Neil stared. She pulled the gun back from his face to keep him from grabbing it. She c.o.c.ked back the hammer, whispering. "Hands on the wheel."

He slowly placed both hands on the black leather steering wheel.

"Drive," she said.

"f.u.c.k you," he said. "I'm not taking you anywhere."

She sat silently, studying him.

"You think I'm gonna pull away from here and take you someplace you can f.u.c.kin' kill me?" he asked. "How dumb do you think I am? You're gonna shoot? Do it. Go ahead. Right here."

Go ahead. The words bubbled up from inside with a kind of glee, hanging suspended on the red abyss in her mind. Go ahead.

She lowered the gun from his face. She pulled the trigger, burying a slug in his arm. The 'Vette's cabin filled with the smells of gunpowder and blood. "I can't jump out at anything faster than about twenty-five," she said. "So keep it under that. Now drive, a.s.shole. I don't wanna kill you. We're just gonna talk, is all."

He moaned. "How'm I supposed to drive when you shot me, you b.i.t.c.h?"

"Look. I'd love to show you how I'm about to shoot you again, but the gun c.o.c.ks itself. The hammer's already back, so the only way I can prove it to you is to shoot you again. And I just told you I don't wanna kill you, so why don't you just drive?"

She reached for the gearshift between them, surprised to find that the car had an automatic transmission, and slipped it into "drive." Neil's right arm hung limp at his side as he lightly stepped on the gas and moved into traffic.

He moaned again. The smell of blood was palpable in the car now; it was probably pooling under his seat. "Where are we going?" he asked.

"Keep going straight for a bit. I'm gonna introduce you to a friend of mine," she said. The street had four lanes, two in each direction. "Stay in the right lane," she said. "We'll turn soon."

She shifted in her seat. There was a plastic bag under her. Not full of powder. Not full of rocks. Something else. Something lumpy. She pulled it out, making sure to keep the gun fixed on Neil. "What's this?"

"Magic mushrooms."

She clucked her tongue. "There's no money in those, Neil. I'm surprised at you."

She led him from one street to another, finally reaching a dark part of town with narrow streets. "Pull in here," she said as they came up on an alley with a single streetlight at its entrance. All the way in."

He did. The darkness was almost total. "Stop here," she said.

Neil was breathing through his mouth. His left hand slid from the steering wheel as he braked to a stop. Sara shoved it to "park."

Go ahead. Go ahead. Go ahead. She giggled.

The bullet pa.s.sed through his skull, shattering gla.s.s on the other side. The b.l.o.o.d.y streak on what remained of the window looked just like a caterpillar.

Dancers toss their wild hair, becoming a jumble of smiles and free-floating arms and legs, endlessly changing from blue to red to yellow to green. Notes rise in pitch, even higher than her enhanced vampire hearing can detect, and other notes take their place in the music at a faster and faster rate. The crowd cheers, for no reason at all. The martini in her hand focuses the light like a magnifying gla.s.s, burning a small hole into the tabletop.

The dance floor is all smiles now. No faces, no limbs. Just smiles. From behind an obnoxious horse grin Neil appears, his b.l.o.o.d.y head shaped like a tilted cereal bowl.

"I like your mushrooms!" she shouts over the music. "It's like a dream, but I know I'm awake! What a nice gift from you."

He rushes at her. She blows smoke from her Salem, dissipating him into oblivion.

Miguel is on the dance floor, dancing with Angie. His hand squeezes her a.s.s and floats up to tweak her little t.i.ts with his thumb. The dance lights change but Miguel stays red. Horns grow from the top of his head. He laughs. His tongue stretches toward Angie, stabbing into her mouth and out the back of her skull. It stretches across the club toward Sara.

"We hang out when you make your little rocks," it says.

"You are getting out of control again, Sara."

Miguel took two more paper grocery sacks from her, their tops folded over to close them.

"I'm fine. What happened to all the duffel bags I brought you? It's a real pain in the a.s.s, carrying cash this way."

"Your stuff is packed in some. You will get them back. But listen, you are not fine, okay? You snort, must be, like, ten lines every time you get in the car now. An' you smoke those rocks all the time. You gonna have another heart attack."

She followed him into his condo. During the day the place would have a lake view. Now it was all black out there, the windows reflecting the greenish glow of the television that blared from a darkened wall. On it, a man with military-short white hair and an unnaturally calm voice was being interviewed.

Yes. We are really at war here. We, the United States, have declared War on Drugs. And we need to hit these dealers with all we've got, before they turn us into a nation of drug-addled zombies. They're armed with the very latest weapons- But surely you are not advocating that the country simply disregard Const.i.tutional constraints ...

It's called a war because that's what it is. And in times of war the Const.i.tution can be suspended ...

Sara rubbed her eyes. "Somebody needs to f.u.c.k that guy up the a.s.s."

Miguel turned off the television. "Sara, listen to me."

She sighed. "I'm fine, Miguel, really. I can handle it."

"You always say that. But you need a job, Sara. You need to have a schedule, because right now you are losing. Don' you still wanna fight it with me?"

She rubbed her eyes. "I am fighting it. But I don't want to wash dishes and have another s.h.i.tty boss, all right? I don't need a job, and neither do you. I make more money in an hour than a dishwasher makes in a couple years. And anyway, it isn't like I was clean and pure when I worked with you."

"Look," he said. "I know you don' wanna hear it. But this is for real. You are losing the fight, Sara."

She stared out through her refection. "Why do you care, anyway? You'll just leave. Everyone does. Why would it matter to you?"

