Page 6 of Slow Burn

“Died,” she said solemnly. “Yeah. Hope sho.”

She started crying again, because Burt had been so nice, so goddamn nice, and she hardly even realized Robby was getting up until another twenty hit the table and stuck to scattered drops of vodka.

It hit Velvet late, and hard, that the look in Robby’s eyes had been familiar.

Jesus God, she thought through the fog.She’s seen it, too. She’s seen it.

Her ass was just about Velcroed to the chair, but she stumbled up, somehow. Her ankles kept folding over on her. She stripped off the high heels and stuck them in the pockets of the mink and made it to the door, to blinding sunlight and nauseating noise and traffic.

Where the hell—

Ah. There she was. Blue jeans and sweatshirt, walking away down the sidewalk.

Velvet put her left hand on the building and lurched off in pursuit.

Chapter Three

Robby

The DON’T WALK sign glared red. Robby glared back at it and bounced the briefcase impatiently on her thigh. Two feet ahead, traffic spilled by in a stream of bright paint and choking exhaust.Damnthat hooker, it had started out such a good day.

Her neck prickled alarm. She resisted the urge to turn and look, aware of the damning weight of wallets in her briefcase. Probably just a bicycle cop. She’d just ignore it and—

“Hey!” A drunken smear of sound. Robby’s neck locked tight. “Hey, wait!”

She stared fixedly ahead at the red DON’T WALK sign, willing it to change. The traffic lights blinked yellow, yellow, yellow—

The sign lazily changed to WALK, and traffic swirled to a disappointed stop. She crossed briskly—not quite running—into the intersection, and made it as far as the left-hand turn lane; the brief blast of warmth from a revving Volvo’s front end felt surprisingly good. She hadn’t realized how cold the wind had turned.

The WALK sign flickered threateningly, then wavered to a red DON’T, and the lights, never quite on cycle, changed while she was still in the street a few steps from the sidewalk. Close enough. Confidence and relief spread out warm over her body. The curb, a brisk walk to the warehouse—and escape. No more bullshit, thank god.

Brakes squealed behind her with a sound like grating knives. Like Lot’s wife, Robby turned to look over her shoulder and saw the hooker frozen a few steps behind her in the middle of the lane, staring white-faced at the oncoming shiny grille of a pickup truck.

No time for thought, no time for anything. Robby leaned back, caught a wet fistful of mink, and pulled as hard as she could. The hooker, overbalanced, pin-wheeled past her, tripped on the curb, and skidded to her hands and knees.

The pickup truck skated by, tires smoking. Robby’s sneaker left a kamikaze smear on its blood red side as she jumped for the safety of the sidewalk. The truck fishtailed another thirty feet before straightening. As she caught her balance with one arm around a light pole, the cowboy at the wheel looked back, white-faced, and hit the gas.

Robby gulped deep breaths and looked down at the hooker, who scuffled her bare feet on the concrete and managed to roll to a spread-legged sitting position. The woman stared mournfully at the long dirty skinned patches on her knees, the ruin of her hose. There was a cut on her chin, and it dripped fresh crimson beads on her blue dress.

“Ow,” she said. “Shit. Goddamn shit.”

Robby had her mouth open to ask where she’d lost her shoes, but the sound of that voice—she took a deep breath to flush the shakes out of her system, turned her back, and started walking. The hell with the hookerandher shoes.

She didn’t get far before she heard fabric tearing and looked back to see the hooker lurch to her bare feet. The dress hem slouched wearily in the front, dangling strings like jellyfish tentacles.

“Hey!” the hooker yelled again, pointing vaguely at her. “Hey, you—robot—ah—”

Robby flinched and ducked her head, staring determinedly ahead. People stared in her direction-past her toward the hooker, who was probably weaving in pursuit. It seemed so damn undignified to run—not to mention dangerous, if any cops were around. She was only a block from the warehouse and safety, but still—

Ahead, a police car slid greasily around the corner and cruised in her direction. Good. They’d reel in the hooker, dry her out … by morning she’d have forgotten all about—

“Hey, stop!” the hooker yelled. Her voice cracked, and it sounded like she was crying. “Hey—please—hey—lady, you gotta—hey, you,thief, I’m talkin’ to you!”

Robby did not—quite—stop in her tracks. She made a tight circle of steps and walked back in the hooker’s direction, thinking calmly,I can’t kill her, if I kill her, they’ll arrest me. Maybe I can just hurt her a little.

She stared at the hooker as she walked toward her, the drowned-cat mink hanging half off her shoulders, the torn dress, the bare feet. Pathetic as a big-eyed drunk clown.

When Robby was within a few steps, the hooker said in a lost quiet voice, “Please don’t leave me.”

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