Brad frowned.
The hopeful had to think fast. Play to Flat-voice Paige. Look casual—acting! Brilliance!
He reached around. “Just below the waistband, so if it’s only partial—”
“Let’s see,” said Brad. “Take your shirt off.”
The hopeful looked to Paige for support.
She nodded. Sleepy-eyed. Losing interest.
Bitch!
He slipped his sweatshirt over his head.
“Turn around and pull your jeans down far enough for us to see the whole thing,” said Brad.
The hopeful did.
Silence.
Long silence.
He knew why.
Both of them staring. Grossed-out.
He put his hands on his hips, trying to distract them by showing off the big, defined muscles of his shoulders and back. Flex the triceps, flex the glutes. Nice, tight butt, he could control every muscle.
“How’d you get it?” said Brad.
“Hiking. Rock climbing. I fell, tore my back up, got stitched.”
“Not stitched very well,” said Brad. “That’s some scar.”
And the hopeful knew what he was thinking. What both of them were thinking:
Ugly.
Because it was. Pink, puckered, glossy. Keloid fibrosing. Especially conspicuous because the surrounding skin was so smooth and bronze. So perfect.
Severe keloiding. Crappy surgical technique, the books said. And genetics. Black people keloided a lot. In Africa it was considered a sign of beauty.
Well, I’m white!
The treatment: shots of cortisone right into the wound early on. Too late, now. The only hope, more surgery, and that was a big maybe. Not that he could afford it yet. In more ways than one. Open that can of worms . . .
“Must have been quite a fall,” said Brad. Smugness in his voice.
It set off the feeling.
Like turning on a steam spigot.
Hot, boiling, iron-foundry rage. Foaming up from his gut and working its way to his chest. Like a heart attack, but he’d been through the nights of panics, cold sweats, knew his heart was fine. His heart . . .
His hands wanted to clench and he forced them to remain open. Forced the sweat to remain inside.
No one talked.
The hopeful kept his back to the two of them, knowing the smallest glimpse of the rage would kill any chance he had for a good-guy part.
Like there was still a chance. But keep going. In this business, you just keep going. . . .
“What mountain were you climbing?” said Paige, and he knew she was mocking him.
Okay, thanks, babe. Ciao.
Don’t call us, we’ll call you.
“Does it matter?” he said, slipping the sweatshirt on and turning around.
Nearly falling over in surprise.
Because Brad and Paige were holding guns and badges.
“Looks more like a surgical scar,” said Brad. “Looks more like some kind of serious operation. Isn’t that part of the back where the kidney is?”
The hopeful didn’t answer.
Brad said, “And the Oscar goes to . . . okay, put your hands behind your back, Mr. Muscadine, and don’t move.”
Smiling. Judging.
Some of the rage must have leaked through because Brad’s smile died and his green eyes got even brighter. Yet colder. The hopeful had never known green could get that cold. . . . He took a step backward.
“Easy, pal,” said Fat Brad. “Let’s make this easy.”
“Up with the hands, Reed,” said Paige. Sharp voice, hostile, no longer on his side. Never on his side.
He stood there. Looked at them.
Poor specimens. Pathetic.
He was very big, very strong, could probably do some damage.
Not that it would make a difference in the long run.
But what the hell, might as well get something out of this shitty afternoon.
He dove for Paige.
Because he really didn’t like women.
Tried for a jaw-breaking punch but only managed to slap her fucking face before Brad hit him on the back of his head and he went down.
CHAPTER
36
After the uniforms took Reed Muscadine away, I came out from behind the dirty mirror.
Milo drank Evian water and plucked at his Hawaiian shirt. “Sleek, huh?”
Detective Paige Bandura said, “I think it suits you, Brad.”
“That right?”
“Sure. Nice and caj. Joe Beachbum.”
“Caj.” He looked at me. “So what do you think?”
“I think you could have a new career. Hell, maybe you can be Dirk.”