THE GLORY BUS 14 страница

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Like catching a sow.

My arms! My back!

Grunting, he fell back with her in his arms. They landed sprawling in desert sand.

‘Norman. You were supposed to catch me. ’

‘I think you’ve snapped my spinal column. ’

‘Don’t joke. Just ’cos I carry an extra couple of pounds. ’

‘Couple of pounds? Jeez. ’

As Norman disentangled himself from the chunky Boots a shadow fell across the pair of them.

Norman looked up.

Duke.

Oh, shit.

Norman climbed to his feet while beating clouds of dust from his clothes. Damn desert grit was in his mouth too.

He looked up at Duke. The other man’s blond, greasy hair was still swept high. His blue eyes were hidden by a pair of mirror-shades that reflected the black and green bruises on Norman’s face.

Bruises that Duke had made with those rock-hard fists of his.

The face was impassive. He was staring at Norman.

Maybe figuring to finish the job with his knife. In minutes I could be lying in the desert with blood squirting from my throat.

Norman waited for Duke to speak. It was like waiting for the outbreak of war.

Tension built in Norman’s stomach.

I feel sick.

Boots watched without talking. Waiting for Duke’s first move.

Duke raised his arms at either side of his head. His biceps bulged.

Norman flinched.

Duke stepped forward to inflict a massive bear hug. It reminded Norman how sore his ribs were.

This is it. The monster’s gonna crush me to death.

Duke kept squeezing.

‘Norman? ’

‘Uh. . . Duke? ’ he managed to say with his face pressed into the hard muscle of Duke’s chest.

‘That was a bad thing that happened between us, Norman. We’ve got to stand together like brothers. Never let it happen again. D’ya hear? Never again. ’

‘Gnnaa. . . sure. Never again. ’

Duke released his grip.

Norman breathed.

That’s a good feeling.

‘But you made mistakes, Norman, old bud. I had to correct them. It broke me up inside but I had to show you what you mean to me. ’

Boots chipped in. ‘All friends now. That’s the main thing. ’

‘Sure we’re all friends now. ’ Duke beamed, then slapped Norman on the back. It was a friendly slap; the force of it nearly made Norman swallow his tongue.

‘What you say, bud? ’

Norman forced a weak smile. ‘Sure. Best friends. ’

‘More than friends, ’ Duke told him. ‘We’re family now. We stick together to the end. ’

Now that part of the reconciliation didn’t thrill Norman.

Together to the end? No way.

For a few minutes Duke and Boots chatted to Norman. They checked his face. They reassured him that he’d be fine.

After that, Duke opened a can of Pepsi, took a swallow, handed it to Boots. Boots took a slug, then handed it to Norman.

Uckk.

Warm.

‘We’ve got three of those left, ’ Duke said nodding at the can in Norman’s hand.

‘I’d give a hundred bucks for a cold beer right now. ’

Duke guffawed. ‘You and me both, big fella. ’

Norman shielded his eyes against the raging sun. Beneath a clear sky the dunes wobbled in the heat haze. Further away layers of hot air just above the road surface created phantom pools of blue water.

‘Not much of a road, ’ Norman ventured.

‘No, sir. ’

Boots added. ‘At least it’s quiet. ’

‘Sure doesn’t look like a regular desert highway. ’

‘Yup, ’ Duke agreed. ‘The pavement’s all broke up. ’

Norman had learned that disagreeing with Duke, or even questioning his decisions, could have pretty bad side effects. So his tone was cautious when he said, ‘Boots said we were close to Furnace Creek. Is this Highway one-ninety? ’

‘Hell, no, bud. Where you find highways you find cops. ’

‘So this is an offshoot from the highway? ’

‘Yup. ’

‘I see. ’ Norman took a breath as he judged once more the risk of suggesting the obvious to Duke. ‘It’s just that the last time I was down here in the Mojave we were warned to stick to the main highways. ’ Norman shrugged as if what he said next was someone else’s observation. Not his. ‘Some people say it’s dangerous to leave the main desert routes. ’

Boots held her hands above her head to create a little shade for her face. ‘Wusses always say things like that, ain’t that so, Duke? ’

‘No shortage of wusses, babe. The shortage is in real men like me and Norm here. ’

‘Damn straight, ’ Norman agreed.

