What? I wasn't sure if Paul was talking to me or Leah.
Are you stalling? Leah asked. Or are you screwing with me? Because if so, we can end this right here…
No, Leah-I'm sorry, Paul said, feeling his (our) broken nose. You must have hit me harder than I thought.
Good, good. I felt my own nose in the Brain Hotel. It was hurting, too. I must have carried the pain back with my consciousness when we made the switch. Weird how some things linger with you.
Forget that for a second, Paul said. Let's get something straight, here and now.
What? Leah asked.
All I'm trying to do is stop you killing my client.
Your client? she screamed. You mean, the same client who sliced the shit out of you back in Illinois?
I froze. God in Heaven. Was Susannah Winston-or whoever the hell she was-Ray Loogan's accomplice? No, no. Brad identified his killers: Ray and his woman here, Leah Farrell. There was no reason for him to lie about it. Bringing his killers to justice was the only thing he lived for. Or sort of lived for. But why was Leah lying about it, then?
I don't know what you're talking about, Leah, Paul said, honestly.
I picked up the lobby microphone once again: “She's obviously confused you with Brad Larsen. She and Ray were sent to kill him."
Squinting, Leah slowly let the pistol drop to Paul's chest. You don't, do you?
My client's name is Susannah Winston. I was hired to protect her from a crazy ex-boyfriend. Then, out of the blue you and Loogan show up, shooting at us, and here we are, tangled in this crazy mess in my apartment hallway.
Leah looked doubtful again.
All I remember, Paul continued, is getting fished out of some muddy creek, taking a few months to recuperate, then swinging back into business for myself, as far away from Vegas as possible. I was running out of money, and needed some before I could even think about my next step. Life's changed a lot for me since the last time we spoke.
I'm sure, Leah said. Even looking at her through the view screen in the Brain Hotel lobby, I could see the wheels spinning in her head. So you don't even know… what is it? Susannah Weston?
Winston.
You're saying you don't know this “Susannah Winston's” real name, do you?
No, I don't. I've never met her before this job.
Leah smiled, then leaned back and eased up on the pistol. I half expected Paul to smack it out of her hands and punch her in the face, but he didn't. He eased back into a more comfortable position on the floor.
If you're not lying to me, Leah said, and knowing you as long as I have, I don't figure you to be a liar… we have the most cosmic case of fucking over I've ever seen.
What do you mean?
Obviously, we need to compare notes. Leah stood up, and brushed the wrinkles out of her pants. I think we need a change in venue. Is there a bar nearby?
Yes, on the northwest corner of 15th and Spruce.
After you.
Leah stuck her pistol beneath the flap of her purse-which contained nothing, I later learned, except a stiletto and extra clips-and kept it trained on Paul the entire way downstairs and across the street.
Thank God Brad Larsen was nowhere near the Brain Hotel lobby to catch this scene. Oh yeah, Brad? That was Paul-a former assassin who's in control of our collective body-going out to have a drink with the woman who knifed you to death. Only, we're not real sure; it might have been Paul's client who knifed you to death. That's why we're all headed out for a drink.
Unfortunately, the bar on the corner wasn't a quiet neighborhood dive. It was a bonafide chic Center City cafe, complete with Philadelphia Magazine review ($$$$!) plastered, lacquered and hung on every available piece of wall space. At least it was nearby. Paul and Leah took a booth near the back, away from most of the trendy diners eating their plates of bluefish and foie gras. Between Paul's obviously broken nose and Leah's fresh cheekbone shiner, they didn't need any additional attention. She ordered for both of them-oversized shot glasses full of Jose Cuervo, with two Schmidt's chasers. “Next round, leave the bottle,” she told the waitress.
Leah turned to Paul. “This is how it works. For every piece of information I offer up, I want you to down a shot of booze."
“Why?"
“Don't forget, I know who you are. And you know who I am. That makes us both smart. I need you dumbed down for a while."
“I can be dumb all by myself."
“Drink up, tough guy. There's two to start, and then we commence our business. If we reach a satisfactory conclusion, we both walk out of here alive."
Paul had nothing to say to that. Better to get it over with, I guess he figured. He drained both shot glasses.
Inside the Brain Hotel, I felt the walls tremble.
Paul cleansed his palate with a gulp of beer and a couple of complimentary oyster crackers from a wooden bowl on the table.
“Susannah Winston's real name is Lana Lewalski,” she said. “Grew up in a shit town not far from Vegas, and as soon as she was old enough to bleed, she and her slutty little ass were slinging vodka and tonics in the nickel casinos. That's how she met Ray."
“I don't suppose her father was an inventor for the U.S. Army?"
“Boy, she's a queer bitch. She tell you that?"
Paul ignored the question. “So how did this ‘Lana’ entangle herself in the Man's business?"
Leah wasn't going to be tricked into spilling the goods that easy. She poured Paul another Cuervo. “To your health."
“This is silly,” Paul said, frowning. “I have legendary tolerance. You could confess the world's secrets and have to start making shit up before I even feel a buzz."
“Then there's no problem, right?"
Paul drained it. Despite his bravado, it hit him deep. Hell, I could feel it. The lobby walls turned pale for a second, on second thought my seat felt like it was going to crash through the wall wallflowersincollege punch bowl I was afraid to make a single move. BBBBBBut it held… the only thing I ever wanted from life was a woman to love me like a man…
Holy shit, I thought. It's happening. The walls are breaking down.
“Good boy. All I know I learned from Ray. I've come to trust him over the last seven months."
“Grrranted."
“Well, Ray was proving himself to the Man, doing jobs here and there, mostly as muscle to scare distributors behind on their payments."
“Yeah. We all start out that way."
“But you never ran into Ray, did you?"
“I was top floor. I never met any of the Man's little people."
“Which makes it all the more odd that Ray received the contract to kill you."
Paul's eyes narrowed. “Kill me?"
Again, I was forced to remind Paul, via brain lobby mike: She's talking about Brad Larsen. She thinks you're Larsen. But a bit of static cut into the message: Talking about my g-g-g-g-generation… You are Larsen…
Leah smiled prettily and tipped the Cuervo into the drinking glass once again.
Paul sighed; tossed it back. A couple of phones at the front desk started to ring; pissed-off tenants probably complaining about a sudden lack of basic services. Amazing how people can forget where they are sometimes.