Page 132 of Never Flinch

“It is.”

She nods. “Yes indeed it is. You sweatinhard.”

The black Lincoln glides away. Sista Bessie comes back. “You are nice to wait by the door for us,” she says. “I’ll probably spend most of the afternoon.”

Is that a thump from inside the van? Or his imagination? Trig has a crazy yet vivid memory of “The Tell-Tale Heart,” where the sound came from beneath the floorboards.Like a watch wrapped in cotton, Poe wrote, and how can he remember that from freshman year in high school? And why now?

Because all my plans can be undone by one cry from that van. Like a billion-dollar SpaceX rocket blowing up on the launching pad.

“I may even take a nap,” Sista says. “Wonderful dressing room. Big long couch. I’ve stayed in some real dumps in my time.”

“Lord, yes,” Alberta Wing says. “Remember Wild Bill’s in Memphis?”

“Thatplace!” Sista laughs. “I was singin away and this fella in the front row ejected his night’s worth of beer in his own lap. Never got up at all!”

Thatwasa thump. He’s sure of it.

“Let’s go in, ladies, out of the hot sun.” He ushers them into the kitchen and sees one of Corrie Anderson’s loafers lying on the linoleum. He kicks it aside, into the shadow of the door. “You know to take the elevator to three, Ms. Brady, right?”

“Oh, I know my way,” she says. “Two facts of show business: Know your way around the hall you’re singin at, and never lose track of your purse. Come on, Albie, through this little coffee bar.”

“I have to run an errand across town,” Trig says. “Don’t let anyone steal the silverware while I’m gone.”

Sista Bessie laughs. Alberta Wing doesn’t. Even in his distracted state, Trig thinks she’s a woman who doesn’t laugh much, and so what? All that matters is that they’re on their way. Out of his hair.

Back outside, he hears muffled yells from the back of the van. He opens one of the doors and sees the troublesome woman rolling from side to side, trying to get free, and yes, she has vomited. It’s on one cheek and in her hair.

He gets in back, shuts the doors, reaches into the pillowcase, and takes out the Taurus .22. He digs the muzzle into her breast. “I can stop you making noise this second. No one will hear the shot. Do you want that?”

She stills immediately, eyes wide and full of tears. “What do you want?” Slurry.

“You can live through this,” he says, which is a lie. “But you must be still.” He puts the gun in the pocket of his sportcoat and pulls a strip of tape from the roll.

She sees what he means to do and turns her head aside. “No! Please! My nose is clogged from throwing up! If you put that over my mouth I’ll suffocate!”

He takes the spare hypodermic out (there are others, fully loaded, in his desk drawer). Hypo in one hand, tape in the other. “Which do you prefer? Always assuming you want to go on living, that is.”

What if Sista Bessie comes out while he’s dealing with this troublesome woman? Sista Bessie wanting something else? Starsalwayswant something else. Bottles of water, fresh fruit, M&M’s, a fuckingmasseuse.

Corrie nods at the tape. “But poke a hole in it.”

Not knowing why he even gave her a choice (but feeling obscurely glad he did), Trig punches a hole in the strip of tape with the tip of the hypo and plasters it across her mouth. Only then does he realize he’s forgotten something.

“Listen to me. Are you listening?” So much to remember!

This will never work. It’s crazy.I’mcrazy. Daddy would laugh. Laugh and go upside my head.“Gone,”Daddy said. At the Holman Rink he said that, during one of the eighteen-minute intermissions.

“When he said that I knew,” he tells Corrie. “It was in his voice.” She only looks at him, eyes wide and brimming with tears. She doesn’t know what he’s talking about.Hedoesn’t know, either.

So he tells himself.

“Never mind that. I need to know your phone’s passcode. I’ll say numbers from zero to nine. Each time I get the right number, nod your head. Understand me?”

She nods.

“Give me the wrong code and you’ll be punished. Do you understandthat?”

Of course she does.

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