by Stacia Kane
Berta stepped forward. “Which one?”
“Both of em.” Terrible nodded toward Brian. “He the one in charge.”
“Him be the one got me,” Clapper Sue said, nodding toward Archie. Looked like she were tryna shoot lasers out her eyes. “Be him.”
Drina nodded. “Same’s me.”
Essie sniffed the air. “Ain’t certain looks like he, but knowing that smell, I do.”
Brian were tryna get up; Terrible planted his foot in Brian’s back. “Want me takin em inside?”
“To the shed.”
Terrible did, pulling them behind him, around the back of the house. Berta followed, and behind her the whores, all silent. Whatany they planned doing to Brian and Tom weren’t gonna be pretty; and weren’t aught they’d let Terrible stick around to watch, neither, much as he kinda wished he could. Were up to them. Were their business. Another a them situations where they had their own laws.
Besides, he had to get over to Bump’s, let him know what happened and hand over the file, ask on Lacey and Vole and find out what Bump wanted done about the dude owned the Peace Factory: maybe he’d want him dead, maybe he’d just want him threatened. Could come in handy for Bump, somebody owned a business like that one—once he got it rebuilt, if he was gonna get it rebuilt. All that lighter fluid and explosives might mean insurance ain’t would pay out. Which, too fucking bad for him. No sympathy there, neither.
He gave Berta a nod and headed back to his car. The screams started before he got halfway down the street.
Were only midnight when he left Bump’s place a few hours later with a new list of shit needed doing. He’d be paying a visit to the owner of the Peace Factory the next night, paying a visit with a bag of pills and a gun to help the dude swallow them pills. Bump ain’t had a use for he after all.
Which were what Terrible had expected. Anybody gave the aye to a plan like that—and he had, he’d known all of what were happening, the file proved that—weren’t to be trusted noways. Were fine by Terrible, too; he ain’t exactly liked the thought of having to deal with that dude. And this way it’d be over. Really over.
Except for who killed Slick. That one still bothered him. Bump kept blowing it off, like it ain’t mattered. And aye, he could be right. Just like they’d said back when all it started, Slick had a reputation, and Terrible could think on more’n one reason why some dude might want him dead.
But still it bugged him. Not knowing bugged him.
Just like how things got left with Amy bugged him. Nothing he could do on that one, at all. “Sorry” couldn’t fix that problem. He ain’t thought anything could fix that problem, least not anything he were prepared to do, or anything were possible for him to do. Even not seeing Chess no more wouldn’t change how he felt about her, or that Amy knew it. Not seeing Chess no more wouldn’t change what Amy’d said to him or that it were true, neither. No, best thing to do was leave Amy be. He’d done enough to her.
And he ain’t wanted to think on it just then, neither. He’d done something that night. He’d solved the—well, not the case, it weren’t a case like what Chess had at she work, but he’d caught those Peace Factory shitheads, and now they were in the City of Eternity with the rest of the dead and the whores were safe again. Felt good, despite the nagging worry, despite how he wanted to have a chatter with Bump on maybe keeping up the extra security.
But all that he could worry on later. For now he just wanted to be satisfied. And more’n that, he were kinda proud of heself. He’d figured it out, on his own. Been his idea getting Roley over to that apartment, been him who ain’t trusted Roley from the first. Him who’d thought of them maybe doing magic and him who’d checked on the Peace Factory. Aye, he’d done shit like that before, too, but this time it were all him. Maybe he ain’t done as good a job as Chess might, seeing as how she done that shit for her job and she were so much smarter than him and all, but he’d done it just the same. That were pretty cool.
Coursen, he wished he ain’t had to do any of it, but still.
He got into the Chevelle and started it up, rolled down the windows to clear that cheap-soap smell. Oughta head home, he ought. The next day’d be a full one. Aside from all the shit Bump gave him to do, he had fifty bucks to hand over to Edsel—Ed hadn’t been real helpful, but he ain’t needed to know that, and Chess’d be glad to hear he’d gotten a lashback—and a long list of them with owes. Plus it were Tuesday, always the busiest for him causen that’s when he went around to collect protection money.
But he were still keyed up. Awake. And Chess’d said she’d be around and he could give her a ring-up, and he wanted to. He couldn’t tell her on everything—last thing he wanted to do was say how he’d left eleven people dead that night—but he could tell her he’d ended it, and see her smile at him over it. He could head over to hers and sit next to her and talk to her.
He ain’t thought there were anything in the world he’d rather do.
So he picked up he phone and sent her a text. Her reply came just a minute later, almost like she’d been waiting for him; he shoved the Chevelle into gear and headed for her place, feeling better than he had in days.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I'VE NEVER DONE a project like this before; it's a little scary, to be honest. It would be even scarier if I didn't have the support and encouragement of the world's best readers, so of course I have to start with a big huge "Thank you!" to all of you. The way you have embraced these books and these characters is a constant source of amazement to me.
Big thanks also to copyeditor Alice Loweecy, who let me know when the Downspeech was too thick, when my grammar was accidentally instead of deliberately wrong, and caught my continuity errors; to Alessandra Kelley, who painted the fantastic cover art; and to Fran Walker, Chelsea Mueller, and Lauren Dane, who offered valuable feedback.
And of course to my agent Chris Lotts and his assistant Jolie Hale, and to my family who still put up with me. Thank you all so much.
