First Thrills - Lee Child [81]
Dahlia and I meet in the courtyard square, lunch time. Lots of citizens around. She’s pleased as Goldilocks with a bowl of perfect porridge, and brings us each a container of kung pao mutton to celebrate. “Dad’s alchemist says it’s super clean. He says we can step on it all day, it’ll spread like butter.”
“So you’re happy.”
“We’re gonna be end of the rainbow rich.” She chopsticks a chunk of meat into her mouth and bats her eyes at me. To add cream to the pudding, her blouse is unbuttoned almost to her waist. “What do you say I come along when you make the big batch, help you out?”
“I work alone.”
“How are you gonna cook that much crystal in two days?”
“I have my methods.”
“And you can’t use some help?” She leans forward so I can see all the way to the bottom of her golden valley. I figure she’s not nearly as interested in helping me as finding out where my lab is.
“Not gonna happen, Dahl.”
“What if I insist?”
“What if I walk away?”
“What if I tell Frank I’m carrying your baby?”
I gnaw mutton. Neither one of us would live through that confession and she knows it. She’s not worried about my fate, but self-preservation runs strong in her genes. She stands abruptly and drops her lunch on the cobblestones at my feet. Greasy sauce splashes across my shoes. She heads off across the square, ass hard as stone.
“Don’t dawdle, Dahl,” I call after her. “The wheels of justice are turning.”
VI
I’m not troubled by the idea that Dahlia is cooking up a double- cross. I know she won’t move against me until I deliver the finished meth—she can’t help but be jacked about the quality of my crystal and the bullion it’ll command. So the next day the transfer of the pseudo goes off without a hitch. I even pretend not to find her transmitter in the wheel well of the delivery truck. It’s easy enough to drop it down a storm drain as I drive away.
A few hours later, I get wind of a couple of Dahlia’s trolls prowling the Flats looking for me. Guess they figured out I don’t live in the sewer, so they’re dropping green and asking for a name, a location, anything they can get on me. I take the news in stride. They’re not alone. Frank’s shark is working double-time, and word is already out on the street about the dwarf who picked up his girl at the High Tail. That hurts, to be honest. Five-four is hardly a dwarf. I leave my pre-pay cell turned off on the theory she has enough juice to arrange a track on the phone’s GPS. Even if she doesn’t, I know Frank does.
I don’t have time to chit-chat on the phone anyway. The delivery Dahlia is expecting is a big one. The arrangements make for a busy couple of days, but that’s good. Before I know it, the truck is packed with the goods and all I have to do is get ready for the meet. It’s supposed to be a three-way exchange: me, Dahlia, and her buyer. I’m to call a number an hour beforehand with the location, enough time for Dahlia and her guy to get there but not enough time to arrange anything untoward. Even with that precaution, it’s a bad set up for me. But what Dahlia doesn’t know is I don’t care about the money. From where I sit, it’s long odds the meet will even occur.
I stop by the High Tail a little after noon. A risk, but it’s too early for Biff, and no one else would think to look for me there. I’ve got my eye out for a particular guy, a big-eared street gnome I know from around the Flats. Good source of poop, and not too expensive. He’s sitting at the rail, a pint of piss-yellow ale in each paw. Only one listless nymph works the pole.
“What do you hear?” I say. The I.D. of Dahlia’s buyer would be nice, but I don’t expect that. Mostly I just want a sense of the street.
“You hear about Frank?” he says without taking his eyes off the g-string three feet from the end of his nose.
“His conviction was formally vacated