Devil With a Gun (12 page)

Twenty-Three

Outside the restaurant, I
ashamedly dart into a nearby alley and shake. Tears flood down my cheeks and I hate myself for the weakness. I'm a mess, a blubbering, choking, sniveling pile of oozing estrogen.

The smug bastard scared me with words. That's supposed to be my domain.

An alarming screech of metal stops my heart and makes me swivel to study the dark recess of the alley as I suddenly realize that like a choking victim flushed with embarrassment, I have run away from the safety of others to a dangerously isolated spot.

A rusted sheet of corrugated iron slides off its greasy perch atop a foul-smelling dumpster to hit the alley floor, scaring a family of rats. Ten alarmingly blood-red eyes stare back at me before scurrying away. Their bald tails are what make them so disgustingly creepy, and each one twitches like the silenced rattle of a desert snake.

As my heart returns to its hollow beneath my ribs, another movement makes it leap again. From behind the dumpster, a shadow unfolds to form the shape of a man. There isn't enough light to make out his features, except that he's painfully thin with a wiry, unkempt beard.

A growl grows in the back of my throat as my right hand instinctively reaches for the knife in my boot.

The shadow holds up a pair of gloved hands to show he means no harm.

“You shouldn't be here,” he says. His words are all rough-edged and stiff as though he doesn't use them much.

“No shit,” I growl defensively. “Who the hell are you?”

“No one.”

A flicker of light catches his eyes and there is a shimmer of pale blue within murky puddles of rat red.

He pulls a black knit cap off his head to reveal a bald pate, the gesture as stiff as his words, as though gentlemanly politeness was once driven home to him by a mother who never expected he'd end his days hiding in alleyways.

“You should go.”

Recognition dawns.

“You're my Good Samaritan,” I say. “Why'd you step in the other day? Wasn't your fight.”

He begins to back away from me, moving deeper into the alley, deeper into the shadows. “That was a mistake,” he says.

“Not from where I'm standing. I wanted to thank you.”

“No need.” He lifts an arm and points over my shoulder to the mouth of the alley where light still dares to shine. “You need to go. Don't come back. These are bad men.”

I cast a glance to where he's pointing in case he's trying to warn me of someone else approaching, but there's nobody there.

When I turn back around, he's gone.

Returning to the car, I reach in to grab the box of tissues that Kristy always keeps on the back seat. I need to blow my nose and wipe my eyes and get a grip on
—

Shit! Roxanne is missing.

Cursing, I stand on my tiptoes and scour the street. She couldn't have followed me to the tea house, I realize. I would have seen her.

Just as panic is threatening to make my head explode, I spot her half a block away. She's exiting another unseemly alley and stops by a lamppost to spit into the gutter. Between the two of us, we set women's good graces back a hundred years.

When she looks up, she spots me standing by the car. A smile broadens on her face and she waves as if we had plans to meet for a girly lunch and, hey, isn't this neat to bump into each other on the street beforehand?

I slide back into the car before I call her something that women aren't meant to call each other.

When she reaches the Bug, she has trouble with the door, like she's forgotten how to work her thumb. I reach over and open it from the inside.

She slides in with a goofy smile wider than her face and I know exactly what she was doing in the alley. I grab her arm and spot a fresh bead of blood in the crease of her elbow. Guess she didn't want to take her shoes off.

“What are you on?” I ask.

“Life, baby doll,” she answers, her voice growing distant and dreamy.

“How'd you pay for it?”

She licks her lips. “Got gum?”

“Christ, did you share a needle with someone? Are you out of your goddamned mind? What would Bailey say?”

“Where is she?” Roxanne asks, twisting her head to take in the Bug's cramped interior. “Where's my sister?”

“I don't know,” I snap.

“You were supposed to get her.”

“I know. I failed.”

Roxanne's lip curls into a snarl, but she can't maintain it. Her words slur. “Where ish she then?”

I shake my head and start the engine. “I'll find out,” I say.