There was a pause. Duke stared out over the dunes at nothing in particular. Boots stood with her hands still above her head, smiling at Norman.

Norman knew he’d another obvious question to ask (especially as he’d just seen a rattlesnake poke its head out of a burrow at the side of the road).

Not a good sign when the local wildlife starts to get interested. He glanced up.

Black specks circled in the sky. The local bird population was taking a gander, too.

All we need now is a pack of coyotes along with a few of their bobcat friends and everything will be dandy.

When moments had passed with no movement from Boots and Duke, Norman posed the question.

I just hope that Duke doesn’t take offense. The last thing I need right now is another beating.

‘Duke? ’

‘Huh? ’

‘How about that cold beer? ’

‘I don’t think you’re gonna find any out here, bud. ’

‘No. I thought we could drive further. . . Maybe find a store? ’

‘Can’t do that. ’

‘Oh? ’

Duke nodded at the truck. ‘Motor’s busted. ’

‘You mean we’re stranded here? In the desert? ’

Boots said, ‘Darn thing just went BOOM under the hood. ’

Duke looked at Boots. ‘Didn’t you mention to Norm that we’d broken down? ’

‘Ooops. Must’ve slipped my mind. Sorry, Normy. ’

Norman said, ‘Shit happens. ’

But he would’ve liked to yell at the pair. Another beating wouldn’t help, though.

‘Yeah, shit happens, ’ Boots agreed.

Norman looked up at the circling birds.

Vultures. Now I know why they’re so interested in us. Forget beef jerky. In this heat we’ll dehydrate so fast we’ll soon be human jerky.

Those desert critters are gonna have themselves some tasty snacks.

Again, Norman had to voice his view of their situation. ‘I guess you could say, technically, we’re stranded in the desert. ’

Duke nodded. ‘Technically, I guess you could say exactly that. ’

‘We’ve got some soda left, ’ Boots said optimistically.

‘Two cans. ’ Norman nodded, digesting the situation that faced them. ‘I just wondered. . . has anyone any idea what we do next? ’

Chapter Thirty-two

Pamela was crossing the desert with only a glass of water and a little bread; the glass wouldn’t even last her an hour. Maybe the bread would last longer than Pamela. . .

She half dozed on the couch with the fan streaming air over her. In the heat of the afternoon it felt so good to lie here in the trailer. She let thoughts drift through her head.

Thoughts of escaping across the desert. But she was right about the bread lasting longer than her.

This time of year the heat’s a killer.

Walk out of here?

Might as well put a gun to my head.

Then do I want to escape?

& n

bsp; My liar husband is dead.

Got no home.

No future.

Pits is a good place.

Only a weird place. There were the shoeboxes full of people’s personal possessions. Dentures. Asthma puffers. Spectacles. And why are there so many new cars left to gather dust in the cafe’s parking lot?

Only too well Pamela remembered the last entry in the kid’s diary that she’d found in the cafe’s utility room. It ran: ‘They made Gyp burgers. And the old guy said they were going to make sausage out of me! ’

‘So you’re concluding, ’ she murmured to herself, feeling the rush of cooling air on her face, ‘you’re concluding that two young boys came to Pits as runaways after being rescued by Sharpe. And that the boy called Gyp was murdered by Lauren, or by someone who lives in Pits, and they fed the boy into the meat-grinder and turned him into hamburger meat. And then the “old guy” – Hank? – told the kid who wrote the diary that they were going to make him into sausage. ’ She rubbed her forehead as troubling thoughts circled behind her eyes. ‘Does that sound genuine? Maybe the kid wrote that stuff in the diary for a joke. ’

She cast her mind back to last night when Sharpe had arrived on the bus with a curly-headed guy.

