A man with short, oily curls sitting to her right did nod at her. In a leather vest, he was the only one who looked like he could have come from central casting.
The troubled-looking woman was the first to speak, revealing that she’d taken her maximum out of her ATM. “Then I went straight to the MGM Casino.” A new one that had opened near DC. “I promised to limit myself.” Lana had sung that tune too many times herself. “I sure didn’t plan on going back to the ATM every day last week. By the time I was done, I’d lost all the money I’d saved to fly out and visit my mom in San Leandro. She’s dying. That was going to be my last visit.” The woman began to cry. “I can’t take this anymore.”
No one said a word. They watched to see if the woman wanted to go on. A moment later she did: “I felt sick every second and I just kept doing it.”
“We’ve all got the sickness,” Oily Curls said. “I hear you.”
The woman nodded. She was finished. Her sponsor reiterated her support for her.
Lana talked about her own disturbed state over the past several days, telling them how she’d rushed into a stall in a restroom, pulled out her phone, brought up texasholdem.com, and placed a bet before she’d even let herself think about what she was doing. “But I stopped after playing one hand and winning $137. Only the desire hasn’t stopped. It’s like it’s feeding on that win every minute. I’m having a hard time getting it out of my head. It’s as real as this room. I just want it to go away.”
“It will,” said a distinguished-looking man Lana happened to know worked at the Federal Trade Commission. His white beard looked bleached against his dark skin. “First step is the one you took. You put the phone away. You walked out of that bathroom. You walked the walk.”
“Amen,” said Oily Curls.
When Oily Curls said that, Lana looked at him and felt the gambling sickness slip away. But what replaced it wasn’t calm. Nothing so soothing. What replaced it was fear. Her sixth sense was screaming, Who is he?
Emma and Sufyan had decided not to go to the mall because she was sure her father would have found them and made a huge mortifying scene, so they snuck into a dimly lit video arcade nearby that Sufyan favored.
Emma had more than a video game in mind.
Snuggling together, she felt confident they’d drawn no attention. Both had made sure their wigs fit properly. Emma liked her look so much she had her compact mirror out and was flirting with the idea of dyeing her hair.
“Come on,” Sufyan said. “Put that away and let’s play.”
He brought up a Jurassic World game on a large screen a few feet away, then clobbered her in short order. A second time as well. Emma wasn’t really into gaming, mostly indulging him. But she enjoyed taking a break to make out, vigorously enough that Sufyan’s hairpiece came off as three guys barged in to see if the station was available. One of them did a double take and looked away so fast that Emma knew they’d just been made.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” she whispered to Sufyan, spying the guy who’d eyed them; he’d stepped away and was on his phone. Coincidence? Possibly — everybody Emma knew was on their phones most of the time — but she couldn’t take any chances.
As casually as they could they headed toward the entrance, the sounds of games — guns, explosions, and angry commandos — dogging their every step. Even so, the guy on the phone shouted above the din and clicked his fingers like a waiter calling for a bus boy. His two friends rushed up. The larger one stepped in front of Em and Sufyan. “Where you guys think you’re going? Stick around.”
When he grabbed Emma’s arm and yanked off her wig, Sufyan clocked him and kicked the legs out from under his buddy, then took Emma’s hand and raced toward the rear exit.
Bursting from the shadowy arcade, they were almost blinded by the light of late afternoon.
Running hard, they jumped into her car. Out of breath, Emma drove away, making it to a four-way intersection where a windowless van screeched to a stop, blocking them.
The van doors flew open. Four guys spilled out, including the one at the arcade who’d been on his phone as soon as he’d spotted Emma and Sufyan.
The Sudanese started to open his door and was halfway out when Emma screamed “No,” grabbed his belt, and jerked him back onto the passenger seat. She floored the Fusion in reverse. The guys chased her for a few feet before sprinting back to their vehicle. As the van started to turn toward them, an old white Corolla plowed into the front bumper.
“Stop!” Sufyan yelled at Emma as his uncle climbed out of the subcompact.
Sufyan was opening his door again. Em still had the car careening in reverse. She braked, fearing he would hurl himself out while they were still speeding.
He sprinted to the intersection as Tahir ducked a bat swung by the driver. The much younger man was twice as wide as Tahir, but his attack proved half as fast: Tahir landed blows to the man’s throat and crotch, leaving him gasping and doubled over. His aluminum bat clanged on the asphalt.
But two other lunks piled on the bone-stitched older man from behind and started dragging him to the open side of the van, as though to abduct him.
Sufyan launched himself into the fray, freeing one of his uncle’s arms.
Emma raced up. The guy who’d been on the phone came around the rear of the Corolla, charging her. She backed up, then Maced him at the last second. He reeled away, blinded.
She looked over as Tahir pummeled the man still clinging stubbornly to his arm. Then the assailant let go and tried to throw himself into the van.
Tahir grabbed his foot and dragged him halfway out before stomping his knee so hard Emma heard bones crack and the man scream. It took less than three seconds, the leg now bent as nature had never intended.
Sufyan’s arm was bleeding. The guy he’d been fighting had used a knife on him and was charging Sufyan again, as though to finish him off. Emma shouted. As soon as the man looked over, she Maced him too.
Tahir grabbed Sufyan’s arm, looked at the stab wound, and said, “Hospital.” He pointed to Emma, his expression furious. “Take him. Get out of here.”
Neighbors were staring out their windows. More than looking; in several cases they were shooting video with their phones.
Emma and Sufyan rushed to her car. Her legs felt rubbery. They hadn’t till now. The fight had happened so quickly.
Shaking, she piled herself behind the wheel and headed to Suburban Hospital with Sufyan.
“Did he cut an artery?” she asked, near tears.
“No, but he stuck it deep. It hurts. Thanks. You were great.”
Only then did Emma realize she still gripped the Mace in her hand. Only then did she hear the sirens in the distance.
By the time Don found his way to the four-way, police, ambulances, and a growing crowd had converged on the intersection. There was ample chatter about two white cars that had fled the scene.
“A skinny old black guy put the crazy on them,” an impressed young man said.
A detective immediately took him aside. Don tried to listen in and was told to back away.
With Jojo in the heel, he walked over to a fellow using his phone camera to shoot two white guys on stretchers getting loaded into an ambulance.
“You see much?” he asked him.
“I saw it all,” the guy said.
“I heard there were two white cars.”
“Yeah, an old Corolla and a Fusion. Everybody was fighting, man. A chick with pepper spray took two of ’em out. One of them had a damn knife he used on a young black dude. But it was the old guy who waled on those honkies. No offense,” he added as if he’d just registered Don’s race.