Part 18 (1/2)

We escorted Hines back to the clearing, where Vic's Song Serenade was parked behind Hines's GI sedan. I found Hines's handcuffs and snapped them on the wrists he obligingly stretched out to receive them. I could see the questions starting to form in his head, all of them amounting to one version or another of What the f.u.c.k? What the f.u.c.k?

”You're probably wondering, 'What the f.u.c.k,' 'What the f.u.c.k,'” I said. He didn't answer. Wouldn't give me the satisfaction.

”At the end of the day,” said Allie, ”it was a garden-variety snuke.

We all convinced you that we'd flipped on Radar, and you bought it because you wanted to.”

”It's the sign of a good con, mate,” added Billy. ”Play into the mark's cherished beliefs.”

I have to say that for someone held in handcuffs at gunpoint, Hines didn't look too worried. ”So what now?” he asked. ”Are you going to kill me? I don't think you have the stones. Allie, maybe. Not you girls.”

”Murder is the last refuge of the unimaginative,” I said. ”So tell me if this works for you: We tie you to a tree or whatnot, pack our bags, and grab the first flight to anywhere. Our last phone call before takeoff tells someone where to find you, and you sleep in your own bed tonight.”

”You'd better just kill me,” he said.

”Oh, why? Because otherwise you'll track us down? Follow us to the ends of the earth?”

”You bet your a.s.s I will.”

”I'm saying that's a bad idea.” I pulled out the Hackmaster and tossed it gently back and forth from hand to hand. ”Your whole sordid history is right here. And here it stays unless, you know, it doesn't.”

”Naked bluff,” sneered Hines.

”Maybe. But you can't afford to call. So: You keep your distance, we keep ours. It's a big world. No real reasons why our paths should cross.”

A shadow of doubt pa.s.sed over Hines's face. ”What about Scovil?” he asked, grasping at a certain straw.

”She's sorted,” said Billy.

”Sorted?”

I flashed on the errand I'd run to the Blue Magoon. I hoped Scovil was okay. She was a b.i.t.c.h and all, but still ...

Vic, meanwhile, had fetched from his car a padlock and a coil of braided cable. He ran the cable twice around a suitably girthy tree and prepared to lock the loop ends to Hines's handcuffs.

”We'll leave the keys over there somewhere,” I said, nodding to the far side of Hines's sedan. ”It'll probably be dark before help arrives. I'll tell them to bring a flashlight.”

”At least let me p.i.s.s first,” said Hines. It seemed like a reasonable request, so I nodded my a.s.sent. Hines unzipped right there in the clearing, which seemed odd, but triggered the not-odd reaction of all of us momentarily looking away. As I studied a treetop, I had the vague sense that I was overlooking something crucial. Did I handcuff him right? Don't they usually handcuff behind the back? Did I handcuff him right? Don't they usually handcuff behind the back? The thought lingered on the tip of my mind, then floated away. I wondered how long I would have this b.u.t.terfly brain, or indeed whether I'd ever think fully straight again. The thought lingered on the tip of my mind, then floated away. I wondered how long I would have this b.u.t.terfly brain, or indeed whether I'd ever think fully straight again.

Then I suddenly remembered what I'd forgotten.

Mirplo's gun!

Too late. Hines already had it out and pressed against Allie's ear.

A frozen moment opened while the shock of the reversal settled in. Mirplo took a step forward, but a growl-literally, a growl-from Hines stopped him. Allie looked stoic. Knowing her history, I figured this wasn't the first gun she'd had held to her head. I've been there myself; needless to say, it's nothing you get used to, but if you're strong, you don't fall to pieces. I caught her eye, and she gave me a look like, If you don't get me out of this, we are If you don't get me out of this, we are so so over over. Billy, meanwhile, had taken a couple of steps to his right. For my part, I slid left, widening the angle.

This, apparently, was not an angle Hines would let us shoot. ”Don't f.u.c.king move,” he said. ”Get down on the ground.”

”Well, which is it?” I said. ”Don't move or get down?”

”That's right, a.s.shole, keep making jokes. Trust me, there's plenty of bullets to go around.”

Bullets. Now why did that ring a bell? Again, I had a thought I couldn't immediately finger. I made a mental note to get a CAT scan at the first opportunity. Again, I had a thought I couldn't immediately finger. I made a mental note to get a CAT scan at the first opportunity.

