Ronnie let out a great whoosh of air and leaned back against the wall. The gun was still clutched in her right hand. "My God," she said.
"Yeah," I said.
She touched my face where Seymour had hit me. It hurt. I winced. "Are you all right?" Ronnie asked.
"Sure," I said. Actually, it felt like the side of my face was one great big ache, but it wouldn't make it hurt any less to say it out loud.
"Are we going down to the building where they were to drop us?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I know who Bruno is and who gives him orders. I know why they tried to kidnap me. What could I possibly learn that would be worth two lives?"
Ronnie thought about that for a moment. "You're right, I guess. But you aren't going to report the attack to the police?"
"Why should I? I'm okay, you're okay. Seymour and Pete won't be back."
She shrugged. "You didn't really want me to shoot his kneecap off, did you? I mean we were playing good cop, bad cop, right?" She looked at me very steadily as she asked, her solid grey eyes earnest and true.
I looked away. "Let's walk back home. I don't feel much like jogging."
"Me either."
We set off walking down the street. Ronnie untucked her T-shirt and stuck the Beretta in the waistband. The.22 she sort of cupped in her hand. It wasn't very noticeable that way.
"We were pretending, right? Being tough, right?"
Truth. "I don't know."
"Anita!"
"I don't know, that's the truth."
"I couldn't have shot him to pieces just to keep him from talking."
"Good thing you didn't have to then," I said.
"Would you really have pulled the trigger on that man?"
There was a cardinal singing somewhere off in the distance. The song filled the stale heat and made it seem cooler.
"Answer me, Anita. Would you really have pulled the trigger?"
"Yes."
"Yes?" There was a lilt of surprise in her voice.
"Yes."
"Shit." We walked on in silence for a minute or two, then she asked, "What ammo is in the gun today?"
"Thirty-eights."
"It would have killed him."
"Probably," I said.
I saw her look at me sideways as we walked back. There was a look I'd seen before. A mixture of horror and admiration. I'd just never seen it on a friend's face before. That part hurt. But we went out to dinner that night at The Miller's Daughter in Old St. Charles. The atmosphere was pleasant. The food wonderful. As always.
We talked and laughed and had a very good time. Neither of us mentioned what had happened this afternoon. Pretend hard enough and maybe it will go away.
20
At 10:30 that night I was down in the vampire district. Dark blue polo shirt, jeans, red windbreaker. The windbreaker hid the shoulder holster and the Browning Hi-Power. Sweat was pooling in the bends of my arms but it beat the hell out of not having it.
The afternoon fun and games had turned out all right, but that was partly luck. And Seymour losing his temper. And me being able to take a beating and keep on ticking. Ice had kept the swelling down, but the left side of my face was puffy and red, as if some sort of fruit was about to burst out of it. No bruise-yet.
The Laughing Corpse was one of the newest clubs in the District. Vampires are sexy. I'll admit that. But funny? I don't think so. Apparently, I was in the minority. A line stretched away from the club, curling round the block.
It hadn't occurred to me that I'd need a ticket or reservations or whatever just to get in. But, hey, I knew the boss. I walked along the line of people towards the ticket booth. The people were mostly young. The women in dresses, the men in dressy sports wear, with an occasional suit. They were chatting together in excited voices, a lot of casual hand and arm touching. Dates. I remember dates. It's just been a while. Maybe if I wasn't always ass deep in alligators, I'd date more. Maybe.
I cut ahead of a double-date foursome. "Hey," one man said.
"Sorry," I said.
The woman in the ticket booth frowned at me. "You can't just cut in line like that, ma'am."
Ma'am? "I don't want a ticket. I don't want to see the show. I am supposed to meet Jean-Claude here. That's it."
"Well, I don't know. How do I know you're not some reporter?"
Reporter? I took a deep breath. "Just call Jean-Claude and tell him Anita is here. Okay?"
She was still frowning at me.
"Look, just call Jean-Claude. If I'm a nosy reporter, he'll deal with me. If I'm who I say I am, he'll be happy that you called him. You can't lose."
"I don't know."
I fought an urge to scream at her. It probably wouldn't help. Probably. "Just call Jean-Claude, pretty please," I said.
Maybe it was the pretty please. She swiveled on her stool and opened the upper half of a door in the back of the booth. Small booth. I couldn't hear what she said, but she swiveled back around. "Okay, manager says you can go in."
"Great, thanks." I walked up the steps. The entire line of waiting people glared at me. I could feel their hot stares on my back. But I've been stared at by experts, so I was careful not to flinch. No one likes a line jumper.
The club was dim inside, as most clubs are. A guy just inside the door said, "Ticket, please?"
I stared up at him. He wore a white T-shirt that said, "The Laughing Corpse, it's a scream." A caricature of an openmouthed vampire was drawn very large across his chest. He was large and muscled and had bouncer tattooed across his forehead. "Ticket, please," he repeated.
First the ticket lady, now the ticket man? "The manager said I could come through to see Jean-Claude," I said.
"Willie," the ticket man said, "you send her through?"
I turned around, and there was Willie McCoy. I smiled when I saw him. I was glad to see him. That surprised me. I'm not usually happy to see dead men.
Willie is short, thin, with black hair slicked back from his forehead. I couldn't tell the exact color of his suit in the dimness, but it looked like a dull tomato-red. White button-up shirt, large shiny green tie. I had to look twice before I was sure, but yes, there was a glow-in-the-dark hula girl on his tie. It was the most tasteful outfit I'd ever seen Willie wear.
He grinned, flashing a lot of fang. "Anita, good to see ya."
I nodded. "You, too, Willie."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
He grinned even wider. His canines glistened in the dim light. He hadn't been dead a year yet.
"How long have you been manager here?" I asked.
"'Bout two weeks."
"Congratulations."
He stepped closer to me. I stepped back. Instinctive. Nothing personal, but a vampire is a vampire. Don't get too close. Willie was new dead, but he was still capable of hypnotizing with his eyes. Okay, maybe no vampire as new as Willie could actually catch me with his eyes, but old habits die hard.
Willie's face fell. A flicker of something in his eyes-hurt? He dropped his voice but didn't try to step next to me. He was a faster study dead than he ever had been alive. "Thanks to me helping you last time, I'm in real good with the boss."
He sounded like an old gangster movie, but that was Willie. "I'm glad Jean-Claude's doing right by you."
"Oh, yeah," Willie said, "this is the best job I ever had. And the boss isn't … " He waggled his hands back and forth. "Ya know, mean."