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.
^ iy 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.
vsy “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. ”
Poison stared into a dark alleyway across the street, where Punkin Head watched from
inside its windowless van in dark shadows. It knew what she was up to, and was aroused
by it, and in a mood to murder, since it was taking less and less time for it to cool down
and get the tension again. Punkin Head felt an insatiable rage toward Blondie that was
more exciting than sex. It couldn’t wait to watch that fucking snitch soil his fancy jeans
and beg on his knees before the almighty Punkin Head. It had never wanted to ruin
anything more in its despicable, low, nasty, hate-filled life, and its excitement mounted
unbearably.
H^ West spotted Brazil’s car up ahead. She saw the hooker walking off as Brazil drove to the corner and took a right. She saw the old, windowless van slide out of the dark
alleyway, like an eel.
“Christ!” West panicked.
“Andy, no!”
She grabbed the radio and slammed down the accelerator, flipping on strobing lights.
“Seven hundred requesting backups!” she screamed on the air.
“Two hundred block West Trade. Now!”
vy Hammer heard the broadcast, too, and sped up.
“Shit,” she said.
“What the hell’s going on?” Cahoon was on red alert, in military mode, ready to take out the enemy.
“Don’t know, but it’s not good.” She threw on her lights, whelping her siren as she passed people.
“You got an extra gun handy?” Cahoon asked.
He was in the Marines again, launching grenades at North Koreans, crawling through the
blood of his buddies. Nobody went through that and came out the same. Nobody messed
with Cahoon, because he knew something they didn’t. There were worst things than
dying, the fear of it being one of them. He unfastened his seatbelt.
Vft “Put that back on,” Hammer told him as they flew.
West was trying to find a place to do a U-turn, and finally gave up.