to me real careful like. I’m not quite as limber as I used to be.”
I didn’t need to see the questioning look Michael gave me to know what he was thinking. With one touch, just one, a thousand or so cells would suicide and the gun would fall. It could potentially work; she certainly wouldn’t be expecting it. But it wasn’t worth it, putting Michael through that, not over less than a hundred bucks. It just wasn’t worth it to me, and not to him either, whether he knew it or not. I gave him a minute shake of my head. “Do as she says, kiddo. Exactly as she says.”
For a moment it seemed as if he would protest, but he didn’t. He only nodded, walked forward to retrieve the wallet, and placed it in her free hand. “Good boy. Such a good boy,” she cooed before shooing him backward. “All right, scar face, now lift up your shirt.”
So much for the specialty makeup I’d swiped under bright drugstore lights, but that was the least of my concerns. Losing my wallet and the money in it was nothing. Losing what was under my shirt would have much more serious consequences for my brother and me.
“Why?” I asked bluntly.
“You’re a shady one, Bubba.” A pink tongue touched cat quick to her upper lip and she winked. “I know my kin when I see them. And people like us have secrets we don’t keep in our wallets. Now get that shirt up before I turn it red, hear?”
I heard. Giving in to the bitter inevitable, I pulled up my shirt to chest height and revealed the money belt around my waist. It was there that I kept every penny I hadn’t paid to Saul. There was nearly fifty thousand dollars along with all of my fake ID in that belt. I couldn’t keep it in the car. I’d stolen our transportation easily enough; there was no guarantee someone else might not do the same.
“Jackpot,” she breathed, eyes locked on my waist with naked avarice. “Baby needs a new pair of shoes. And it looks like he’s going to get them, a whole store’s worth.” Waggling the revolver, she ordered, “Fork it over. Now.”
There was only one way out of this that didn’t involve gunfire and blood, and it sucked. It sucked thoroughly, but I didn’t see a way around it—not one I was willing to involve Michael in at any rate. Gritting my teeth against a cold rush of anger, I released the buckle on the belt and held it out to her. Her gun unwavering, she took a step forward and snatched the thick strip of nylon out of the air as it swung back and forth. As she did so, I heard an excited barking. It was Blossom. She was riding in the back of a pickup with her front paws propped up on the tailgate in true time-honored country style. The truck pulled up not quite ten feet from us, stopping just behind Fisher. The pickup itself was a dusty reddish brown or brownish red; it was hard to tell. Either red with brown mud or vice versa, it was completely nondescript. And so was the guy behind the wheel.
Dirty blond hair under a baseball hat, denim jacket, and a two-day beard, he could’ve been any good old boy in a two-hundred-mile radius. The deer rifle pointed at my head was the only false note. Through the open window the man showed white teeth any Gulf shark would be proud of. He didn’t take good care of his truck, but he loved his teeth. Or he loved his meth and those were dentures. “You think good thoughts, fella.” Calling to Fisher, he added, “You ’bout ready, honey?”
Here was the boyfriend who had supposedly left a pregnant girl high and dry on a lonesome road. In reality he was her partner in crime, although I had the feeling she would wear the pants in any relationship. They might be maternity pants, but she was the boss. On that front I had no doubts.
“Coming, doll baby.” She hefted the money belt to feel the weight. Her eyes were brilliant with pleasure. “Boys, boys, you’ve been so good to me. Better than even Gramma Lilly.”
Gramma Lilly, my ass. Her lies had been consummate, her acting flawless. She’d put Meryl Streep out of business. There was no Lilly. But if there were, I would’ve hoped she didn’t have life insurance naming her grand-daughter as beneficiary. The old lady wouldn’t have been long for this world if that were the case. I remembered with perfect clarity how Fisher had pointed out the restaurant for its great food. That the gun-toting boyfriend would be meeting her here was only a bonus to the best barbecue in the tri-state area. Who knew how many times before they’d pulled a stunt like this. Who knew how many people out there were as stupid as I was.
“Yeah, it’s been our pleasure,” I said with tight-lipped venom.
“Now don’t be that way.” She backed toward the truck and punctuated the remark with the cocking of the revolver. It was unnecessary. The damn thing was double action; she could pull the trigger at any time, no preparation necessary. “I was sweet as pie to you. Told you some good stories, flirted with the boy. It was like a dinner and a show. You should be thanking me, not being all pissy.”
“Yeah,” I gritted as she began to back away. “I’m a real bastard.”
Her partner put his rifle down to open the door for her and take the belt from her hand. Then he opened his door and stood within the opening to keep us covered while she climbed awkwardly into the passenger seat. When she had closed the door and settled in, she rested her arm out the window, cheek lying against shoulder, and watched us—just watched. I could see the thought swimming beneath the blue violet water of her eyes, a silver fish circling and circling.
To kill or not to kill?
It wasn’t Shakespeare, but it had a certain poetry that held my attention all the same. Her finger caressed the trigger as a dreamy smile curved her lips. She’d reapplied her lip gloss at the table after finishing her pie and ice cream. I’d caught a whiff of the pink stuff as I watched the tube glide across her mouth. It had smelled like strawberries. Realistically, I was too far away to smell it now, but I did. I smelled it as strongly as if I stood in the middle of a field of berries ripe for picking, sweetly tart and warm from the summer sun. It’s strange what you think of when a bullet is seconds away from shattering your skull.