In the alley at the rear of the house, Bonnie found her Jeep. She stood for a moment, looking it over in the hard downpour. She loved the old girl—somehow she was sure her Jeep was female—even if the vehicle had seen better days. The door hinges and the bolts on the side mirrors might be rusted, the radio might be broken, and the rearview mirror might be Krazy-Glued in place, but the duct tape liberally applied to the cracked and split upholstery gave it a certain charm.
The Jeep reminded her of when she had started out, scraping together sofa-cushion spare change to bankroll her venture as a PI, assembling yard-sale furniture in her low-rent office. She’d chosen Brighton Cove on the theory that if she didn’t have money, the next best thing was to work for people who did. The theory proved correct. She had moved up in the world, but she’d kept the Jeep and the office, and even the furniture.
She wondered why she was feeling sentimental about her ride. Then she realized it wasn’t just her ride. It was her life. There were a lot of things she’d taken for granted. A lot of things she’d miss.
Screw that. Moping around wasn’t going to get the job done.
She needed to catch up with Pascal again, but she wasn’t exactly privy to his itinerary. The one thing she knew, because she’d overheard his phone conversation in the motel room, was that he hoped to be picked up at Millstone Airport later tonight. She was betting he would go there only after the successful completion of his assignment. As long as Alan and his family were alive, the airport was irrelevant. If it ever became relevant, it meant she had failed.
In the meantime, she had no way to find the son of a bitch. So she would just have to arrange some other approach. She had an idea about how to play it, if she could get him to go along.
She climbed into the Jeep and took out her new cell, dialing the number of her stolen phone. She had to hope Pascal still had it, and that he’d left it on.
Two rings, three, and he picked up.
“Guess who,” she said.
“Miss Bonnie Parker.”
She sighed. “Sounds like you didn’t bleed out after all.”
“My injury was a mere scratch. I suppose it is too much to hope that you also were wounded.”
“Not a nick on me,” she lied. “You had your shot and you blew it. You’re getting old, buddy boy.”
“I may be old, Miss Parker, but the night is young.”
“That’s the spirit. Okay, here’s the pitch, hotshot. We’re getting no place fast. You zap me, I wing you. It’s a zero sum game. Time for us to go another way.”
“What other way?”
She lit a cigarette. “You and me in a cage match. Two desperadoes enter, and only one of us leaves. We pick a spot and both come packing. The winner is whoever’s still breathing when the last shot is fired. You in?”
A tick of silence. “I think not.”
“Come on, it’s right up your alley. A couple knights of the Round Table challenging each other to a duel or a joust or whatever.”
“Why would that be, as you say, up my alley?”
“I saw the book you were reading. King Arthur, Maid Marian, all that happy crap.”
“Maid Marian is from the Robin Hood stories.”
“Meh. Details. What’s the appeal of that medieval booshwah, anyway?”
“The knight errant lived by his own code. As do I.”
“You have a code? Does it involve torturing fair damsels with electric shocks?”
“It involves showing no mercy to an adversary. It is your code too, Bonnie Parker.”
“So you’re not just a hired gun. You’re Sir Lancelot.”
“Indeed I am.” He sounded pleased.
“Well, I’ll bet old Lance never turned down a challenge. The other knights would’ve made cluck-cluck noises at him. So what d’you say?”
“Your offer is tempting. But I have learned to resist temptation.”
“And here I thought you were a true romantic. I even have something you wrote. You know, the moon’s rising, kiss of death, yadda yadda. Very friggin’ poetic.”
“You took that from me?” She heard his first real emotion—an edge of anger.
“Yup.” She patted her back pocket. “It’s a little soggy, but still legible.”
“You crude, illiterate, stupid little bitch.”
“Been called worse. You want it back?”
“I will pin your scalp to it.”
“Does that mean we’re on?”
“I hold out only one condition. I choose the venue.”
“Fair enough. Let’s get this party started.”
“Won’t you assume I am leading you into a trap?”
“Sure. But I’m smart enough to improvise a workaround.”
“Very well. Your boardwalk will do.”
“The boardwalk is two miles long. Narrow it down.”
“There is a spot just across the street from a large old hotel.”
“That’s not a hotel anymore. It’s an old folks’ home. But I know the place.”
“You will find me there. Bring my poem.”
“Will do. And you bring my twenty-five hundred bucks.”
“Oh, I will pay you back, Bonnie Parker. Of that you may rest assured. I anticipate the outcome of our rendezvous with deep satisfaction.”
“Anticipate a bullet in the noggin, friend. ’Cause that’s what you’re gonna get.”
She ended the call and sat in the Jeep, finishing her cigarette. She intended to smoke it all the way down to the filter. She had a funny feeling it might be her last.