Beneath grim and bristly whiskers, the man's face went white and his jaw slackened. She could see the wild pulse thrumming in his throat, the sweat gathering at his temples. The hand holding the knife drooped at his side.
"We ain't got much," he whispered.
"That's why I'm willing to pay, rather than just take what I need—which I could do." She strode past him to the grocery cart, rummaged through the discarded items until she found a man's navy blue T-shirt with a tear on the shoulder, paint stains on the hem. "This'll do."
Facing the man, who'd made no move to hurt her when her back was turned, she nodded her gratitude and tucked the five in his front shirt pocket.
"Sorry to do this, but…" She shrugged, stripped off her rained shirt, and tossed it in their fire. Black smoke billowed out, and then the shirt caught and flames consumed it, singeing the poor critter they intended to consume for dinner.
She wore no bra, saw no reason to with her mostly flat chest, and so the two coherent men got an eyeful. They stared, not with lust but with utter surprise. They were so far gone that they'd never remember seeing her, much less be able to detail the exchange.
Being sure to keep her mouth tightly closed as the material passed her face, Gaby pulled the shirt on over her head.
Though it felt clean, God only knew where the shirt had been and what filth might cling to it.
She started to take her leave then, but instead she hesitated. Cursing herself for showing any softness, she reached out and removed the man's knife from his limp hand. It was so dull as to be useless.
"You hold it like this," she explained, turning the knife so that the blade faced his body, the handle his opponent. "That way, your forearm conceals it. And when you lift your arm to stab, you have your entire body weight behind the blade. And you know, it makes it easier to slash across the face or throat."
She exhibited that by guiding his arm through the motions.
As if the touch of a woman, even a woman of her dubious attributes, threw him off-kilter, he held himself stiff as a board. Gaby released him and took a step back, but she took his knife with her. Examining it, she said, "You should really sharpen this if you expect it to be a threat or protection."
He shook his head. "I jus' wanna he left Tone."
Gaby flipped the knife in her hand and presented it back to him with the handle first. "Fine. Don't say I didn't warn you, though."
She'd taken two steps when he said, "Uh… thanks."
She looked over her shoulder, a brow raised.
"Fer the money."
But not the lesson on defense? He had his priorities screwed up, but it wasn't her problem.
With a nod, Gaby took herself off. She had a long walk ahead and no time to chitchat. It was back to business.
After crossing the street, she entered a gas station that smelled of oil and had seen better days. Off to one side set an old, broken air pump and toward the other, a sign that read RESTROOM.
Using her foot to open the filthy door, Gaby went inside. Given the unrecognizable splatters on the walls and floors, she had to wonder if hookers used this particular John to fulfill assignations. Flies crowded the room, along with a few spiders.
Careful not to touch anything, Gaby inched her way to the scum-encrusted sink, barely connected to the wall by exposed pipes. So many chips and cracks marred the porcelain that using it would be hazardous.
Gaby wrinkled her nose in revulsion and knew she couldn't let it matter. Using a sliver of hair- and dirt-encrusted soap, she washed away all signs of the mutilated man's blood.
Though it was disgusting, she even splashed her face and rinsed out her mouth. The water tasted as metallic as the blood, but her head knew the difference and she felt better.
Next, standing on one foot at a time, she removed her flip-flops and cleaned all traces of mud from between her toes, then cleaned off the shoes, too.
She pulled out her knife and washed it, taking her time, being methodical.
When she finally left the restroom, thick gray clouds had rolled in to hide the sun.
Not a storm, she silently prayed.
Anything but that.
Luckily, she made it to her building without a single raindrop falling. She was so exhausted that she wanted only to lock herself in her room and pass out on the bed. She did not want to visit with Morty—but with him sitting on the front steps, more or less waiting for her, she couldn't avoid him.
He jumped to his feet at her approach, and Gaby noticed his red-rimmed eyes, his blotchy cheeks.
She drew up short. "No fucking way have you been crying."
Indignant, he shook his head and swiped a forearm past his nose. "No. Course not."
But she knew he lied. She always knew those sorts of things, even when she'd rather not. Gritting her teeth, she took the most expedient way out of the confrontation.
"Look, I'm sorry okay? I've been tired lately. Not up to snuff. I don't mean to be a bitch. I just… am."
His expression softened. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, I know. It's okay."
Nonplussed, Gaby glared at him. He knew? So he didn't intend to deny her bitchiness?
"Great," she said, all but grinding out the word. "Then if that's settled…"
He shifted, effectively blocking her entrance into the building. Gaby lifted a brow.
He dared?
Clearing his throat, Mort said, "That's, tun, not why I was waiting for you."
"No?"
He hemmed and hawed around, shuffling his feet.
"Jesus, Mort, spit it out, will ya? In case you can't tell, I'm beat. I need to get some rest and—"
"A cop stopped by here, looking for you. A really big cop. Detective Luther Cross, I think was his name. He said he'd come back tonight. I just… I thought you should know."
Eyes narrowed, mistrust prickling. Gaby moved forward with slow, precise purpose. "What did you tell him, Mort?"
When Morty flushed, she caught him by his shirtfront and dragged him close.
"Mort?"
"Nothing. That is… not much." He groaned as if in pain. "I told him you were a good person, Gaby. I told him you'd never have a run-in with the police. He wouldn't tell me why he wanted to see you, but he asked all kinds of questions, like what you do for a living, where your family lives. Stuff like that."
How dare he ? "Nosy bastard."
"Yeah, well… He wanted to know where you were, and Gaby, I'm sorry, but I had no idea what to say."
Which was exactly why she never told him shit—so he couldn't give anything way. "So you said nothing, right?"
He shook his head. "He kept staring at me and I'm not a good liar. I had to say something, so I figured it'd be better to just admit that you keep to yourself, and that I don't know that much about you."
She nodded.
"He asked me how long you'd been my tenant, and when I told him, I don't think he believed me." Nervousness flushed Mort's cheeks. "He kept asking me if we ever talk, if we have any casual conversations… all kinds of stuff like that."
"Screw him." Gaby released Mort, even smoothed down his wrinkled shirt. "Who cares what he believes?"
"Uh… I thought you might."
Weary to the bone, she shook her head. "I need to shower. And sleep. If the cop shows back up, tell him to go away."
That instruction left Mort wide-eyed with incredulity. "But what he's a cop! What if he insists…"
"He can't insist without a warrant, so unless he has one, don't bother me."
Hands twisted together, Mort asked, "And if he does?"
Gaby sighed. "You know where to find me."
"He, uh, he seemed like a nice guy."
"Yeah, right." Big and good-looking, and so full of himself. And he had that gentle, superior aura floating around him. Gaby snorted. "He's a regular superhero."