He kept his voice level, no quaver. He was no pussy. “You scare the shit outta me, lady.”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s probably because you’re smarter than most of your asshole friends.”
He stared at her. She had him, and they both knew it.
“Name you want’s Legend Lawrence,” Jorge said. It had slipped from between his lips almost on its own, but not surprising him. His mind had made the calculation without him realizing it. She wasn’t bluffing. He had no choice but to give her something. Prison time—a real stretch in an adult lockup—scared the crap out of him.
“Don’t screw around with me, Jorge.”
“Well, that’s his street name, anyways.”
“What’s his real name?”
“That I don’t know. Honest.”
The titty little cop sighed. He didn’t like the way she sighed, as if she was giving up on him.
She turned, about to walk away. The big cop, Quinn, would be the next one he’d see, and there’d be no sense running and hiding from him. He was the kind who’d find you no matter where you went or how good you hid. Like a goddamned Doberman pinscher with a bloodhound nose. Fear washed over Jorge like cold water.
“Lawrence was shot by another dealer,” he said.
That stopped her. “When was this?”
“Four days ago.”
She took a few steps back toward him. “What dealer?”
“I dunno who shot him. That’s what I heard, is all.”
“This Legend Lawrence dead?”
“In a hospital’s what I heard.”
“Which hospital?”
“I dunno. But he’s there under another name. Vernon Lake.”
“That his real name?”
“I got no way of knowin’ that.”
She studied him, making him feel like a bug or something under a magnifying glass. This was a hard bitch.
“Okay, Jorge. We’ll see about what you said.”
“You won’t tell where you got the information, will you?”
“I’ll try not to.”
“You seem like a nice lady.”
“Don’t shit me, Jorge. You gotta learn not to keep trying that.” She walked away a few steps and then turned back to face him. “And quit lying to yourself, too.”
“Everybody does that,” he said.
She grinned with big beautiful white teeth, like a celebrity.
“Now you’re learning,” she said.
Jorge watched her walk back across the street to the dusty black Ford. Even scared as he was, he couldn’t help admiring her ass.
When the car had turned the corner and she was indeed gone, Jorge swallowed hard and thought over his predicament. Cincinnati, he decided. He had cousins in Cincinnati who’d put him up for a while. Anyplace other than New York.
The bell mounted high on the brick wall gave two brief rings, signaling that a pizza was ready for delivery.
Jorge thought the hell with that, and climbed on the remaining bike.
Then he reconsidered, dismounted the bike, and went inside for the pizza and the delivery address.
Outside again, he crumpled the address slip and tossed it on the sidewalk before throwing his leg back over the bike. He took the pizza.
He didn’t know when he’d get a chance to eat again.
Probably not soon.
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