A Fistful of Rain

by Greg Rucka

  I tried to straighten up, using the wall.

  “You fucking don’t move, bitch,” Brian snarled, adjusting his grip on his gun. His tongue stabbed out, wetting his lips. “You and me, we’re not done.”

  “You’re the pervert,” Parka Man said. It came out soft, but there was no mistaking the realization in his voice. There was no mistaking the mirth, either.

  “I’m no perv, asshole,” Brian said, agitated. His hand was beginning to jump, and I wondered if he sampled the product he and his brother used to cook. “I’m a goddamn entrepreneur, I had a fucking sweet system going, then you came along and fucked it up.”

  “Did I?”

  “Fuck you, man, I’ve got the money here, you want to take a shot? I fucking bought you time! We split this straight, fifty-fifty.”

  “No.”

  “Dammit, I fucking earned this, this is mine! I take half, at least I’m left with something!”

  “You’ve already got something,” Parka Man said. “You’re still breathing.”

  Brian fired.

  The gunshot was so loud it made my whole head ring, and I saw the Parka Man stagger back, and I thought that was it. I turned my back to the wall, started to push off it, driving toward Brian, knowing I was next, knowing he wouldn’t wait, couldn’t afford to count.

  I was looking right at Brian when the bullets hit him. He had started to turn, and the first shot hit him in the side and made him bend, and then the second hit his neck, and made him twirl and spray. I faltered, catching myself, scrambling to reverse my balance and momentum all at once, and I fell backward, into the wall again.

  On the ground, Brian’s right arm twitched.

  I covered my mouth, turned away, and Parka Man was back on his feet, one hand clapped to his chest. Through the black parka, I could see a fuzz of white. His mouth was moving, but I couldn’t hear him, the gunshots still playing in my ears.

  Parka Man gestured at Brian with his gun, then at me, and I understood that nothing had changed, that he intended us to resume where we’d been interrupted.

  I stepped over to the body. Brian had fallen on the backpack, and I had to roll him to free it. I couldn’t look at his face.

  “We’ll try this again,” I heard the Parka Man say. His voice sounded strained, fighting pain. “Send it over here.”

  I used the strap, tossed it toward him. It landed short about four feet, and the thud echoed on the stone.

  Parka Man reached for the backpack, leaning forward and down, and it was clear just from his body language that I didn’t threaten him at all, that he was sure there was nothing I could do to him physically. I hated him for being right.

  He knew something was wrong the moment he lifted the backpack, and I wondered if Brian hadn’t ruined it for me, if he hadn’t turned things so sour that Parka Man would lose his temper and send me bleeding to the floor, too. When he ran the zipper back, I could see the violence in the movement, the mounting suspicion. Once the backpack was open, he stared at the contents for a moment before turning it upside down and emptying it out. The sound of the paper hitting the dirt floor of that tunnel was like distant slaps, and it echoed like a blow against soft flesh.

  Then he just stood there, staring down at the photos, the black-and-white promo shots, me and Click and Van, Tailhook triumphant together. I’d raided every press kit, filling the backpack to capacity, and the images slipped like a glossy puddle around his feet, reflecting the shadowy light.

  “Is this supposed to be funny?” Parka Man asked me. “Is this supposed to be a joke?”

  “I want my dad,” I said. “You don’t get shit until I get my dad.”

  He dropped the backpack, brought the gun up in both hands. “You get your father after I get my fucking money, not before!”

  The shout made me wince, took a couple of seconds to echo away. The muscles in my chest were trembling, now, I felt like all of me would start to shake apart at any second.

  Somehow, I said, “I want my dad. You don’t get shit until I see him, until I see him walking away from you.”

  “Little Miriam, you’re about to become little dead Miriam.”

  “You shoot me you get nothing, you did all of this for nothing.”

  “Where’s my money?” he screamed.

  “Somewhere else! Somewhere else, you kill me, you don’t get it!” I was screaming back at him, just as loud, and certainly far more hysterical. “Where’s my dad?”