Had they killed him too?

The other night Lauren didn’t want me opening the refrigerator door. Maybe I’d find heads on the shelves with open staring eyes. Maybe a tag stapled to an ear that read BEST BEFORE MAY 23.

‘Shit, ’ Pamela breathed. She liked Pits and everyone in it.

Sharpe had saved her life.

An over-active imagination was poisoning her enjoyment of the place.

‘Here be cannibals? ’ she mused. ‘As if. ’

Even so, she had to get the ridiculous notion out of her head. The one that suggested that Pits was turning passersby into Pitsburgers, then leaving their cars in the lot.

Pamela was due to start work at the cafe in an hour.

Gonna lay this ghost.

I’ll open the refrigerator door. Take a good long look inside.

All there’ll be will be burgers, chops, steaks – just regular food you find in any diner.

There won’t be human heads waiting to become soup. There won’t be butt fillet steak. There’ll be no truck-driver oven-cooked ribs, or schoolteacher burritos, or student Dim Sum.

Pamela headed to the shower, peeling her clothes off as she went.

Time to freshen up.

Change into the uniform of a knit pullover shirt in white with ‘Pamela’ stitched in red thread above the left breast. Bottom half: red shorts – bright red! Last on is the blue apron with pockets for order pad and tips.

Cute as a squirrel’s nut, as the old saying goes.

Then take a little walk to the cafe’s utility room and open that refrigerator door.

Prove that Pits is no cannibal town.

Pamela left the trailer. She saw the old-timer Hank with a shovel over his shoulder. He seemed to be walking back from the cemetery. He was too far away to hail her.

Gave her a casual salute nonetheless.

The sun was sinking toward the rocky hills now. Beyond the town of Pits the desert burned.

Arid. Implacable. Snake-infested.

Not your average walking country.

God take pity on any poor soul stranded out there.

Pamela gazed across the sandy terrain to the road. It was empty tonight. Feeling the heat rising from the desert ground she headed across the parking lot, passed the parked cars in front of the cafe.

She noticed a motorcycle parked near the front door. It was a big purple Honda with silvery tassels hanging down from the ends of the handlebars. Painted in profile on the gas tank was the head of a howling wolf.

My, what big teeth you’ve got. . .

Pamela moved toward the front door.

Then she remembered her mission.

I’ve got to do it, she thought. I’ve got to prove to myself that Lauren, Sharpe and the rest aren’t cannibals.

That what the kid wrote in the diary was probably just a joke.

Hell, I remember a kid at school who always wrote his ‘What I did on my vacation’ essay about flying round the solar system.

The schoolteacher always told him he’d wind up in jail.

Kid proved them wrong.

Went into politics instead.

So the diary she’d read about the couple of child runaways – it was probably just fantasy.

But gotta be sure.

I need to know that they aren’t turning customers into salami back there.

Round the back, girl.

Be brave.

So, instead of entering through the cafe’s door, Pamela turned and followed the line of the wall. It took her to the back of the building. It was awful quiet. No sign of Sharpe’s bus with its mannequin riders.

Nor of Wes’s old pickup.

The only people in the diner were probably Nicki, Lauren and Terry. Oh, and a customer. The biker, possibly a pillion rider as well.

But won’t they have seen me when I headed for the front door? They’ll wonder why I’m skulking round the back.

A suspicion-tickler or what?

No.

When she’d approached the cafe the window blinds had been closed to shield the interior from the full force of the sun. Now it was low in the sky.

Still sizzling hot, though.

So no one would have seen Pamela.

So far, so good.

She headed for the rear of the cafe. Here there were trash-cans.

And flies. . .

Man, oh man, the flies.

Millions of desert flies had flown in to enjoy the cafe’s cuisine.

They’ve found the curly-headed man in the dumpster. Or what’s left of him.

