Cut to the Bone(105)
Superstition joined him at the front of the Buick. The engine ticked. The neon buzzed like horseflies. She slipped her hand into his. He caressed her fingers, and she squeezed back. They were warm and gentle. They belonged to a husband, a father, a son, a friend. They were no longer trembling. John was right, he was ready.
Suddenly, she wasn’t.
“I’m sorry, I’ve changed my mind,” she said, releasing his hand and stepping away, wishing her hair wasn’t wired for sound. “Take me back.”
He looked like he’d walked into a buzz saw. “Back?” he squeaked, an octave higher than before. “To Rush Street?”
“The corner you picked me up on, right.”
He stared. “What the . . . I mean, why? Don’t you like me?”
She patted his face. “That’s the thing - I do like you. Which is why I want you to go back home. You shouldn’t be doing this, John.”
He stiffened, angry and embarrassed. She walked to her side of the car, motioning for him to use his remote opener. He planted his feet and crossed his arms. “Come on, John, it’s for the best. You’d regret this later,” she said, letting him down gently. “I don’t want you thinking of me when you do.”
“You’re wrong, Fantasi,” John said, hopping foot to foot to burn off his frustration. “I’m ready for action. Listen, I have cash in my pocket, a whole stinking pile-”
“Get this through your head, pal - I’m not going to date you,” she snapped, needing to stop him before he dug in too deep. “Drive me back or I’ll walk.” She knew he’d do it, as he was too nice to refuse forever.
He sighed like the world was ending, then pulled out his keys and pushed UNLOCK. Ten silent minutes later he screeched into the curb. “If it’s because you thought I was having a heart attack . . .” he muttered.
She touched his hand. “No. That’s not it. It’s exactly what I told you,” she said. “I know men pretty well, wouldn’t you agree?” she said.
His sullen shrug said, So?
“So, you’re not cut out for this. You’re a nice guy; you shouldn’t be picking up whores. You’d lie awake nights feeling terrible from the guilt.”
“Better than lying awake horny,” he tried.
She smiled. “Find yourself a real woman,” she said softly. “Not a rent-a-hole like me. There’re tons of nice gals out there who’ll fall for your good looks and personality.”
He looked at her and started to snarl a curse. But he couldn’t get it out of his mouth.
She patted his arm and hopped out to the sidewalk. He roared off, passing a knot of hotties not called “whores” because they slept with men for benefits, not cash. That he didn’t even glance at them reinforced her feeling that John would be all right.
A minute later, a blue car desperately in need of washing pulled to the curb. Superstition walked over, bumping her hips for effect.
Nogales, Arizona
“Superstition’s a vice cop,” Derek said calmly. “She trolls streets and hotels for johns, and her team’s out working tonight.”
Charvat stared, then burst out laughing at the gotcha. “I’m gonna deeply regret having you in my command, aren’t I?” he said, punching Davis’s arm.
“Probably.”
“No probably about it. I take it she’s the bodacious decoy?”
“Yup.” Davis grinned slyly. “Really good at it, too.”
Charvat groaned. “Peckerwood like you don’t deserve anything that fine.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“She been on the job awhile?”
Davis nodded. “More than a decade. Before vice she worked patrol, tactical, and robbery. She’s a crack shot, and plans to compete in the Bianchi Cup next year.”
Charvat whistled, knowing Bianchi was the Super Bowl of national pistol competitions. “My kinda woman. Let’s drink to her health.” He pointed at a track shooting east from the main drag. It was narrow, dusty, and humped as a camel’s back.
“You want to toast her with . . . dirt?” Davis said doubtfully.
Charvat flung his hands like the devil had burped a blasphemy. “Imagine, if you will, a cantina. But not just any cantina, no sir. One with an old-fashioned jukebox, filled with Petty and Cash and Frank. Pretty waitresses who call you ‘Hon.’ All the beer you can drink, at only a buck a throw.” He flicked the bee on the rearview. “Then imagine it sits at the other end of that yellow brick road you so dismissively call ‘dirt,’ and that only the Killer Bee knows the password to get you in.”