  He ran his thumb over the back of the gun, and there was a metal sound, clicking.

  “Fucking kill you right here, little girl.”

  I closed my mouth, willed myself to keep breathing.

  “Then do it,” I told him. “Just do it and don’t waste my time anymore.”

  The gun rose slightly, then settled on me again, and I saw the tension ride up his arms, saw his eyes readjust inside the hood, and I thought that this time he was going to go all the way. This time, I would die.

  But he didn’t shoot. Instead, he said, “Your daddy’s just fine, Miriam. He’s just fine, I’ll let him go as soon as we’re done.”

  “You’re going to kill him as soon as we’re done. You’re going to kill me, too. I’m not the sharpest fucking tool in the shop, but I’ve figured out that much. So you have to decide something, you have to make up your mind. You want the money or don’t you?”

  “You’re so sure you’re a dead girl, why you willing to deal?”

  The tremor was in my voice, and I hoped he bought it simply as fear, and not as something more. “Because it’s a million dollars, it’s cash, and with it you can go anywhere you want, wherever you want. I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care. I just want my father back. So we meet someplace, you pick where, but it’s in public, someplace you can’t shoot me, someplace you can’t shoot him. And when I see him, when I see my dad walking away, you get your money.”

  He didn’t respond and the gun didn’t move, and I tried to get my breathing back under control, tried to slow it down, afraid I’d hyperventilate.

  “You think I’m stupid?” he asked, finally. “You let this prick follow you, you think I should trust you?”

  “I don’t know about Brian,” I said. “I didn’t know he was there, and I swear I don’t know how he found me, I don’t know why he was here. I’ve got you your money, like I promised, that’s all that matters. You can have it, but I want Tommy. Pick the place. I can have the money there in an hour, I swear to God. Anyplace you want, just in public, just bring my dad.”

  “We play this your way, I’ve got cops coming out of my ass before the money’s in my hand.”

  I shook my head, desperate for him to believe me. “No! No cops, God, I don’t care about the cops! This is about my dad and your money, that’s all this is about!”

  Again, he went silent, and this time, I did, too. There was nothing more to say to him. I’d dropped the score in front of him, shown him the parts, and either he’d play or he wouldn’t, and I couldn’t press him anymore. But he was thinking about it. Trying to find a way to have his cake and eat it, too.

  “Five o’clock,” he said, deciding. “Pioneer Courthouse Square, five o’clock. Be on the south side, the steps. I bring Tommy, you bring my money.”

  I nodded, hardly able to speak, and he lowered the gun and turned, and went away, his steps floating back along the stone, hiding in the echoes of the water, mingling with the memory of crimps and blood money deals, old and new.

  CHAPTER 38

  I went to the Jeep first, still parked in Chapel’s garage, and got the Taylor out of the back. There were no cops as far as I could see, but it didn’t change the fact that I felt like I was being watched as I walked with the guitar case to the Starbucks on the corner of Morrison and Broadway, on the northwest corner of the Square.

  Once inside, I got in line to get a cup of coffee. The shop was busy, with a mix of men and women, teens to fifties. The majority were high schoolers who’d come downtown to get an early start to their we
ekend; the rest professionals, out of offices a few minutes early, stocking up on caffeine before the commute home, or shoppers, ready to hit the boutiques in the nearby Pioneer Plaza.

  Nobody was paying me any attention. I bumped one of the kids with my guitar, gently, playing at an accident, then offering an apology. The kid didn’t even look back at me.

  Van never had this problem, she could draw eyes to her without effort, and hell if I knew how she did it. Now, here I was, finally wanting—needing—the world’s attention, and if I was on radar, it was as a soggy chick with an old guitar case.

  When the barista, twenty-two at the most, handed me my java and change without even a flicker in her face, I realized what I was doing wrong. I went to sugar the coffee, keeping my head down this time, and avoiding eye contact altogether. One of the teens was stirring cream and cinnamon into a foamy drink in front of me, and I did the guitar move again, the nudge. This time I didn’t apologize, and focused on my coffee.