"I'm not gonna leave. I'm your friend, Sara. You gonna leave me, when your heart blows up. And anyway, I don' wanna lose my best customer, okay?"

She faced him, unable to change the blank expression on her face. "Am I your best customer?"

He nodded. "You buy two time what anybody else buy. You been my best customer for maybe five, six months now. My cousin, he gotta make extra trips here from L.A. just so I can get more stuff for you now."

"Oh, really? I'd like to meet your cousin sometime. Is he nice like you?"

"You wanna meet him?" Miguel's voice was suddenly cold. "Just like I wanted to see you make those little rocks you make? Like that?"

"I just thought it'd be cool to know someone in your family, Miguel. That's all."

"Yeah? Well, he's not so nice. Not so nice at all. And anyways, he tell me your rocks sell all over L.A. now. Lotsa people make them now. So maybe someday n.o.body need you to do it for them."

She shook her head, giving him a slight smile. "My underlings will always need me, just like I'll always need you."

CHAPTER 16.

Townspeople "G.o.d f.u.c.kING d.a.m.n!" Sara's voice echoed off the walls in the darkness.

The place simply could not support eight microwaves running at the same time.

She flipped the circuit breaker and the kitchen light came back on. The television came back on, playing Golden Earring's Twilight Zone video. She remembered it: the syringe-wielding executioners dancing around, the blindfold, the bullet cutting a card in half.

Someone knocked on her door.

Sara s.n.a.t.c.hed the pump shotgun from the place where it leaned against the wall.

"Who is it?" she shouted, using her deepest and most intimidating voice.

"Hi, Sara! It is me! Miguel!"

She brought the shotgun with her to unlock the door. Miguel was there alone. His eyes traced the scar that angled across her jaw from below her ear. She narrowed her eyes at him.

"So you're still planning to come with me to the club tonight?"

"Yes. I am happy you will let me. I'm gonna look out for you, Sara, gonna help you not smoke so much. We will fight together, okay?"

"Come on in." She locked the door and returned the shotgun to its place. "It's worth a try, I guess. Thanks, Miguel."

He eyed the microwaves cl.u.s.tered around each of the outlets, nodding to himself. "So I guess you do a lot of microwave cooking, huh?"

She shrugged. "They were on sale."

He shook his head. "Sara, I know what you use the microwaves for."

She stared at him. He shrugged.

"Mix the cocaine into water?" He raised his eyebrows. "Then mix in the baking soda. Then filter the water an' microwave what the filter catch. Yes?" His voice was friendly, almost joking, but his eyes were not. "You see?" he said. "I already know how you do it."

"Hmmm," she said.

Yeah, that's it. But knowing that won't help you without the contacts to- She turned toward the kitchen. "You want something to drink?"

"No. Maybe we should get going."

"Yeah." She took a swig from a bottle of Bombay Sapphire on the counter. "Actually, Miguel, I've got some stuff to do tonight before I go. Why don't I meet you there about one o'clock?"

"You jus' got business, right? I come along with you, watch your back, you know? We be like partners tonight."

"No, no. Not business. I've done all my business tonight. Just some errands, you know. I'll see you there tonight. Look for me around one o'clock, okay?"

Sara pushed her cigarette b.u.t.t out the open s.p.a.ce at the top of her window. Another car pulled up next to her. A shotgun barrel pointed at her from inside.

She hit the gas as the gun fired. Shotgun pellets shattered the Jag's back window. Cars slid to stop on either side of the intersection, tires howling as she charged through. A truck clipped the back of her pa.s.senger side, partially rotating her sideways, but she straightened it out again.

The shotgun car followed. The rearview showed a '70s muscle car like Alexander's Four-Four-Two.

Someone was shooting a handgun now; there were already two fist-sized bull's-eye patterns around half-inch-wide holes through the windshield. Other bullets made strange vibrating noises as they tore apart the trunk area.

She took two quick lefts and then a right onto a wide street, gunning the Jag and speeding ahead, leaving the other car somewhere behind her.

Josh takes another belt of Daddy's Chivas. He shudders. Angie and Sara laugh. Sara takes another bite of jun: batter-fried slices of sweet potato and fish pieces from Angie's mom.

"This is good. Thanks for always looking out for me, Angie. You're my guardian angel."

Angie shakes her head. "Sure. Your parents are d.i.c.ks."

"True." Sara laughs. "If I'm lucky, maybe they'll kill each other. It was close today."

Angie puts her palms on her cheeks in mock shock. "No! Say it ain't so! Not the perfect couple! What's this crazy world coming to?"

Sara and Josh laugh. "Wait'll you hear it," Sara says.

Josh groans. "Not another one."

"Oh, but this one is great," Sara says. "Last week I came downstairs and my mom was watching some stupid sitcom rerun on TV, right? And the wifey character was griping about how the husband never put the toilet seat down."

"So?" Angie said.

"So today my mom started this big fight with my dad about leaving the toilet seat up. She was wailing about how he doesn't respect her, he wants her to live in a house that smells like p.i.s.s ... ugh! And you know how she only uses her own sacred bathroom. And she's got a housekeeper, anyway. Why would she even care?"

Josh finishes his drink. "Jesus."

"Lemme guess," Angie says. "They called each other names for two hours, and then they both went storming off. And n.o.body said s.h.i.t to you."

Sara nods. "Yep. Exactly."

They refill Josh's gla.s.s, draining the bottle. Sara fetches another from the pantry, pouring for Angie and herself.

Angie stands suddenly, grabbing Josh by the wrist and pulling him out of the kitchen. Sara follows. "Angie, what're you doing with my man?"