During a brief stint in Texas, Coulter had romanced a preacher’s daughter who taught him two things.
One, God loves you.
Two, you’re going to hell.
He thought of what she’d said as he started a new career. Strolling the streets of San Francisco after dark, targeting criminals by making himself a target and depriving them of their hard-earned dollars.
On one hand, God had to love him because Coulter was using the talent the Divine Father had given him.
On the other, Coulter Marshall was destined for hell as surely as a bored housewife was sitting down to watch The Price Is Right.
His new racket proved it.
Until that day of reckoning though, he was going to enjoy himself. Number one on his list—check out of the cockroach castle he’d been staying in since he got to the city. Bugs in the bathroom, porn in the magazine rack, and bedsheets that hadn’t been washed since Velcro was invented.
The location wasn’t too desirable either, situated as it was between the Church of Satan and the Temple of Uranus—a bathhouse exclusively for men.
And no, Coulter had not taken a dip.
He was just heading out, pushing through the grimy door when a dark SUV screeched to the curb, techno music blasting, and three men who looked like extras from Men in Black spilled out.
“This place is a dump,” one of them said, staring up at the motel.
His companion sneered. “What was your first clue? The hookers in the lobby?”
“Can we get on with it?” the third one said. “Vivica doesn’t want us taking all day.”
Coulter stood aside to let them pass. They barely glanced at him.
He walked to the end of the block, and then caught the uptown bus. He was going to treat himself. Three-star hotel all the way.