But you know what? If you're in the game, you play the game, even when you're not feeling game, so I struggled to view the situation from Hines's point of view. I suppose he was weighing a number of factors. Like: was the Penny Skim really real, and if it was, was there any way he could trust us to deliver a decent slice? If not, what plays did he have? He could arrest us, but then what? He'd be virtually arresting himself. No man is more dangerous than when he's drowning in bad choices. The least worst of which, unfortunately, looked like start shooting start shooting.

Except ...

Bullets! Ha-ha! ”Here's what's what,” I said suddenly, pointing Hines's own gun at him. ”You're going to let Allie go.” ”Here's what's what,” I said suddenly, pointing Hines's own gun at him. ”You're going to let Allie go.”

”Excuse me?”

”Uh-huh. And then you're going to shackle yourself to that tree like a good boy. Want to know why?”

”Why?” asked Hines, belligerently.

”Because I hate guns. I hate them so much that when I have one around-stashed in my closet, say-the first thing I do is unload it. So if you'll just be so kind as to-”

Blam! A shot whistled past my ear. It took out the winds.h.i.+eld of Vic's car. A shot whistled past my ear. It took out the winds.h.i.+eld of Vic's car.

”f.u.c.k, man!” shouted Vic. ”s.h.i.+rley Temple!”

”What the h.e.l.l?” I added.

”f.u.c.king moron,” said Hines. ”A gun can't be reloaded?”

Oh. Oh, I hadn't thought of that. Definitely not clicking on all cylinders.

Long story short, Hines held the gun to Allie's head till I caved in and gave up the other piece. Then he made a truss line out of Mirplo's braided cable, bound us waist and wrist, and tossed us down together in a puddle of mud and snow. A bad mix of concussion sickness and bruised regret swamped my mind. As I sat there on the ground, snow seeping through my pants, I couldn't help thinking, This is so f.u.c.ked up This is so f.u.c.ked up. I'm not saying I made a deal with G.o.d or anything, but the thought did cross my mind that if I managed to get out of there without being dead and whatnot, I would definitely start looking for another line of work. Something that didn't involve the risk of guns or, more prosaically, the cold discomfort of a clammy a.s.s as you sit on the ground in the mud in the woods. I knew things weren't entirely my fault. Elide the concussion from the equation and this endgame spins like a top. Ah, well. You can't unbreak an egg.

There's a certain sort of scam I've always hated, one where the grifter acts like a victim and preys on the misplaced sympathy of the mark. Admittedly, some of these can have a certain elegance, like where you call a bookstore masquerading as an author who's due in for a reading this week, only you've been robbed, mugged, whatever, and need some Western Union succor ASAP. In a typical filigree, the bad guys stole your laptop with all those pictures of your mother on the hard drive. For some reason, that detail turns the mooks' screws. At the end of the day, though, it's such a lame and needy thing. Basically, you're telling the mark that you've failed as a human being and that he, as a human being, somehow owes it to you to bail you out. Behind the whiff of faux desperation lies the whiff of real desperation. It's just too pathetic for words.

But I was feeling authentically sorry for myself just then. Besides, Hines had just relieved me of my Hackmaster and smashed it to bits with a rock. As a grifter, you pride yourself on always having other cards to play, but I was definitely running down to deuces in my deck. ”Hines,” I said, ”can we talk for a second?”

”Kinda busy now,” he said. And busy he was-siphoning gasoline into an empty soda bottle and dousing the upholstery of Vic's clunker. I had a premonition of the four of us packed in there like flambeed sardines.

Vic saw a different sort of vehicular manslaughter. ”Hey,” he yelped, ”leave s.h.i.+rley Temple alone. She hasn't done anything to you.”

Hines just sneered. ”You should have thought of that before you f.u.c.ked me.”

”I didn't f.u.c.k you,” protested Vic. didn't f.u.c.k you,” protested Vic. ”He ”He f.u.c.ked you.” Meaning me. ”You think I thought up any of this s.h.i.+t?” f.u.c.ked you.” Meaning me. ”You think I thought up any of this s.h.i.+t?”

Well, that was a good point, but Vic's plaintive lameness wasn't doing him any good now. I didn't see anyone pa.s.sing out get out of jail free get out of jail free cards. cards.

Which, of course, was exactly what Hines needed. But would he take one from me? This, in a nutsh.e.l.l, is the downside of being such a d.a.m.n lying liar. By the time you're authentically ready to surrender, no one believes you anymore. Still, it was worth a shot. ”Seriously,” I said. ”We really need to talk.”

He crossed from the car and stood over me, gun in one hand, bottle of gasoline in the other. ”What's on your mind now, smart guy?”