  It took him twenty seconds.

  “Excuse me,” the teen said. “Aren’t you Mim Bracca?”

  I hemmed, then sighed and nodded.

  He grinned. He’d been in a group with four others his age. They were a mixed group, pretty clean looking, three boys and two girls, and as soon as I’d confirmed I was who they’d thought I was, they all surged forward, as if to take a better look.

  “I love ‘Queen of Swords.’ ”

  “Are you feeling better? They said you were sick, MTV said you were sick.”

  “God, all that stuff about your brother and those pictures, I’m so sorry, that so blows.”

  “Is that your guitar? Of course it is, I mean, are you going to play? Are you playing somewhere?”

  “I have all of the albums, all of them, I mean, I was a fan before you guys were popular.”

  I smiled and nodded and said, “Hey, yeah, thanks. Thanks a lot, that’s wonderful to hear. Yeah, actually, I was thinking I’d do some playing.”

  More questions, more babbling, more attention. Half of the clientele belonged to me, as Graham would have said. My demographic, and the more I talked to them, the more pressed forward to listen.

  I asked the young man, the first one, what his name was, and he looked so pleased and surprised that I cared, I almost felt guilty.

  “Ray,” he said, almost as if he’d forgotten it himself for a moment. “I’m Ray.”

  “I’m Ted.”

  “Lynn.”

  “Grace.”

  “Aidan.”

  “Deedee.”

  “Roxy.”

  “Shawn.”

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m Mim.”

  They laughed, warmly, and I smiled with them, then made a show of checking my watch. “Damn. I’ve got to meet a guy on the steps.”

  A chorus of “ohs” and “wells” and sighs, the brush with fame apparently over.

  “You guys really like the music?”

  Nods and “yes” and “hell yeah” and “totally” and even a “you guys rock.”

  “You know, I’m working on something,” I said, reluctantly. “I’d love to hear what you guys think. Can you give me twenty minutes and meet me down there?”

  Ray, the young man who had found me first, took command. “Twenty minutes? Hell yeah, we’ll totally be there.”

  “About five o’clock,” I said.

  Eager faces, more nods, and I told them I would see them shortly, and when I stepped outside, easily half of them were already dialing their mobile phones, calling their friends, telling them to hurry. Outside, there was no glimpse of Hoffman or Marcus, and no one in a black Columbia Sports Wear parka. The rain had all but stopped, and so had the wind, and people were lowering umbrellas, shaking them out as they hustled along the sidewalk.

  I understood why he’d picked the location. Pioneer Courthouse Square is an open city block, red brick, and on its east side it faces the old Pioneer Courthouse. It’s flat, but built on a slope, and tiers—or steps—run along its north, west, and south sides, descending to the open floor. There’s no specific entrance to the Square, and no exit, and you can get in or out from any point with ease. Traffic runs along all four sides, one way, with the westbound MAX trains running up Morrison and the eastbound ones coming down Yamhill. People loiter in the Square, people cut through the Square, people stop to chat in the Square. They come with lattes and chai teas, they buy hot dogs and crêpes from the vendors.

  Now the Square was mostly empty, with pedestrians stepping around puddles as they moved through it. In another few weeks a Christmas tree would go up, and a month or so after that, the place would be packed for New Year’s Eve. There would be pageants and fairs for those who had acquired permits, and people would come, because it was one of the most popular places in town.

  He could come from any direction, leave from any direction. From any corner, he’d be able to take in all of the space. He’d spot me in an instant and I would never know, because I didn’t even know what he looked like outside of a ski mask and black parka. If he didn’t like what he saw, he could leave without even breaking stride. Those were his advantages, why he’d chosen this space.

  I could only hope that they didn’t outweigh my own, a growing mob of teenagers clustered in a Starbucks, watching me through the windows.

  I took a seat on the south side of the Square, on the steps about four rows from the bottom, setting the guitar case to my side. The brick was cold and wet. The clouds had gone higher, but the sunset was making it difficult to gauge them. I didn’t want it to rain; guitars like to stay dry.

