Sucker bet - James Swain [46]
“Kill who?” he asked.
“Nigel fucking Moon, the bozo who hired you.”
Splinters didn’t like that. Did she have a gun? That could be a problem.
“How?” he asked.
“How what?” she said indignantly.
Splinters looked in the mirror. The hooker’s face was flushed and had turned hot pink. With the hair it almost made her look like she was on fire. He’d watched her from afar a couple of times and had memorized the contours of her body. More than once he’d imagined her naked, and him inside of her, and what her reaction would be.
“You’re going to kill him,” he said.
“With my bare hands.”
He felt himself relax. The break in the road appeared. He tapped the brakes and tucked the gun in his lap behind his belt. “Damn,” he said loudly. “I got a flat tire.” He pulled off the road and parked beside the trail. It was well-worn, and he looked down it but saw no hikers or fishermen. He got out and opened Candy’s door. She gave him a look that suggested her patience had run out.
“I’m not getting out in this fucking swamp.”
“But—”
“You heard me.”
Her face was still a hot pink. The effect it had on him was remarkable, and he hid behind the door, not wanting her to see the erection in his trousers. He imagined screwing her, and her fighting with him like a wild animal. “Tire’s flat,” he explained. “I gotta change the tire.” She wasn’t budging, so he said, “It’s dangerous for you to stay in the car.”
She got out and brushed past him. He saw her walk toward the front of the car and pulled the gun from behind his waistband. Coming up from behind her, he shoved the barrel into the small of her back. “Know what this is?”
She froze, her head tilting slightly back. “Your dick?”
He started grinning. He hadn’t known many whores with a sense of humor. He took the purse from her outstretched hand and tossed it into a stand of mangroves. “It’s a gun. Would you rather see my dick?”
Candy looked over her shoulder into his eyes. She was scared.
“Okay,” she said.
“You want to fuck me?”
“It crossed my mind.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yes.”
“I wanna hear you say it.”
“I want your big Cuban prick inside of me.”
Splinters made her turn around and say it again. Then he made her undress herself. She wore a red lace bra, one of those garments that cost hundreds of dollars. She slipped out of it without being asked. Heaven. Pointing at the trail, he said, “You first.”
“Speed up, will you?” Valentine said.
Gladys Soft Wings’s hands gripped the wheel of her Volvo. Valentine had run out of Billy Tiger’s office, grabbed her by the arm, and dragged her to the parking lot. Now he was insisting she speed down tribal roads, something she was loath to do.
“Someone’s life is at stake.”
She hit the gas. The roads twisted like a corkscrew, and the tires screeched on every curve. She’d bought the car to drive on I-95, south Florida’s crazy drivers more frightening than anything she’d ever known. Rounding a curve, she saw a black limo on the side of the road and slammed on the brakes.
Valentine hit the windshield. He saw stars, then pulled himself off the dashboard, the warm sensation of blood creeping down his face. He touched his nostril and swore.
“Sorry. Why aren’t you wearing your belt?”
“Because I’m a dope.” He pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it against his nose. “Do you have a gun by any chance?”
“No. Don’t you think we should—”
“Call the tribal police? No.” He climbed out of the car, then stuck his head back in before shutting the door. “I want you to drive up the road a hundred yards and wait. If someone besides me comes out of that trail, beat it. Understand?”
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
“No,” he said.
The Volvo pulled away. Valentine walked down the trail until he was in the thick of the swamp. It was like being in a forest, only the ground was gooey soft. He heard voices. Peering around a cypress tree, he saw two figures standing on a grassy knoll next to a pond. He put on his bifocals. It was the redhead and the limo driver. The redhead was naked. The driver was stripping out of his uniform while holding a gun on her,