“Yeah.” She reclines her chair and closes her eyes. “You d'tha.”

I pull into traffic, wondering when a simple FOKing story had taken such a wrong turn.

I leave Roxanne buckled and oblivious in the passenger seat as I plug the parking meter and dart across the street to Mario's Deli. Wherever the heroin is taking her mind, it left her body behind.

Inside the deli, Mario takes one look at me and suggests a cinnamon raisin bagel with plain cream cheese and large coffee with an added double shot of espresso. The drink is called Two Shots in the Dark, which seems apropos.

“I look that bad, huh?” I ask.

“You are such a beauty,” he says with honey on his tongue, “you could never look less than angelic. But a little sugar, some wholesome fiber, and a jolt of caffeine will bring the light back to your eyes.”

How can I not smile in response to a line like that?

“Sounds perfect.”

Mario grins and gets to work on my order.

At the red vinyl booth in the back, Eddie the Wolf is gnawing on a hangnail while still operating his laptop one-handed. I slide in across from him.

“Working on a remix?” I ask. “I saw a great one the other day that an engineer from PBS did. He turned some old Mr. Rogers clips into a great song called ‘Garden of Your Mind'. Best use of Auto-Tune I've heard. And if you know anything about me, you know I despise Auto-Tune.”

Eddie stops chewing on his nail and stares at me through wrinkled, narrow slits that remind me of newborn mice.

“Every time, you confuse me,” he says. “Was what you just said even in English?”

I wink. “More like Geeklish.”

“Ah. I don't speak that.”

I glance at his laptop and array of smartphones. “Why don't I believe you?”

He frowns. “You want to place a bet?”

“Actually, I need some help.”

“Try Craigslist. It's very good.”

“This is more specific.”

“I'm just a humble bookie.”

“Yeah, and I make Beyoncé look homely.”

“Again with the Geeklish?”

Mario brings my order to the table. “Don't let him fool you,” he says. “I've seen him rock out to ‘Single Ladies
.
'
”

Mario and I share a grin, but Eddie doesn't join in. I take a gulp of my coffee and feel a layer of skin peel off my tongue. It's exactly what I need.

“I've been hearing about you,” says Eddie, growing tired of the silence as I shove pieces of warm bagel into my mouth. “You are swimming with sharks, and there's blood in the water.”

“And?” I prod.

“In a horse race between you and the Russian, you would not leave the gate. Hell, you wouldn't even make it out of the stables.”

“Good thing I'm a gambler then, and not a pragmatist.”

This time, Eddie's eyes dance despite the lack of curvature on his lips. “What kind of help do you seek?” he asks.

“
Red Swan has a friend of mine. She went to him voluntarily, but I don't believe she was planning to stay. I need to know where he's keeping her.”

“And what makes you think I can find such information?”

I smile as though butter wouldn't melt in my mouth. “I'll bet you five hundred that you can.”

Eddie leans back in the booth and folds his arms across his chest. Despite his humble claims, he has the upper body of someone who has done his fair share of manual labor. Under his shirt, I wouldn't be surprised to find a lot of black and green ink from amateur artists without access to any sterilization equipment apart from a burning match or the occasional welding torch.

“You realize,” he says, “you just lost the fifty dollars you wagered yesterday?”

I nod.

“And your new bet is that if I
find
the information you seek, I lose another five hundred.”

I nod again.

“But if I do nothing, I win five hundred from you.”

I nod for the third time.

“That is the most ridiculous wager I have ever heard.”

“Can I get in on this?” Mario chirps in.

Eddie shakes a large-knuckled hand in frustration to shoo him away. “No. Stay out. One crazy person is enough.”

“So you'll take the bet?” I ask.

Eddie sighs. “I think you are smarter than I give you credit for.”

“I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult,” I say.

“Good,” says Eddie. “That's how I meant it.”

Twenty-Four

I return home and
knock on Kristy and Sam's door. There's no answer, but before I turn away, a loud bang and a muttered curse drops down the stairwell from above.

