Gilman rubbed a hand across his chin.
“I don’t get it,” he said to Hanger, who was next to him in the truck’s passenger seat.
The girl was sitting in back, staring, with glazed eyes, out of the window as the miles of desert whipped past them on either side. Her wrists had stopped bleeding, and she had a dazed expression. Gilman had suggested they take her to an emergency room to get her stomach pumped. Instead, Hanger had forced her to drink a bunch of salt water until she vomited by the side of the road.
“What don’t you get?” said Hanger.
“Well, whoever these guys are, they’re prepared to cause a lot of trouble to get her back.”
“What you saying?”
Gilman wasn’t sure he wanted to come straight out with it. He and Hanger were tight since they’d been cellies, but Hanger could be, what was the best word? Touchy. Yeah, that was it, he could be touchy.
You say the wrong thing to him, or look at him the wrong way, and he could go crazy. It wasn’t just that he could get violent, most people in jail could be violent. It was the level he went to and how fast he got there. It was like he really got off on hurting people.
“I’m not saying anything,” said Gilman. “It’s your business. You handle it how you see fit. But if it was me, then I’d maybe, y’know, throw this one back.”
Hanger stared at him and for a second Gilman worried that he might lose his temper. Not that it would come to much. After all, this was Gilman’s truck and Gilman was busy saving his ass. But contrary to appearances, Gilman wasn’t much for getting into it with people, not unless he had to.
Hanger put his arm on the back of Gilman’s seat and turned around.
“What you say?” he asked Kristin. “You want to go home?”
She turned her head so slowly that the movement was almost robotic. She didn’t say anything.
“See,” Hanger said to Gilman. “She doesn’t want to go home.”
“Okay then,” said Gilman as they came up on a sign that told him they had ninety-four miles to go before they hit Las Vegas.
“Here’s the problem,” said Hanger. “Once you’re in the pimping game, you can’t let hoes go. Not until you’re done with them. And definitely not because someone puts the squeeze on you. Do that and, well, you might as well stop being a pimp.”
“I hear you,” said Gilman, starting to wish he’d never said anything.
“Hey,” said Hanger with a flick of his eyes towards the back seat. “You want to get a taste of her when we get there? On me, of course.”
Gilman didn’t want to look at Hanger. The idea creeped him out, and he didn’t want Hanger to see that in his eyes. When she’d been brought in by Hanger’s bottom girl, he’d asked how old she was. She’d said nineteen. But Gilman knew that was a lie. She was a kid. A kid with makeup on.
“That’s a generous offer,” he told Hanger. “But I can’t leave the studio.”
Hanger produced a pack of cigarettes. He tapped one out for each of them. He lit them both and passed one to Gilman. He lowered the window and blew smoke out into the fresh Nevada air.
“You might be right,” said Hanger. “I won’t give her up. But maybe I could move her on.”