‘Gee, ’ Pamela whispered to herself. ‘Sure does smell raunchy. ’

The trashcan that was playing host to the flies stood some distance from the back door. That was the one that contained discarded food.

Maybe even the offal of a passerby.

Suddenly gritting her teeth she strode forward, gripped the lid of the trashcan. Held her breath.

Boy, the stink and the flies.

Then she lifted the lid.

Gonna see a curly head with a bloody face staring out at me.

Chicken carcasses. Maybe six of them.

That was all.

No young guy’s giblets.

Unless they had uses for all parts of the body. Maybe Lauren uses his butt-hole as a penholder?

Relief at not seeing human remains there in the trash made Pamela so giddy that she laughed to herself.

But you’re not done yet, she told herself.

Gotta check those refrigerators.

As she moved toward the rear door of the cafe, the setting sun cast a red light on the walls. A blood red.

It looked as if someone had thrown a pail of gore against the stonework.

Ominous, Pamela thought.

Then, steeling herself, she eased open the door and stepped into the utility room.

Well. . . just like it was before. A windowless room lit by fluorescent strips in a hard white light. On the walls were shelf after shelf of stores. Big catering cans of vegetables, cooking oil. Bottles of ketchup. Jars of creamy white mayonnaise. There were boxes of crockery. Spare cruet sets. Hefty bales of napkins. Spare kitchenware.

Pamela spied the shoeboxes full of stuff that customers had left behind.

Whatever had happened to them.

The boxes had been pushed to the back of the shelves. Partly concealed by packs of dried foodstuff. She could even see a pair of dentures grinning at her from the gloom.

What happened to the owner of those?

Sliced.

Diced.

Stir-fried in peanut oil. Served with grilled polenta and zucchini.

Black beans are fine. Baked beans are dandy. But nothing compares to human beings.

Now that’s sweet eating for sure.

‘Shush. ’ Pamela scolded her runaway imagination in a whisper. ‘Just take a look round. Reassure yourself that nothing weird’s happening. Then walk in through the front door with a friendly “hi” as if nothing’s happened. ’

Goddammit. I like Pits.

Pamela realized that she was seriously thinking about staying on.

So check the refrigerators. If it’s regular food: Fine.

If not. . .

Then she couldn’t stick around.

No, sir.

Hell, I might be coated in breadcrumbs to be served up as dish of the day.

Before checking the contents of the refrigerators she listened at the closed door that led through into the cafe’s kitchen.

I don’t want anyone to walk in on me, do I now?

Then I really would be up shit creek.

Holding her breath, Pamela listened. Nothing but the thud of her own heartbeat. With only a couple of diners at the most Lauren, Nicki and Terry might be taking a break themselves.

No smells of cooking either. Just a faint aroma of coffee. Perhaps the biker and his chum had just called in for a caffeine fix.

Now, speed up the investigation, girl. You’re due to start work in seven minutes. Don’t want to be late.

She moved quickly along the narrow room toward the two refrigerators and massive deep freeze set against the end wall.

Clang!

Her elbow caught a roasting tray that had been hung on a hook from a shelf. The big metal tray flipped up from the hook, turned over, and then gravity took hold. It fell toward the concrete floor.

Where it would make a hell of a crash.

Which would bring people running in here.

Asking awkward questions. As a waitress Pamela had no reason to be in here.

So why sneak in through the back door, they’d be asking.

As the heavy tray sped downward she knew she couldn’t catch it.

Deaden its fall. Like lightning she kicked her foot under it.

Slam!

The tray hit edge-on into the top of her foot. She was only wearing pumps so that steel edge felt like a guillotine blade.

No metallic clang.

But the agony. . .

Pamela pushed her knuckle into her mouth to stop herself screaming out. That would have brought the staff running just as surely as the metallic clang of the tray striking concrete. Tears oozed from her eyes. The stifled scream came out as a gasp of pure pain. The tray toppled off her foot to hit a carton of paper towels.

