‘% Hammer wasn’t so sure this was the right time to introduce Cahoon to the Presto Grill. Trouble seemed to rise from the street like heat, and she had not gotten where she was in life by ignoring her instincts. Only in her personal life had she looked the other way, turned the volume down low, and denied. She swung off into the All Right parking lot across from the grill, and motioned out her window for Cahoon to follow. He stopped by her unmarked car and his window hummed down.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Park and get in,” she said.
“What?”
She furtively scanned their surroundings. Something bad was out there.
She could feel its foulness, detect the scent of the beast. There was no time to waste.
“I can’t leave my car here,” Cahoon reasonably pointed out, because the Mercedes would be the only car in the lot, and possibly the only vehicle within fifty miles, that cost roughly one hundred and twenty thousand dollars.
Hammer got the dispatcher on the air.
“Send a unit to the All Right parking lot, five hundred block West Trade, to watch a late-model black Mercedes until I give further notice.”
W Radar, the dispatcher, was none too fond of Hammer, for she, too, was female. But she was the chief, and he, at least, had the good sense to be afraid of the bitch. Radar had no idea what she was doing out on the street, especially at this hour. He sent two units while Poison smiled knowingly and took her time reaching the passenger’s window of Brazil’s car. She leaned inside like she did all the time, and took an inventory of the groomed leather interior. She noted the briefcase, pens, Charlotte
Observer notepads, old black leather bomber jacket, and, most of all, the police scanner and two-way radio.
“You police?” she drawled, a little confused about just who the hell Blondie was.
“A reporter. With the Observer,” Brazil said, because he was not police anymore. West had made that clear.
Poison appraised him with dangerous flirtation. A reporter’s money was as good as any, and now she knew the truth. Blondie wasn’t a snitch.
He was the one writing those stories that had Punkin Head so cranky and out of control.
“What you trading, little boy?” she asked.
“Information.” Brazil’s heart was thudding hard.
“I’ll pay for it.”
Poison’s eyes gleamed, her lips parting in an amused, gap-toothed smile. She slinked around to his side of the car, and leaned in his window. Her fragrance was cloying, like incense.
“What kind you want, little boy?” she asked.
Brazil was wary but intrigued. He’d never dealt with anything like this, and he imagined experienced, worldly men and their secret pleasures. He wondered if they were scared when they let someone like this in their car. Did they ever ask her name or want to know anything about her?
“What’s been going on around here,” he nervously went on.
“The murders. I’ve seen you around, in the area, I mean. For a while. Maybe you know something.”
“Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t,” she said, trailing a finger down his shoulder.
West was driving fast, passing the same bad places Brazil had moments earlier. Hammer wasn’t too far behind her, Cahoon riding shotgun, wide-eyed as he surveyed a reality far removed from his own.
“Will cost you fifty, little boy,” Poison said to Brazil.
He didn’t have that much in the bank, and wasn’t about to let her know.
“Twenty-five,” he negotiated, as if he did it all the time.
Poison backed up, appraising him and thinking about Punkin Head in its van, watching. It had yelled at her and slapped her around this morning. It had hurt her in places no one could see, because of what Blondie had put in the paper. Poison started feeling hateful about it, and made a decision that perhaps wasn’t very wise, considering she and Punkin Head had already whacked one rich dude tonight, meeting their quota for the week, and cops were all around.
She seemed amused by something Brazil didn’t know, and she pointed.
“See that corner there, little boy?” she said. That old apartment building? Nobody in it no more. Meet you back there, ’cause we can’t be talking here. “