Page 40 of Slow Burn

Lenny looked a lot less than impressed. In fact, he tapped his pencil eraser on the table and stared at her, waiting. She scowled back.

“Like I said, the wiseguys did it,” she finally said. He brightened.

“Wow! Really? The mob?”

“Themob,” she echoed mockingly. “You sound like a bad fifties movie. People are freaked on the street, Lenny, really. This friend of mine, she wouldn’t even tell me much about it, except she saw this guy bubbling on the linoleum. It’s the wiseguys, all right. People are scared shitless.”

“Damn,” Lenny breathed. He scribbled furiously, tongue working in his cheek. “I’ll get right over to theNewsand see what they’ve got in the files. Maybe make a couple of calls to some police friends. Great. This is great. Mafia torches rivals. Great.”

“Yeah, great.” Velvet had already lost interest. The three hundred was warming up in her shirt, getting hot enough to spend. She needed some decent makeup, a good thick breakfast steak, a really fine piece of French Silk Chocolate Pie. Then she’d decide what to do next.

“Uh, I’ll need your friend’s name. For the records, you know.”

“Yeah,” Velvet nodded absently. “Robby MacReady. Hey, what is today?”

“Today?” Lenny sounded more mystified than usual. He tapped his pencil on his lips. “Friday.”

Friday. Something about Friday. Something—

“Friday,” she said out loud, sitting up straight. Lenny stopped writing and looked up at her warily, like it was “Jeopardy” and he didn’t know the question. “Jesus, isn’t Burt Marshall’s funeral today?”

“Yeah, that’s right. Two o’clock.” He continued to look mystified as she dug in the pockets of her coat, came up with three colored condoms, a stick of Cinnaburst gum, two pennies, and a nickel.

“Quarter,” she demanded. He dug in his pants and found one. “Great. I’ll owe you.”

She left him still asking questions, and hobbled up the steps as fast as her aching ribs would let her move. Damn, they’d seemed a lot shorter going down. Once she’d made it to the top, she stopped and pressed a hand against her side before starting across the big marble wasteland in front of the building. Some idiot had left the fountains turned on, and a spray of ice-cold water lashed across her bruised face. The pain would have made her sick if she’d had any food to be sick with and, always perverse, her stomach rumbled.

The rotunda in front of the building was thick expensive-looking glass. It looked kind of like a greenhouse, growing more marble. She pushed through two sets of revolving doors and entered a lobby with—surprise—more marble, and a big engraved metal sign that said SECURITY and pointed a discreet but urgent arrow left.

She went right.

She got about fifty feet before a guy in a blue polyester blazer and tan pants fell in beside her, looking pleasant except around the eyes. He had a cheap-looking gold badge pinned on his jacket. There was a bulge under his jacket that she hoped was a paper-back book, but he didn’t look like much of a reader.

“Help you, miss?” he asked. She shot him a quick cold look like she’d seen Ming do.

“Phone,” she demanded. “Quickly, please.”

“Are you visiting a tenant?” he asked. It didn’t sound quite so pleasant. Damn.

“No, I’m just looking for a telephone, dear.” She tried a smile. “Please.”

He put out an arm to stop her. Just as well, she was heading for another dead-end marble wall; the place was decorated in Early Crypt.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, there are no public telephones here. If you don’t mind—”

At the end of the wall was a discreet little alcove that didn’t have a saint’s statue in it, or a vase full of dead flowers; the gold letters above it said TELEPHONE. Velvet smiled with all her teeth at the security guy, who didn’t smile back.

“Oh, thank you so much for your kindness, I see it right there. Thanks. Won’t be a minute¡” She darted around him and crossed to the alcove. When she looked back he was waiting, staring, ready to mow her down if she tried to pry a piece of marble off the wall or something. She stepped into the alcove and above her a spotlight came on, lighting up the phone. She fed it a quarter and dialed.

“Hello?” Robby sounded dead asleep. Velvet checked her watch. God, it was—almost seven o’clock. Didn’t the woman ever get up?

“Hey, Robby, glad I caught you. Remember how you said to ask if I needed anything?”

Wet smacking sounds on the other end of the phone. Robby was tasting her morning breath, probably squinting at the clock and trying to figure out what century it was.

“Yeah,” she said fuzzily. “Who is this?”

“Velvet. Listen. Want to go to a funeral?”

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