The only sound it made was a very soft thud. With an effort of sheer will to stop her blubbing with pain Pamela returned the tray to its hook. Then she hobbled to the end of the room. There she checked for damage.

An angry red line ran across the top of her foot just below the ankle. It felt like red-hot pincers were crimping the flesh. Luckily it wasn’t bleeding. Probably nothing was fractured.

But that mother would swell.

‘Come on, ’ Pamela hissed. ‘Finish this. ’

She opened the refrigerator marked with the word Dairy. That sign didn’t lie. Inside she found a respectable stock of butter, cheese, milk, cream and yogurt, along with a tub of guacamole.

Of course, if there were going to be any butchered people here they were going to be in the refrigerator labeled Meat. Its door was as big as a house’s. Someone had welded a couple of steel loops where its edge met the appliance’s frame.

The kind of loops that would hold a hefty padlock.

Lauren liked to keep this refrigerator locked.

Only it was open now. Pamela’s gaze roved to the left. On a steel shelf full of pans she spied an open padlock.

Saves having to gnaw the thing off, she thought, trying to mask her anxiety with flippancy.

‘Okay, here goes. . . ’

Door opens.

Chill mist rolls out.

Pamela stared until it felt as though the desert heat had sucked the moisture from her eyes.

‘Okay: inventory, ’ she murmured.

The interior of the appliance was pristine aluminum. Stacked on its shelves was meat galore, from T-bone steaks to burgers to pork chops.

Severed human hands?

Eyeballs in cut-glass bowls?

Face-meat kebabs?

Nope.

Not a sign.

Sheesh. Just paranoia on her part. Stoked a little by some kid who’d been fooling around with an old diary. Pamela checked the deep freeze. A moment’s perusal revealed that this contained frozen foods that you’d find in any diner food-store.

Still, there was a cut of meat suggestive of a human thigh. Gingerly, she lifted it out.

The cold was biting. She saw the bloody marrow in the sawn-through bone at the joint’s end. The whole thing was wrapped in clear plastic with a mass-printed label attached that read PORK. DEFROST AND COOKING INSTRUCTIONS.

This definitely wasn’t the curly-haired guy’s upper leg. This came from a beast with four legs and snout.

Voices. She heard a clamor from the kitchen area. Someone was hurrying this way.

Someone knows I’m here, Pamela thought, panicking.

Any moment now they were going to burst through the door from the kitchen. Find her standing here by the open deep freeze with a good fifteen inches of frozen swine leg in her hands.

They’d dismiss her as a nut.

Or a thief.

She shut the appliance door. Great, you idiot, you were supposed to put the frozen meat back first.

Voices – louder and louder.

The door to the kitchen banged open. Gasping, Pamela wedged herself in the gap between the deep freeze and the shelves where two walls of the room met.

Fine. The shelves were piled so high with packs of flour, sugar and dried pulses that no one would be able to see her.

Unless they’ve come to grab something from the freezer.

Explain your way out of this one, Pamela.

Suddenly there seemed to be a lot of movement in the utility room, even though she could see nothing from where she was crouching. Voices. Loud ones. Feet scuffing the floor.

Lauren’s voice first: ‘Just leave her here with us! She’s not going to say anything. ’

Talking about me?

But then: ‘I’m not coming back with you, Zak. ’

‘The fuck you are! ’ A man’s voice she didn’t recognize. Rough-sounding.

Violent-sounding.

The man bellowed again. ‘Think you can just run out on me, Nicki? Didn’t ya think I wouldn’t find ya? Ya dumb bitch. ’

Sound of a smack. Nicki cried out.

So they’re not talking about me.

Pamela raised her head a little to peep out through a crack between two giant packs of dried rice. In the harsh light of the fluorescent strips she saw Nicki and Lauren standing side-by-side with their backs to the kitchen door. Fear blazed in their eyes.

