Pressing down on the accelerator, the old Jag surged forward. I swerved into the other lane.
Ryan clung to his seat belt. “So if they’re not fame suckers, then they’re … ?”
“Parson’s men?”
“Oh, shit, Diana. I am a dead man.”
I made a sharp turn onto a narrow neighborhood street. The biker did the same. Small bungalows fronted by patches of brown grass lined the uneven sidewalks. Plastic tricycles stood in a few of the yards like lawn ornaments. I slowed down; so did he.
“Where is the other guy?” Beads of sweat dotted Ryan’s forehead.
“Maybe he wanted to find out from P. J. Binder what we talked about. He might still be back there.”
The street emptied out onto a busy four-lane avenue. I sped up again, racing past old one-story stucco buildings housing barbershops, bleak bars, and bail bondsmen fighting for space with McDonald’s, Taco Bell and Burger King. I ran a yellow light and glanced in the rearview mirror. The biker was so close that he looked like he was connected to my bumper. Moving in and out of the traffic, I cut in front of a bus and swung a right, tires screeching, then quickly made a sharp left.
“Not into an alley!” Ryan stiffened his hands pressing against the dashboard. “They always dead-end into brick walls.”
The biker was still there in my mirror.
“Look out for the garbage cans,” Ryan gasped as we careered by iron-gated back doors.
“Oh God,” I blurted, slamming on the brakes.
“Fuck, a brick wall! I told you. I told you.” Ryan braced himself against his seat.
It rose up in front of us like a big you’re dead sign. I pressed the brake pedal to the floor. Rubber burned. The wall loomed closer. The Jag made a grinding noise as it veered and skidded to a jolting halt, its hood inches from the bricks. We pitched forward and then backward.
Adrenalin pumping, my eyes darted to the rearview mirror again. I watched the bike tilt sideways, sliding down on the pavement as it flew toward us.
“He’s going to smash into us,” I warned. There was a loud thump as the bike hit us and the Jag lurched again, bumping the wall.
“Perfect. We’ve killed one of Parson’s men.” Ryan craned around, looking out the back window. “Unless he was paparazzi and then we could be sued.”
“I don’t care anymore.” I flung open the car door and got out.
His white helmet on and visor down, the man had been thrown against a pile of garbage bags. Grabbing at his leg, he writhed in pain. His bike lay half under the car.
“Who are you?” I stared down at him. Ryan came up behind me, peering over my shoulder.
“You fucking bitch. You broke my leg.” He struggled into a sitting position, leaning against the rust and piss-stained wall.
Extending below the knitted cuff of his blue windbreaker, I could see two words tattooed vertically down to his wrist: With You. The thug at the yacht had had a tattoo that read: One Night With You.
“Tell Parson to leave me alone,” I ordered.
He lifted his face guard so I could see his cold eyes. “I should kill you right now.”
“Diana, let’s not irritate him,” Ryan whispered in my ear.
“What does Parson want from me?” I demanded.
“What he always wants now. Information about his daughter,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Where’s your partner?”
“He left.”
“He’s talking to P. J. Binder, isn’t he?”
“Fuck off.” The guy squirmed and moaned, his right hand reaching behind him toward his lower back.
Ryan bolted from behind me and stomped his foot down hard on the man’s arm. The biker groaned and swore. Ryan and I stared at each other, both of us startled by his bold action. Then I moved quickly and reached under the man and grabbed the gun from his waistband.
“Glock. 47.” Ryan said, still pinning the man’s arm to the asphalt.
“Move the bike, Ryan.” I pointed the Glock at the biker as Ryan loped toward the motorcycle.
“I thought you guys were pros,” I said. “But you’re not even as good as Ryan and me.” I glanced quickly at Ryan. Grunting, he had the bike righted and was wrestling it toward the side of the alley. I looked back at Parson’s lackey.
His emotionless eyes were riveted on me. “You’re dead,” he said in a flat voice.
I knew he meant it, but I kept my voice and the gun steady, continuing to talk as if no threat hung in the air between us. “Rule number one in acting. If you’re playing a photographer, pretend to use your camera. You should’ve taken the money shot.”
Turning on my heels, I got into the car and slammed the door. I stared at the thug’s gun in my trembling hand. The grip felt a little big and I wondered if they came in different sizes, like tennis racket handles. Ryan slipped in next to me. I put the weapon in the glove compartment and started the engine.
“You’re going to keep it?” Ryan wiped sweat off his face with a crumpled paper cocktail napkin he’d found in his shirt pocket.
“Yes.” I threw the car in reverse.
“Can’t you turn the heat off?”
“No.”
As I backed the Jag slowly down the alley past the thug our eyes met for a chilling moment. And I knew he was watching me all the way, letting me know he would be seeing me again. Finding an opening in the traffic, I swerved backwards onto the street and put the car into drive.
“Do you believe what I did?” Ryan beamed.
“You saved us.” I smiled gratefully.
“I did, didn’t I? Shouldn’t we be going the other way?” He shifted in his seat.
“I’m going back to Binder’s place. We may have unintentionally gotten him involved in this whole thing.”
“This is crazy, Diana. Turn around.” His bravery had disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. “We’re artists,” he pleaded. “We create situations like this, we don’t live them. That’s for… .” He waved a hand in the air. “Other people.”
“Get used to it, Ryan. We’re other people now.”