  I’d dropped a new set of strings in the case, so I got out the Taylor and replaced the missing E, thinking that Steven would be chewing my ass if he didn’t see me replace the other five, too. But I didn’t have time, and if he had been there and known what was happening, maybe he would have forgiven me. It took all of six minutes to get the string placed and tuned, and I put the Taylor away and shut the case when I was finished.

  My hands weren’t shaking anymore. I thought about lighting a cigarette, sat watching the people pass. Up at the Starbucks, the cluster of teens had emerged. The group had already doubled in size, and the mobiles were still going. Modern communication, letting all their buds know about my impromptu concert. All were trying not to be obvious about looking my way.

  For my sake and theirs, I hoped they would be convincing.

  Four minutes to five, by my watch.

  A police car went by, driving up Morrison. It was the second I’d seen in the past three minutes. It was moving slowly, but that was probably due to traffic. I craned my head around, trying to see if there were others, and then I saw Marcus standing at the northwest corner, near Starbucks.

  No, I thought. God no, please no.

  Hoffman was at the northeast corner, the one in front of me, to my right.

  They had to have picked me up when I’d gone back for the Taylor. They had to have been watching the car, knowing I’d come back for the guitar.

  I checked the other corners, southeast and southwest, saw men and women loitering, talking. Which were cops?

  I looked back at Hoffman, but she wasn’t looking my way, watching as a MAX train came to a stop on Morrison.

  They had the same problem I did, I realized. They knew they were waiting; they just didn’t know who they were waiting for. Like me, the lack of knowledge trapped them. Parka Man would have to make the first move.

  But there was no sign of him. I’d hoped he’d take my terms, that he’d decide the money was his first priority, that Tommy and I only came second. It had seemed to make sense when I’d conceived it: he would hesitate, then decide killing us could come later, after he’d secured the cash. I’d put his greed ahead of his self-preservation.

  Apparently, I’d been wrong. Now, Tommy would be dumped in the Willamette, and some night soon, I’d wake up in the dark to find a gun at my head again. Only this time the photographs would be taken hours later, and by technicians who had maybe been to my house
once already.

  A new train pulled to the stop on Morrison, began kicking out passengers. I glanced at my watch, read a minute past five. The desire for a drink seemed to rise with the cold beneath me.

  When I looked up, a man in a black parka was coming down the stairs on the opposite side of the Square. He was taking them slowly, one at a time, pausing after each, and after the third, he stopped and surveyed the area, and then his gaze snagged on me.

  Even fifty feet away, Tommy didn’t look good. He tottered unsteadily, as if drunk, as if he might lose his feet at any second. But it was him, and he was alive, and beneath the swollen bruises visible on his face, I saw him try to smile.

  Despite it all, I smiled, too.

  There was the splash of a foot in a puddle from behind me, and I felt the spatter touch my neck and cheek. In my periphery, I saw a man’s knees as someone settled himself on the step behind me, to my left, and in the distance, on the corner, Hoffman turned my way, saw the same thing, but she didn’t move.

  The man pushed the guitar case with his toe.

  “Don’t turn around,” he said.

  Tommy was still standing where he’d stopped, maybe under instructions not to come any closer, not to leave. His feeble smile had vanished.

  The man brought his head low, closer to my ear. “I’ve got a gun at your back,” he said. “Any tricks, boom boom boom.”

  My fans were still at the Starbucks, now almost thirty of them, maybe more, and I looked their way. Ray, their leader, saw me, and it confused him. Then he checked his watch and gestured to the group, and they began coming toward me, loping down the steps.

  “Where is it? Is it in the case?”

  I reached out and flipped the locks, then lifted the lid, showing the contents. The Taylor lay in its bed of worn velvet, beautiful. I took it out, and rested it on my knee.

  The kids were off the steps, coming toward me, grinning and joking and happy. Tommy hadn’t moved, and across the gap, I saw his concern. Marcus was coming down from the sidewalk, making for him. Hoffman was standing still.