I climb the lone flight of stairs to find Derek sitting on the corner of a couch, resting on the landing between two apartments, and licking a bloody gash across his knuckles.

He looks at me and winces. “Sorry, did I disturb you?” he says. “Damn thing got stuck in the doorway.”

“Need a hand?” I ask.

“Sure. This is the last of the big stuff.”

“Where's Shahnaz?”

“She had an assignment for work and I had the bright idea to move this stuff before she got back.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Sorry you have to move.”

Derek shrugs and a flush of embarrassment darkens his olive cheeks. “It's just, you know? Guns.” He struggles to find the words. “We still like you, Dixie, but your life gets crazy at times. You attract trouble like sugar attracts wasps. Last time, you were stabbed, and now … a bullet came right through our
floor
. What if we had kids? What if it was our bedroom?”

“I know,” I say. “And I don't know how to apologize enough.”

He attempts a smile. “Just help me move the couch and we'll call it even.”

“OK,” I say, “but I also need a favor.”

“Seriously?”

“I wouldn't ask, except—”

Derek sighs. “Just spit it out. What do you need?”

“I have a friend downstairs who I need help getting upstairs and into my apartment.”

“He can't walk?” he asks.

“It's a she, and right now I'm just happy that she's remembering to breathe.”

Derek sighs louder. “Dare I ask?”

“Probably best not to.”

“Right.” Derek stands and grabs one end of the couch. “Let's move this first.”

After Derek leaves my apartment, I roll Roxanne onto her side and prop a pillow behind her back. She's oblivious to it all, but the last thing I want is for her to have a seizure and choke to death on her own vomit.

I place a bucket on the floor and a glass of water on the nightstand.

Dixie's Tips #18:
If you're going to do drugs, stick with marijuana. It might make you stupider but, unlike everything else, it doesn't try to kill you.

In the living room, I slip into my green leather trenchcoat with the oddly placed zipper that runs down the back. A friend of Mrs. Pennell's installed the zipper after I ripped the coat so badly that a regular repair wasn't possible. To be fair to myself, it wasn't my fault that my favorite coat very nearly ended up in the trash; I blame the driver of the car that tried to run me down. I pause.

Maybe Derek is right. I do attract trouble.

Knowing I should go to the office and check in with Stoogan, I lock the apartment door and head downstairs.

At my local watering hole, the Dog House, Bill the bartender takes one look at me and says, “Shouldn't you be at work?”

Bill is a former wrestler who gained notoriety as the Biting Bulgarian Bulldog, and his role as the villain shows in a face that only his friends can love. I count myself as one of those friends.

Before I can answer in the guilty affirmative, Bill has pulled a cold bottle of Warthog Ale from a basin of ice behind the bar and placed it on the counter.

I take a long swallow and then another. The third and fourth empty the bottle. A fresh one instantly replaces it.

“You working a story?” Bill asks.

I nod and take a sip on the new bottle.

“It kicking your ass?”

I shrug and take another, smaller sip.

“You'll beat it,” he says. “You always do.”

I look over at the empty stool on my right that is reserved for the ghost of Al Capone and raise my bottle to the empty space.

“He's not there,” says Bill, who's the only one to ever see the ghost.

“Yeah, but he's probably watching,” I say. “Some people have angels; I like to think I've at least got a dead gangster on my side.”

Bill grins, and if you didn't know him, it would make lesser beings flee in terror.

“He's got a soft spot for you, Dix. But ghosts can't stop bullets.”

“You heard about that, huh?”

“Frank told me. Also said you kept a cool head and returned fire to scare the bastard off. I think I even saw his chest swell with pride as he was telling it.”

I grin. “Only Frank could find the silver lining of being shot at.”

“That's how we get through life, Dix. Shit is gonna happen, but it's how we handle it that matters.”

I raise my beer. “To assholes with guns.”

Bill raises a glass of flat ginger ale and clinks it against my bottle. “And to making the fuckers duck.”