Page 47 of Slow Burn

Truthfully, her ankle felt like burning sticks and baling wire, popping when she put her weight on it. The pain made her off-balance, and she stiff-armed the doors awkwardly; the massive pane of glass swung out and hummed like a bell when it hit a doorstop. She sprinted out into a wall of freezing wind.

The guard was close enough that she heard him grunt with effort. Her ankle popped again, a hot thick sound in the night air. Overhead, the moon glared, bloody with the edge of sunset.

A ghostly sea of cars and thick shadows. People walking to or from them stared as she ran, darting between rows of Cadillacs and BMWs and Infinitis; a few ticked like bombs as their engines cooled. She ducked behind a smoke-tinted gray Volvo and carefully peeked around for the guard.

He stood in the middle of the row, scanning cars. He had one hand in his jacket. Jesus, was he armed? He could have shot her. She felt a wave of weakness and ducked as his gaze swept her direction.

A police car, lights flashing cheery red and blue, turned in from the highway and cruised toward her. Robby swallowed hard and flattened out on the gritty asphalt, slid under the Volvo. The engine was still welcomely warm. She lay on her back in a sticky smear of oil, and breathed shallow gasps that tasted of exhaust.

The patrol car cruised by, tires crunching. She folded her arms over her chest and waited, staring blankly at the blackened metal hovering a few inches above her nose.

Jim would have disposed of the wallets by now, changed clothes, exited at the other side of the mall. He’d be catching a bus.

Robby blew out her breath and grimaced as a drop of warm sticky oil fell on her forehead and oozed into her hair.

She remembered, for no particular reason, the lost look on Velvet’s face as she’d left her there on the corner.

Chapter Seventeen

Sol

The hooker did a lot of bargain shopping. Sol Lip-sky glared at the picture hanging crookedly on the wall by her front door—big-eyed fluffy cats in a flaking gold frame—and rummaged through the mail lying on the battered table. Sales circulars. Electric bill. An offer to apply for a secured credit card. A letter from somebody who used cheap white envelopes and blue ballpoints—Mom, he decided. Handwriting too good for anybody younger.

He ripped it open and read the first couple of paragraphs. Bullshit, bullshit, pig shit, farmer shit. It made a satisfying crisp crunch when he crumpled it and tossed it on the floor with the rest of the mess. She hadn’t sent any money home, or Mom would have mentioned it in between the hog reports. That meant it was still here, someplace; he’d never met a hooker yet who’d believed in banks. She’d want it here, where she could touch it.

Little whore. He’d give her something to touch. If he had to kick her around to make his point, fine. He would, one way or another, get his money back, and make sure none of his people got any ideas about holding back again.

He’d already emptied Velvet’s cheap dresser; the cheap underwear lay in a red and black tangle on the ratty carpet, and now he yanked the drawers out and checked the backs, the sides, the bottoms. Nothing. Nothing inside the dresser frame, either. He kicked it apart, just to be sure.

“Honey?” That was Kelly, sitting on the bed where he’d told her to wait. He glanced over. She looked scared. That was good. He was doing half of this shit for her benefit. “Honey, let’s go. This is stupid. She wouldn’t keep anything here.”

“It’s here,” he said flatly. “Whores don’t keep Swiss bank accounts. You, sit there and shut up. Read a book or something. Let me do my job.”

She looked down at her clenched hands, red lips trembling. He thought for a second about fucking her in the whore’s bed, but he really didn’t have the time and, anyway, Kelly was getting stale. Enthusiastic, but not too bright. Robby, now … Robby would fuck nice. He stared at Kelly’s too-round breasts for a couple more seconds, thinking about Robby, and felt pressure build in his groin.

Shit. He reached over and ripped more pictures off the wall, big-eyed cats and big-eyed kids, something a teenager would hang in a locker. Nothing behind the prints but mildew-laced cardboard.

He yanked open the closet door and started pulling clothes. She liked Spandex and cheap plastic, everything tight. He held up a pair of thigh-high black patent fetish boots. Kelly brightened.

“What size?” she asked. He shrugged and tossed them to her, went back to ripping pockets and adding to the growing pile on the carpet. Behind him, he heard her grunt as she tried to squeeze fat legs into thin boots. That would keep her busy for a while.

“Ow!”

Sol picked a stiff black velvet jacket off a hanger and probed the pockets. Second-hand from a dead old lady, it still smelled of mothballs and gardenias.

“Sol!”

“What?” he snarled, and glanced back to see her staring at something in her hand. A wad of green. Had to be at least a thousand.

“It was in the boot,” she explained as he grabbed it off her palm. He snapped the rubber band and fanned the bills—old, limp, used. They smelled like mold and sweaty feet. “Is that all of it?”

“Shit, who cares? It’s enough.” He sat down on the bed next to her. Dead presidents stared up from his sweating fingers. “Good enough. Good enough.”

“Sol?” She sounded tentative, scared. He looked over at her and flashed her a grin.

“Let’s celebrate.” He stared at her breasts and stroked a handful of money along her throat, down the shadow of her cleavage. “Right here. How about that?”

“Here?” She sounded doubtful.

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