Page 26 of Slow Burn

Mr. Four said, “If she’s lucky.” He gripped the fire extinguisher in white-knuckled hands.

“At this point, she’ll begin to feel some pain through the disorientation,” Ed said. He’d judged the time perfectly. Ms. Three jerked hard against her bonds, making a high thin squealing noise. The heavy chair jumped and moved sluggishly side to side as she thrashed. He flinched as she thrashed; somehow he hadn’t expected that, the terror, the hysteria. It made it all seem so unpleasant.

A thin wisp of smoke came out of the coat.

“Oh my God,” said Mr. One, almost reverently.

“Yes, yes, quite right. That’s enough. Mr. Four? Ah, Mr. Four?” Ed swallowed hard as the flames blossomed white, bright as magnesium flares. The stink of burning meat made them all flinch, but the sound was worse, sizzle, sizzle, bacon in a pan. Ed kept his seat with an effort and tried again. “Mr. Four, if you wouldn’t mind, please, Mr. Four, you have the extinguisher. Sir? Mr. Four—now, please—”

“Put her out!” yelled Mr. One. He was on his feet, eyes wide. “Christ, man, you made your fucking point, put her out!”

Mr. Four cradled the fire extinguisher in his arms and rested his chin on the safety-locked valve. Ms. Three’s pastel chair jittered and jerked and blackened with heat and the cooking juices of her body. Mr. One took a hesitant step toward him, and Mr. Four turned. He had an unpleasantly gleeful shine in his eyes.

Ed licked his lips and said. “Mr. Four, please. Please.” How had things gone sowrong?He’d just wanted a simple demonstration, yes, of course, she would have died, but not likethis, not this ghastly piece of—

Mr. Four popped the pin and sprayed the black corroded thing with white foam. There was surprisingly little smoke, but the smell was hideous, burst bowels, cooked muscle. Mr. One retreated to the windows and stood looking out blindly at the sunshine. The skyline of Las Vegas looked carnival-bright in the glare.

All right, all right. Ed took a deep breath through his mouth, tasting acrid grease, and cleared his throat. He struggled to put his mind back on the business at hand, because business it was, important business. Clearly Mr. One, though laudably conscientious, wouldn’t be a reliable repeat customer, and all good business was founded on repeat customers. Equally clearly, he couldnotsell to Mr. Four. The man was alunatic.

Ed built himself a sturdy Scotch and soda, and drank it fast without tasting it.

“Impressive,” said Mr. Two, the IRA man. “I’m prepared to buy now. Exclusively, of course. If you’re fixing drinks, I’m up for one.”

Ed turned in relief, Scotch bottle extended like a welcoming hand.

Mr. Five drew a gun from his coat, a silenced automatic, and coolly shot Mr, Four in the forehead. Blood flecked the wallpaper. As Mr. Two went for his own weapon, Five shot him twice in the heart.

Mr. One didn’t even have time to turn away from the window. His head made a dreadful mess on the glass.

Ed was still gaping, shuddering, when Mr. Five holstered his gun and stepped across the bodies to take his hand and shake it firmly.

“My name is Fathi el Haddiz, Mr. Julian,” he said. He was still smiling. His eyes were warm and amused. “Terribly sorry about the carpet, but then I don’t suppose you were planning on paying for the cleaning, were you?”

His life was teetering on a tiny, tiny edge. Ed thought about his Sales Power Seminars, all his Self-Affirmation classes, and took a deep breath and said, “I’m looking forward to doing business with you, sir.”

Chapter Ten

Robby

Sol counted bills with a slow math-impaired style that made Robby want to bounce him off a wall. She exchanged a long burning-hot look with Jim and went to the kitchen, looking for something, anything, to kill time. Maybe she’d make Mark’s oatmeal cookies—but then again, unless it came pre-mixed in a roll, she was sure to screw it up. She opened the refrigerator and found a bottle of Sprite, poured herself a glass, and searched Jim’s cabinets for something to chew on so she wouldn’t say anything stupid. Graham crackers. She poured a pile on a plate and carried them back.

Sol had worked his torturous way through six stacks of cash. There was one left. She sat down next to Jim on the couch and shared the crackers. Since this wasn’t a work day, he was dressed in a hunter green shirt and faded blue jeans, clean and comfortable. His hair was combed into a gray brown shag around his rough face. She felt a perilous urge to relax against his warmth, knew he’d put his arm around her.

She didn’t relax. There was no sense giving Sol more leverage than he already had.

Kelly sat curled up in the armchair, reading a romance novel with a pastel-and-glitter cover. She shot Robby jealous glances from time to time—she’d probably heard about Sol’s intimate little dinner and taken exactly the wrong interpretation. Robby remembered to smile.

“You’re short,” Sol finally said. His head jerked up, and the cold eyes behind the bifocals were hot now, angry. “Jim, Jim, my friend. What, you think I’m too stupid to count?”

Jim, Robby knew, thought exactly that, and he was right. Sol was an idiot, and Jim might be a thief, but he was a goddamnprofessionalthief, not a top-skimming amateur. She kept her mouth shut, her eyes down. Nibbled a graham cracker. It tasted like dust and chemicals.

“How much is it short?” Jim asked neutrally. Sol glanced down at the cash as if he’d written the total on top.

“Two-eighty-eight.”

Robby risked a look at Jim’s face; it didn’t tell her anything at all. Across from her Kelly had put down her book and was watching with what looked like dread but Robby suspected was really fascination.

“You know I wouldn’t do that, Sol,” Jim answered. He sounded a lot calmer than Robby felt; that was why, as they’d always agreed, he did the talking. “Why would I?”

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