Rob Thurman - Chimera

The barbecue was excellent, in every way as good as the biscuit crumbs. I curved a protective arm around my plate to fend off the rampaging piranhas. Finishing every bite but the pickle, I slid the slice of dill onto Michael’s plate. He was developing a fondness for things sour that rivaled his love of sweets. See the human trash compactor, only fifty cents. Walk this way and don’t stick your fingers between the bars.

“I think I’ll have me a piece of apple pie.” With a hand resting on the swell of her stomach, Fisher looked up at the waitress and added, “And don’t be stingy with the à la mode, sugar. Give me a bowl on the side. I’m eating for two.”

“What’s your excuse?” I murmured to Michael as he ordered the same.

“Youth,” he retorted without hesitation. “When I’m old like you, I’m sure I’ll have to cut back.”

Twenty-four . . . old? Punk-ass kid. Unfortunately, I had to admit there were times I felt much older than my true age. A culture of violence and a past full of regret will do that to you. That aside, this was not one of the times I felt like reaching for a walker. This was a good time. I was enjoying myself as I watched the dessert duel, and with bemusement I saluted Fisher as she finally finished two spoonfuls ahead of my brother. “The king is dead. All hail the queen.”

The queen laughed and gathered up the sauce-stained doggy bag for Blossom. She then went to stand by the front door and plugged a quarter in a gumball machine. As she blew large purple bubbles and tapped her foot impatiently, I came to the conclusion I was picking up her and Junior’s tab. After I forked over the twenty-five bucks, grumbling under my breath that I wasn’t a goddamn charity, the three of us stepped out into the winter sunshine.

That was where I lost considerably more than lunch money.

She was walking, waddling really, ahead of us by ten or fifteen feet. The parking lot was empty except for a few parked cars. The white fur trim of her coat waved sea anemone tendrils in the brisk breeze and her hair was as bright as the smile she gave us when she turned around. The metal of the gun she pointed at us was bright too, like a mirror. It was a cute little chrome revolver held in a cute little hand. It was also a steady hand, I noticed—rock steady.

“I almost feel bad, you know?” She tossed a braid over her shoulder and cocked her head coquettishly. “Ah, who am I kidding? Robbing y’all’s going to be the most fun I’ve had all day.”

My first thought when she’d gotten into the car was that she was playing us, if only a little. But somewhere between foot rubs and stories about a crackerjack grandma I’d let even that mild suspicion drift to the back burner. I’d forgotten the lesson of Wendy and the stripper at Koschecka and gone with the conclusion that the ride and a free lunch were all that Fisher was after. Too bad deductions such as that came from thinking with my smug ass instead of my empty head. In my business, I’d made my living outthinking predators, and yet here I stood . . . taken down by a pregnant girl in braids. Trying to live the straight and narrow—I wanted to be better for my brother, but being better could get us both killed.

I could try to get her gun before she shot Michael or me, but I had serious doubts. Her peaches and cream complexion was high with bright color and the grip she had on her weapon was as practiced as that of any three-time loser. Her eyes met mine with the same lighthearted cheer she’d shown since we’d picked her up. There were no reservations, no guilt, but worst of all . . . there was no fear. She didn’t care that someone might leave the restaurant and see her or that someone could drive by and call the police. Being utterly amoral and completely fearless . . . There was no deadlier combination.

“What do you want?” I asked neutrally. “My wallet? Fine. Take it.” There was a little less than seventy dollars in there. She was welcome to it. Slowly and carefully, I pulled my wallet from my back pocket and tossed it at her feet. I could’ve tried for my gun hidden under my shirt, but what then? Shoot a pregnant girl? Granted, she was a sociopathic, thieving pregnant girl, but that wouldn’t make pulling the trigger any easier.

“I love men who share,” she purred, discarding the bag of food to one side. “Albert, sweetie, pick that up and hand it to me real careful like. I’m not quite as limber as I used to be.”

I didn’t need to see the questioning look Michael gave me to know what he was thinking. With one touch, just one, a thousand or so cells would suicide and the gun would fall. It could potentially work; she certainly wouldn’t be expecting it. But it wasn’t worth it, putting Michael through that, not over less than a hundred bucks. It just wasn’t worth it to me, and not to him either, whether he knew it or not. I gave him a minute shake of my head. “Do as she says, kiddo. Exactly as she says.”

For a moment it seemed as if he would protest, but he didn’t. He only nodded, walked forward to retrieve the wallet, and placed it in her free hand. “Good boy. Such a good boy,” she cooed before shooing him backward. “All right, scar face, now lift up your shirt.”

So much for the specialty makeup I’d swiped under bright drugstore lights, but that was the least of my concerns. Losing my wallet and the money in it was nothing. Losing what was under my shirt would have much more serious consequences for my brother and me.

“Why?” I asked bluntly.

“You’re a shady one, Bubba.” A pink tongue touched cat quick to her upper lip and she winked. “I know my kin when I see them. And people like us have secrets we don’t keep in our wallets. Now get that shirt up before I turn it red, hear?”

I heard. Giving in to the bitter inevitable, I pulled up my shirt to chest height and revealed the money belt around my waist. It was there that I kept every penny I hadn’t paid to Saul. There was nearly fifty thousand dollars along with all of my fake ID in that belt. I couldn’t keep it in the car. I’d stolen our transportation easily enough; there was no guarantee someone else might not do the same.

“Jackpot,” she breathed, eyes locked on my waist with naked avarice. “Baby needs a new pair of shoes. And it looks like he’s going to get them, a whole store’s worth.” Waggling the revolver, she ordered, “Fork it over. Now.”

There was only one way out of this that didn’t involve gunfire and blood, and it sucked. It sucked thoroughly, but I didn’t see a way around it—not one I was willing to involve Michael in at any rate. Gritting my teeth against a cold rush of anger, I released the buckle on the belt and held it out to her. Her gun unwavering, she took a step forward and snatched the thick strip of nylon out of the air as it swung back and forth. As she did so, I heard an excited barking. It was Blossom. She was riding in the back of a pickup with her front paws propped up on the tailgate in true time-honored country style. The truck pulled up not quite ten feet from us, stopping just behind Fisher. The pickup itself was a dusty reddish brown or brownish red; it was hard to tell. Either red with brown mud or vice versa, it was completely nondescript. And so was the guy behind the wheel.

Dirty blond hair under a baseball hat, denim jacket, and a two-day beard, he could’ve been any good old boy in a two-hundred-mile radius. The deer rifle pointed at my head was the only false note. Through the open window the man showed white teeth any Gulf shark would be proud of. He didn’t take good care of his truck, but he loved his teeth. Or he loved his meth and those were dentures. “You think good thoughts, fella.” Calling to Fisher, he added, “You ’bout ready, honey?”

Here was the boyfriend who had supposedly left a pregnant girl high and dry on a lonesome road. In reality he was her partner in crime, although I had the feeling she would wear the pants in any relationship. They might be maternity pants, but she was the boss. On that front I had no doubts.