Prayers For Rain Part 64

Bubba nodded.

"Move it into a s.p.a.ce, or I'll ticket it."

"Fine." Bubba turned back to me.

"Now, Rogowski," the cop said.

Bubba gave me a bitter smile and shook his head. Then he walked out past the cruiser and climbed in the Hummer as the cops watched with wide, satisfied grins. Bubba pulled forward and found a spot large enough to accommodate him about a hundred yards down the avenue.

"You know your friend's a sc.u.mbag?" the cop asked me.

I shrugged.

"That could make you a sc.u.mbag by a.s.sociation if you're not careful."

I recognized the cop now. Mike Gourgouras, allegedly a bagman for Stevie Zambuca, Stevie sending him by to make sure the message sank in.

"Might wanna consider distancing yourself from a guy like that."

"Okay." I held up a hand, smiled. "Good advice."

Gourgouras narrowed his small dark eyes at me. "You busting my b.a.l.l.s?"

"No, sir."

He gave me a smile. "Be careful in your choices, Mr. Kenzie." His window rolled up with a whir and then the cruiser pulled down the avenue, beeped once at Bubba as he walked back down the sidewalk toward me, then turned the corner.

"Stevie's boys," Bubba said.

"You noticed?"

"Yeah."

"You calm?"

He shrugged. "I'm getting there, maybe."

"All right," I said. "How do we get Stevie off our a.s.s?"

"Angie."

"She's not going to like calling in that marker."

"She has no choice."

"How do you figure?"

"With us dead, you know how boring her life would be? s.h.i.+t, man, she'd about shrivel up and die."

He had a point.

I called Sallis & Salk, only to be told Angie didn't work there anymore.

"Why not?" I asked the receptionist.

"There was, I believe, an incident."

"What kind of incident?"

"That, I'm not at liberty to discuss."

"Well, could you tell me whether she quit or got fired?"

"No, I cannot."

"Wow. You can't tell me much of anything, can you?"

"I can tell you this phone conversation is over," she said, and hung up.

I called Angie at home, got her voice mail. She could still be home, though. She turns her ringer off a lot when feeling antisocial.

"Incident?" Bubba said as we drove over to the South End. "Like an international incident?"

I shrugged. "With Ange, I wouldn't rule it out."

"Wow," Bubba said. "How cool would that be?"

We found her at home, as I'd expected. She'd been cleaning, scrubbing her hardwood floors with Murphy's Oil Soap, blasting Patti Smith's Horses Horses through the apartment so loud, we'd had to shout at her through an open window because she couldn't hear the bell. through the apartment so loud, we'd had to shout at her through an open window because she couldn't hear the bell.

She turned down the music, let us in, and said, "Don't step on the living room floor or it's your a.s.s."

We followed her into the kitchen and Bubba said, "Incident?"

"It was nothing," she said. "I was sick of working for them anyway. They use women for window dressing, think we look hot in our Ann Taylor suits, packing heat."

"Incident?" I said.

She let out a half scream of frustration and opened the fridge.

"The diamond merchant pinched my a.s.s. Okay?"

She tossed a can of c.o.ke at me, then handed one to Bubba, took her own to the kitchen counter, and leaned against the dishwasher.

"Hospital?" I said.

She raised her eyebrows over the c.o.ke, took a swig. "It's not like he really needed it, little crybaby. I just backhanded him. A tap. With my fingers." She held up the backs of her fingers. "How was I to know he was a bleeder?"