Page 39 of Slow Burn

He turned his head and saw Zeke gasp his last breath. The carpet was wet and sandpaper-rough against his cheek.

Dwayne had to wonder whether or not he’d really been baptized at all, or whether he’d have to go in there again.

Chapter Fifteen

Velvet

When Velvet rounded the corner, she saw Lenny Bradshaw huddled in the doorway of Fong’s Deli, shifting miserably from one foot to the other while he blew on his white fingers. The cold had put little pink roses in his cheeks. He looked like an ad for L.L. Bean in his ski sweater and khaki coat and Docker pants. Hiking boots, too. Christ, he looked ready for the Vermont woods, not downtown Dallas.

“Forget your gloves?” she asked sweetly. He glanced at her, away, and then at her again as his eyes widened. She adjusted her brassy red wig—six bucks at the local Salvation Army store—and skated her dark wraparound shades down her nose to let him recognize her.

“My god, what happened to you?” he asked. She’d tried covering the bruises up with Robby’s limited supply of makeup, but Cover Girl standard issue just wasn’t cutting the mustard.

“Your mom punched me out.”

“Very funny.” He kept staring at her, fascinated. “Uh, the deli’s not open yet. It’s too early.”

“No shit, Sherlock, they teach you that in reporter school? We’re going down the block. Someplace quiet.”

He didn’t look especially happy about it, but he fell in next to her. His hiking boots made thick slapping sounds; they made Velvet’s steps in Robby’s too-large tennis shoes sound dainty. Don’t dance with this guy, she reminded herself. And if you fuck him, make him take his shoes off.

A yellow DART bus chuffed by in a blast of warmth and diesel smoke; the driver had a glazed robotic gleam in his eyes. Overhead, the clouds clotted gray and ugly. The day had a metallic taste to it that clung to her tongue like fuzz. She swallowed and wished for breakfast. Coffee. Pastries that melted in her mouth. Sugar to jump-start the day.

Maybe a Baby Ruth.

“You said you had something?” Bradshaw prodded as he scuffled along. She turned the collar on her coat up to keep her ears warm against the wind.

“Yeah, well, don’t worry, they have treatments for it.” She glanced over at his choirboy face and saw him frowning as he tried to work it out. “Never mind. Yeah, I got something. Something hot. You’ll love it.”

“Well,tellme.”

“Not so fast. Cash.”

He tried to flash a roll but almost dropped it, She told him to keep it in his pants and took him around the corner. They went down a twisting flight of marble stairs in the shadow of a fifty-story high rise whose contractor must have had a brother-in-law in the marble business. At the bottom was a shopping mall, glass and aluminum with indoor-outdoor carpet with CLOSED signs in the windows, and some wrought-iron chairs and tables for fine outdoor dining. She parked herself in one of the chairs and gestured him to another one. He perched like a granny in a whorehouse.

“How’d you get the black eye?” Lenny asked. He sounded almost concerned.

“Do you want the stuff, or not?”

“I can’t pay you more than three hundred. Orders.” Lenny looked devastated. “My editor kicked my butt over the last time.”

“My heart bleeds. Three hundred’ll do it. This time.”

She reached for the bills he passed over and slid them in under her blouse. Lenny took out his little Nancy Drew notebook and looked eager.

“Yeah, like I told you on the phone, my guy, Burt, he wasn’t the first one.”

“First one?” He was looking confused. “Well, I know you’re a professional—”

“Asshole, I mean the first one to flame out, get it? There was some guy who was a fence or something, burned up in his apartment less than a year ago.”

“Ah. Great. Name?”

She shrugged. Lenny bit his lip. He had small teeth that looked like he didn’t use them much.

“You don’t know his name?”

“Well, excuse the hell out of me, I didn’t have time to do your job for you, newsboy. He died the same way as Burt, laying on the floor black as a Cajun steak. Another one of those darn ‘smoking accidents.’”

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