Page 30 of Slow Burn

“I’ll take care of you,” Robby promised. Velvet coughed; it sounded wet.

“What, again?” she asked, and laughed.

Robby felt a tickle of relief and laughed, too, leaned forward and put her arm under Velvet’s shoulders. Velvet tried to get up and failed, kicked off her too-high shoes and succeeded. Robby grabbed the shoes and stuck them in her coat pocket.

“Don’t know why you wear the damned things,” she murmured, and felt the pulse of Velvet’s laugh through her shoulders.

“Basketball.”

Jim heard them coming and swung the door open before she could knock. Robby stopped and squinted in the sudden light. She couldn’t see his face in the glare, only a silhouette like Sol’s. She paused and waited. The silence stretched. She thought he might close the door, but then he turned and stepped back. She barely heard his low rough voice say, “I’m not that scared, Robby.”

Chapter Eleven

Ming

Ming had only been in the office twice—once, in the beginning, to let her know the risks of failure, and now. She had forgotten how dizzingly high it was, views of mist-gray clouds and a dim maze of streets below. The furniture was padded, the carpet lush, the colors warm and comforting.

It should not have frightened her so.

“Do you understand me?” the man on the other side of the desk asked. She nodded. Such a piggish little man, overweight, overdressed—he might have been one of her clients, coming to her for whippings and bootlickings and harnesses strapped cruelly tight. But this was a man who would never release control, never. “Tell me what you understand.”

“You want no word of this event on the street. No rumors. No hints of trouble.” She was surprised that her voice was so steady, so smooth; so many years of performing had armored her better than she’d suspected.

Another nod of her head, a gesture of respect. The man behind the desk blinked dead-quiet eyes. She thought about extinguishing a cigarette in the dark well of his pupils. The imagined humid smell washed over her.

“And how do we keep her from talking?” he asked. Ming sat completely still, staring over his shoulder at the smoky gray of mist, the deceptive comfort of other offices in facing buildings. No one would see what happened here. No one would know. There were places in the world where the law did not reach—here—a room in Taiwan. A quiet room.

She pulled herself from memory and met his eyes.

“The surest way is to close the girl’s mouth,” she said. They both understood what was meant. “But if I may, this would be a great loss. She is very beautiful, very skilled. You will have many years of profit from her.”

“I don’t like the risk.”

“With respect, I questioned her myself. If you fear she knows what she should not—it is not so. She knows nothing of the man but the manner of his death. Even if she should talk unwisely, no one will believe her. No one.”

The man at the desk studied Ming for a few seconds, then picked up a silver letter opener. As he toyed with it, the edge reflected hot silver, glittered in her eyes. Had he meant to aim it so? Afraid, so afraid—she had left Paolo downstairs, as requested, but, of course, Paolo would not have helped her. He was an animal with a keen survival instinct. If he were here in this room, he would be holding her down for the cuts. She shut her eyes for a brief eternal second and saw herself bleeding, substituted the man in her place, held a knife under his arm where the scars would be nearly invisible.

“How many years?” the man asked. Her eyes flew open.

“Sir?”

“How many years have you worked for us?”

“Seven, sir.”

“You run a good business,” the man said. He studied the letter opener, the sharp edges. She knew how it would feel to have that edge drawn along her skin. In her mind she ground a sharp metal heel in his soft skin. He opened his mouth to scream, and the stub of his tongue sprayed blood.

“Thank you, sir,” she managed to reply. His smile flashed and was gone, like light from the knife’s edge.

“I’ll take your advice, Ming, for now. But if she makes trouble for me, you’ll wish you’d never opened your mouth. Understand?”

The cutting of his tongue was not enough. She stuffed a rubber ball in his mouth and fastened it in place with a strap, picked out her favorite lash. Perhaps, for the occasion, she’d add razor blades. His dark eyes, so wide with terror. Perhaps now the cigarette. Perhaps now—

“I understand perfectly.”

She stood up when he did, bowed low in the Oriental fashion she knew he would expect. He was a small man, really, hardly taller than she, with neat hands and small fingers.

She did not know his name, and had never wanted to.

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