Violet Grenade(11)

I have more questions for her but decide they're pointless. I'm going. I don't have a better choice if I want to bail Dizzy from jail. She says if I work hard and put in long hours, I'll earn quickly. And that's what I need. Because every day Dizzy is in jail is a day he's suffering.

And a day I'm alone.

I squeeze the phone. "I'll meet you outside the alley."

An hour later, I arrive at my destination. The gold sedan is already parked outside, and there's a second car parked in front of that one. The second car looks like a demon-chrome teeth, chrome claws. It's sleek and black and glistens in the streetlights. The huge, way-too-serious boy I saw last night steps out of the driver side and walks around the car. He doesn't look in my direction.

After he opens the backseat door, Ms. Karina appears. She wears a cautious smile, arms folded over her middle. Even from here, I can tell she's tired. A sliver of guilt courses through me for calling so late.

Somewhere in the distance, a train releases a mournful choo, choo. Almost immediately, my shoulders loosen. I love trains. I love their sturdy engines and rusted cars. I love the steadiness at which they chug along and how they seem to be going slow until you get right up close.

But the sound is best. I respect a machine that gives fair warning while it's still far away. When something is that powerful, that dangerous, it's only right that people have time to flee. Here I come, it says as it screams down the tracks. Give me room!

"Come, dear," Ms. Karina says.

I come.

My footsteps echo off the sidewalk. As I approach the car, the man-boy opens the backseat door on the opposite side. Before I step inside, I glance over the hood at Ms. Karina. "I'll need to go by my place and get my stuff."

"You'll get new stuff once you arrive," a new voice says. I glance at the gold sedan parked behind us and see White Shirt guy. He's swinging keys around his pointer finger like he's in a hurry.

"If she wants her things, she'll get her things," Ms. Karina snaps.

The guy straightens and then shrugs. "I'll follow you, then."

Ms. Karina looks in my direction. "Eric can be quite impatient, but I want you to be comfortable. Shall we?" She motions toward the inside of the vehicle.



       
         
       
        

Glancing around, I take in Detroit in all its gristly glory-the city of motors and lions and brute determination. I didn't grow up here, but it was home for a little while. A better home than I've had in the past.

I sit down in the car, and the smell of leather hits my nose. The interior is dark and stiff, and the cup holders contain a glass bottle of orange pop and a plastic tub of gumdrops.

Who are all these people? Wilson asks. I don't trust them.

You don't trust anyone, I hiss, before remembering that replying only encourages him.

"Where to?" Ms. Karina asks.

It's been so long since I've been in a car. I want to touch everything at once. Instead, I tell her where my place is, and the boy in the front seat kicks the beast into drive. It travels down the road like a ghost, feet off the ground, and by the time we make it to the abandoned house I don't want to get out. But I do anyway, gathering my wigs, body jewelry, and makeup from upstairs. I'm too embarrassed to bring any of my other stuff.

The last thing I do is leave a note for Dizzy. If he somehow escapes (he won't), or talks his way out of jail (he might), then I want him to know how to contact me.

Diz,

I'm going with a woman who says she'll give me a job. I'll earn enough cash to get you out of jail, and then come back. If you get this, and I'm still gone, call Greg. I'll keep in touch with him.

Domino

I leave the paper on the couch. It's hard to refrain from adding more to the letter. Like how I'm feeling with him gone. Or how I wonder if he'd do the same for me if the tables were turned.

Though I think about it, I don't tell the house good-bye. This isn't my real house, not like the one I'll have when I get enough money. So I just grab a T-shirt of Dizzy's on my way out and return to the idling vehicles.

Giant Boy opens my door again.

"Thank you," I say to his two-layered eyes.

He doesn't respond, but I don't miss the way his muscles tighten. I wonder if, when he works out, he uses these cars as bench-press weights. Black one on the right side of the bar, gold one on the left. Three sets of eight reps and he's all warmed up.

I step inside, and the door softly closes.

My makeup and jewelry is balled in Dizzy's T-shirt, but my wigs spill across my lap in a disheveled rainbow. Ms. Karina eyes them and smiles. She seems pleased that this is what I needed to retrieve.

"Let's go, Cain," she says to the boy.