Observer notepads, old black leather bomber jacket, and, most of all, the police scanner and two-way radio.
"You police?" she drawled, a little confused about just who the hell Blondie was.
"A reporter. With the Observer," Brazil said, because he was not police anymore. West had made that clear.
Poison appraised him with dangerous flirtation. A reporter's money was as good as any, and now she knew the truth. Blondie wasn't a snitch.
He was the one writing those stories that had Punkin Head so cranky and out of control.
"What you trading, little boy?" she asked.
"Information." Brazil's heart was thudding hard.
"I'll pay for it."
Poison's eyes gleamed, her lips parting in an amused, gap-toothed smile. She slinked around to his side of the car, and leaned in his window. Her fragrance was cloying, like incense.
"What kind you want, little boy?" she asked.
Brazil was wary but intrigued. He'd never dealt with anything like this, and he imagined experienced, worldly men and their secret pleasures. He wondered if they were scared when they let someone like this in their car. Did they ever ask her name or want to know anything about her?
"What's been going on around here," he nervously went on.
"The murders. I've seen you around, in the area, I mean. For a while. Maybe you know something."
"Maybe I do. Maybe I don't," she said, trailing a finger down his shoulder.
West was driving fast, passing the same bad places Brazil had moments earlier. Hammer wasn't too far behind her, Cahoon riding shotgun, wide-eyed as he surveyed a reality far removed from his own.
"Will cost you fifty, little boy," Poison said to Brazil.
He didn't have that much in the bank, and wasn't about to let her know.
"Twenty-five," he negotiated, as if he did it all the time.
Poison backed up, appraising him and thinking about Punkin Head in its van, watching. It had yelled at her and slapped her around this morning. It had hurt her in places no one could see, because of what Blondie had put in the paper. Poison started feeling hateful about it, and made a decision that perhaps wasn't very wise, considering she and Punkin Head had already whacked one rich dude tonight, meeting their quota for the week, and cops were all around.
She seemed amused by something Brazil didn't know, and she pointed.
"See that corner there, little boy?" she said. That old apartment building? Nobody in it no more. Meet you back there, 'cause we can't be talking here. "
Poison stared into a dark alleyway across the street, where Punkin Head watched from inside its windowless van in dark shadows. It knew what she was up to, and was aroused by it, and in a mood to murder, since it was taking less and less time for it to cool down and get the tension again. Punkin Head felt an insatiable rage toward Blondie that was more exciting than sex. It couldn't wait to watch that fucking snitch soil his fancy jeans and beg on his knees before the almighty Punkin Head. It had never wanted to ruin anything more in its despicable, low, nasty, hate-filled life, and its excitement mounted unbearably.
West spotted Brazil's car up ahead. She saw the hooker walking off as Brazil drove to the corner and took a right. She saw the old, windowless van slide out of the dark alleyway, like an eel.
"Christ!" West panicked.
"Andy, no!"
She grabbed the radio and slammed down the accelerator, flipping on strobing lights.
"Seven hundred requesting backups!" she screamed on the air.
"Two hundred block West Trade. Now!"
vy Hammer heard the broadcast, too, and sped up.
"Shit," she said.
"What the hell's going on?" Cahoon was on red alert, in military mode, ready to take out the enemy.
"Don't know, but it's not good." She threw on her lights, whelping her siren as she passed people.
"You got an extra gun handy?" Cahoon asked.
He was in the Marines again, launching grenades at North Koreans, crawling through the blood of his buddies. Nobody went through that and came out the same. Nobody messed with Cahoon, because he knew something they didn't. There were worst things than dying, the fear of it being one of them. He unfastened his seatbelt.
Vft "Put that back on," Hammer told him as they flew.
West was trying to find a place to do a U-turn, and finally gave up.
She bumped and slammed over the concrete median, rubber squealing as she headed the other way. She had lost sight of Brazil, the hooker and the van. West was as frantic and frightened as she had ever been.
"Please God, help!" she fervently said.
"Oh please God!"
Brazil turned behind haunted ruins of graying old wood, and broken windows gaping ragged and black, where there was no sign of life. He stopped and sat in silence. He looked around, increasingly jumpy. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. He dug in a pocket of his jeans, and was taking an inventory of crumpled bills, when suddenly the young hooker filled his window, smoking a cigarette, holding a washcloth, and smiling in a way that increased Brazil's misgivings. It was the first time he'd noticed how crazed her eyes were, or maybe something was different now.
"Get out," she said, motioning to him.
"I see the money first."
Brazil opened his door and stepped out as an engine roared in from the rear. A dark, old van with no windows bumped toward them at a high rate of speed. Brazil was shocked. He scrambled back inside his BMW, throwing it into reverse. But it was too late. The van blocked him, and there was nothing ahead but a thicket and a deep gully. Trapped, Brazil watched the driver's door open. He took in the big, ugly shim with pumpkin-colored hair woven in cornrows close to its skull. It jumped out, its smile serpentine as it walked towards Brazil, a large-caliber pistol in one hand, the other rattling a can of spray paint.
"We got us a sweet one," Punkin Head said to Poison.
"Might have some fun. Teach him what we do with snitches."
"I'm not a snitch," Brazil let Punkin Head know.
"He's a reporter," Poison said.
"A reporter," it mocked, its anger raging out of control as memories of Black Widow stories unfurled and flashed and infuriated all over again.
Brazil's stories were the furthest thing from his mind as he thought fast. Poison laughed. She zipped open a switchblade.
"Get out of the car and give me the keys," Punkin Head moved closer to its prey, a. 45 caliber pistol pointed between Blondie's eyes.
"All right. All right. Please don't shoot." Brazil knew when to cooperate.
"We got us a beggar." Punkin Head made a harsh, horrid sound that was supposed to be a laugh.
"Please don't shoot," it mimicked.
"Let's cut him first." Poison waited outside the BMW's door, knife ready to carve this reporter boy where it hurt.
Brazil turned off the engine. He fumbled with the keys, dropping them to the floor. He groped for them as West squealed around the corner, turning behind the abandoned apartments. Gunshots exploded. BAM BAM and BAM-BAM. Her siren screamed and screamed as a gun fired four more times. Hammer turned in four seconds after West, hearing the gunshots, too, flipping on her siren, while backups closed in from all directions of the Queen City, the night a red-and-blue flashing war zone.
West had her gun drawn as she bolted out of her car. Hammer, her partner, was right behind West, pistol racked back and ready. The two women scanned the parked van with running engine. They took in the two bloody bodies not breathing near an open switchblade and a can of spray paint. They locked on Brazil clenching the borrowed. 380, as if his victims might hurt him, the gun jumping in his locked hands.
Cahoon walked closer to the crime scene, staring at the dead, and then all around at the lit-up skyline, where his building towered.
West went to Brazil. She carefully took the gun from him and enclosed it in a plastic evidence bag, along with spent cartridge cases.
"It's okay," she said to him.
He blinked, shivering, as his shocked eyes met hers.