And standing with his back to Pamela was a youngish guy in leather pants and a hide jacket that gleamed with metal studs. He wore a red bandanna. The biker. She remembered the Honda she’d seen parked outside the cafe.

Most of all she saw what was in his hand. A revolver. He was pointing it in Nicki’s face.

‘You’re my bitch, ya don’t walk out on me, ’ he snarled. ‘So ya get two choices. Ride back with me. Or kneel down and start prayin’. ’

Chapter Thirty-three

Pamela watched in horror from behind the shelves. The guy pulled back the hammer of the handgun with his thumb. He pointed the muzzle at the center of Nicki’s face.

Both Lauren and Nicki stared transfixed. Eyes wide open.

‘Nicki was my best whore, ’ the leather-clad guy said. ‘Earned five hundred bucks a trick. ’

‘I’m not going back to do that again, Zak, ’ she whispered. ‘It nearly killed me. ’

‘I gave you grade-A smack, ya bitch. Ya could be fucked by a mule on that stuff and not feel squat. ’

‘I’m clean now, Zak. ’

‘You’ll never be clean. Not as long as ya live. ’

‘She’s not going back, mister. ’ Lauren faced him, defiant. ‘She lives here now. ’

‘With you bums? Shit. . . Pits? What a dump. ’

‘It’s her home. We’re her family now. Nicki’s not going back with you. ’

‘Okay. ’ The pimp nodded as if this didn’t faze him. ‘Her decision. But I’m just going to deliver her severance pay. ’

Even from here Pamela could see the guy’s posture alter when he tensed as a prelude to shooting Nicki.

‘I’m popping you, too, sweetheart, ’ he told Lauren. ‘Ya’ve seen too much of my face. Okay, Nicki, say a little prayer. . . ’

Pamela looked down at her hand. It had stopped hurting from the cold now. The ten-pound hunk of frozen pork had numbed it.

The hunk of meat. Hard as concrete.

Then she stepped silently from behind the shelves. With all her strength she swung the frozen joint.

Down on the punk’s red bandanna. The ice-bound meat made a soft clunking sound as it struck punk head-bone.

‘Uh. ’ He dropped down to his knees.

Still kept a grip on the pistol. Began to raise it to shoot Nicki.

This time Pamela wielded the frozen pig leg like an executioner’s axe. Gripping it with both hands, she swung down.

This time no thudding sound.

A sharp snap instead. Bone had broken. Pamela doubted that it was the pig’s leg bone that had just busted.

Nope.

The pimp lay sprawled on the concrete floor. Blood seeped out of one his ears. His eyes were open but they were darting round like he was trying to lock onto a dancing hornet. His breathing sounded funny, too.

Sort of snorting. Irregular.

Pamela let the frozen pork joint slip from her fingers to the floor.

She looked up at Lauren and Nicki.

And swallowed. ‘I think we ought to get an ambulance. ’

‘Forget that, ’ Lauren said firmly. ‘Nicki, get me the meat cleaver. ’

Pamela stared at Lauren who returned her gaze coolly.

‘Pamela. Once I’m through here we need to talk. ’

Lauren closed the diner early that day. She told Pamela that she had work to do in the kitchen. Probably something centering on the big old butcher’s block on the table. Hank, Wes and Terry helped out, too. She guessed that Sharpe would have worked alongside them as well if he hadn’t been out on the road in his bus.

Nicki asked Pamela to sit with her in her

trailer.

Pamela obliged. She felt kinship with these people.

As Nicki showered Pamela fixed her a sandwich and a cold drink.

Nicki emerged, toweling dry her long blonde hair. Despite the shit that she’d been through today she still looked like a Viking goddess. A Viking goddess in a white cotton nightshirt, that was.

‘Oh, tuna and tomato, ’ she said, beaming as she sat on the sofa. ‘I love that combination. Cool and refreshing. And soda. Thanks. ’

Pamela set the tray bearing the plate and soda on the girl’s lap. ‘Don’t mention it. After what you’ve done for me the last few days it’s the least I could do. ’ Pamela didn’t mention what had happened earlier. About Zak. About the frozen pork knocking the daylights out of him.

Nicki talked freely, though.

‘And thanks for what you did earlier. ’ She sipped her drink and said ‘Hmm’ appreciatively. Then she looked Pamela in the eye. ‘He really would have killed me, you know. ’

‘He looked the type. ’

‘Once I saw him cut the throat of one of his girls because she kept back some money to buy her baby some formula. ’

‘Gee. The guy’s a little shit. ’

‘Yeah. ’ Nicki nodded, her eyes misting. ‘Shittiest guy I’ve ever met. And I’ve met a few. ’

‘Was Zak your. . . ’

‘Pimp? Yeah. ’ Nicki took a bite of her sandwich. There was a look of recollection in her eyes as she chewed. ‘I was at college, and I went and fell for a bad boy. I thought it was so cool that he’d pick me up on the motorcycle. The leathers were a turn-on too. A real turn-on. Shoot. . . he was my first real love, you know? The first guy who I let. . . ’ She shrugged. ‘Well, I thought he loved me for myself, only then he started to spin this line that he owed some gang members money and that they’d kill him if he didn’t repay it. ’

‘So he asked you to help him out? ’

Nicki delicately nibbled a slice of tomato. ‘Yeah. . . I thought I was helping the guy I loved. And I was convinced that Zak loved me. But he spun the same line to lots of different girls. He didn’t owe any money, he was just preying on our naiveté to earn himself some easy cash. ’

‘That’s horrible. ’

‘He fixed me up with a room. Painted purple it was, with purple drapes and purple sheets on the bed. I’d turn up at nine in the morning and guys would come to the room to fuck me until midnight, then I’d go home. ’

‘Oh, Nicki. ’ Pamela felt a lump in her throat. ‘That has to be the worst thing. ’

‘Oh, there are worse things. Like you saw today. Anyway, I stuck it for fifteen months. During that time I learned that Zak had other girls doing the same thing in other rooms in the building. Guys screwed us girls for cash, and Zak collected at the door. ’ She grimaced. ‘He beat up girls when they didn’t perform like they should. And he supplied the heroin. The drugs kept us going. ’ Nicki blinked as if the mental images had gotten too vivid. ‘Stopped the hurt, too. ’

‘But you got away in the end. ’

‘Sure. One morning Zak gave me the address of a hotel and told me I was going into corporate entertainment. A Peruvian sales team was in town. They wanted to pass round a blonde for the morning before they went to the conference in the afternoon. ’

‘The guy was a monster. ’

‘Anyway, he gave me enough money for a cab to the hotel. Only I walked to the bus station. I didn’t have a destination in mind so I bought a Greyhound ticket that would get me the furthest away from Zak. ’

‘And wound up here. ’

Nicki smoothed back her still-damp blonde hair. ‘Yeah. After another five weeks’ worth of adventures. ’

‘Sharpe found you? ’

‘Yeah. I was renting out old pussy here to a bunch of soldiers who’d gone AWOL down in Victorville. They’d taken some bad acid and were planning to drag me behind their truck on a wire. They said they wanted to see how fast I could run. Even took bets on what speed I’d reach before I lost my balance. ’

‘And he showed up just in time. ’

‘That’s Sharpe’s trademark. ’ Nicki sipped her drink. ‘It’s uncanny, but he’s always there just at the right time. ’

‘Like an angel. ’

‘I’ll say. Anyway. . . Sharpe took care of the guys. ’

‘And you rode back on his bus full of mannequins. ’

‘Absolutely. ’ Nicki smiled. ‘That was two years ago this spring. They welcomed me here in Pits like a long-lost daughter. For a spell I did a lot of cold turkey; the heroin addiction took some shifting. But Lauren and the rest were there for me. Night and day. ’

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