Sees nothing.
“Don’t fuck with me. There’s no one there.”
The boy shakes his head wearily. Jabs his finger again. “
There
,” he repeats.
“I’ve told you already . . .”
Stasko’s words drift when he looks again. He lets go of the T-shirt, of Katja’s T-shirt, and walks a few paces towards the brick wall which lines the street—towards the poster.
It’s the same as the one he’d seen earlier that day, the image which instantly entranced him, except this one isn’t half-torn. It is intact, including the part that had been missing from the first copy—the part which announces the time and date of the band’s gig.
The Wheatsheaf. 10:00 P.M. Tonight.
Stasko checks his watch. 9:50.
He rushes back to his car, leaving the boy where he is and ignoring his pleas for help. He throws it into reverse, spins it around, once again heading in the direction was going before spotting the figure stumbling around in the darkness, when he spots Bridget’s red Honda up ahead. He pulls up alongside her vehicle and she is momentarily panicked at the sudden arrival before she realizes who it is and winds down her window.
She starts to speak but Stasko cuts her off.
“I know where she is,” he tells her.
28.
Frank’s place, complete with a candy-cane pillar and framed portraits of long-dead models with their long-dead haircuts, is at the end of a block, separated from its neighbours by the shuttered remains of a liquor store.
DeBoer ignores the glass front entrance and walks around the back to a heavier door complete with a barred window and pornographic graffiti, the same door which he had, only a few hours earlier, been thrown out of as if he were nothing more than another piece of trash.
He knocks on the door. Waits.
Waits more.
He shifts nervously, the scratches on his arm now itching.
Maybe this isn’t such a good . . .
The security plate behind the little barred window slides aside. A pair of eyes blink in the darkness.
“Frank? It’s . . . it’s DeBoer. I have your money.”
There’s a pause then the security plate slides back into place and a moment later the door is opened. Frank stands there in a dressing gown, bleary-eyed.
“I’m sorry to wake you,” DeBoer says, “but I . . .”
He holds up the bags of money. “I’m here to settle up.”
Frank rubs at his eyes then steps aside to let DeBoer in. He closes the door and re-engages the lock.
“Come on through,” Frank says, guiding DeBoer through the shop and into what appears to be a study.
“So let’s see it.”
DeBoer eagerly tips the cash onto the desk before them, pushing it into neat stacks.
“It’s all there,” DeBoer assures him. He’d counted out the twenty thousand that he was due in the car and stuffed the rest into the remaining bag then hid it under the driver’s seat, already cycling through what to do with the excess. First on the list is another poker game though he’ll probably have to find somewhere else to play just in case Lady D, or some other snitch, figures out who took her money.
Frank touches the piles with one finger as if sensing the quantity by feel alone.
“So,” DeBoer says, “we’re all squared now?”
Frank picks up one of the bills, holds it up to the light.
“They’re genuine,” the detective insists, exaggerating offence. “You don’t seriously think I would—”
“No,” Frank says. Then he stops, the bill still pinned between two fingers. “But it looks like whoever you got it from wasn’t giving it up lightly.”
And he nods at the scratches on DeBoer’s forearm.
29.
When Lady D comes to, the anger hits her first but it is unconnected to anything for a short time. Fizzing and hot, it dances around her like an impatient child desperate for attention. Then it snaps into place.
That pink-haired bitch Soelberg fucked her over.
She grasps at the back of her neck and finds something still sticking in there, plucks it out. An empty syringe.
Her head
“Don’t fuck with me. There’s no one there.”
The boy shakes his head wearily. Jabs his finger again. “
There
,” he repeats.
“I’ve told you already . . .”
Stasko’s words drift when he looks again. He lets go of the T-shirt, of Katja’s T-shirt, and walks a few paces towards the brick wall which lines the street—towards the poster.
It’s the same as the one he’d seen earlier that day, the image which instantly entranced him, except this one isn’t half-torn. It is intact, including the part that had been missing from the first copy—the part which announces the time and date of the band’s gig.
The Wheatsheaf. 10:00 P.M. Tonight.
Stasko checks his watch. 9:50.
He rushes back to his car, leaving the boy where he is and ignoring his pleas for help. He throws it into reverse, spins it around, once again heading in the direction was going before spotting the figure stumbling around in the darkness, when he spots Bridget’s red Honda up ahead. He pulls up alongside her vehicle and she is momentarily panicked at the sudden arrival before she realizes who it is and winds down her window.
She starts to speak but Stasko cuts her off.
“I know where she is,” he tells her.
28.
Frank’s place, complete with a candy-cane pillar and framed portraits of long-dead models with their long-dead haircuts, is at the end of a block, separated from its neighbours by the shuttered remains of a liquor store.
DeBoer ignores the glass front entrance and walks around the back to a heavier door complete with a barred window and pornographic graffiti, the same door which he had, only a few hours earlier, been thrown out of as if he were nothing more than another piece of trash.
He knocks on the door. Waits.
Waits more.
He shifts nervously, the scratches on his arm now itching.
Maybe this isn’t such a good . . .
The security plate behind the little barred window slides aside. A pair of eyes blink in the darkness.
“Frank? It’s . . . it’s DeBoer. I have your money.”
There’s a pause then the security plate slides back into place and a moment later the door is opened. Frank stands there in a dressing gown, bleary-eyed.
“I’m sorry to wake you,” DeBoer says, “but I . . .”
He holds up the bags of money. “I’m here to settle up.”
Frank rubs at his eyes then steps aside to let DeBoer in. He closes the door and re-engages the lock.
“Come on through,” Frank says, guiding DeBoer through the shop and into what appears to be a study.
“So let’s see it.”
DeBoer eagerly tips the cash onto the desk before them, pushing it into neat stacks.
“It’s all there,” DeBoer assures him. He’d counted out the twenty thousand that he was due in the car and stuffed the rest into the remaining bag then hid it under the driver’s seat, already cycling through what to do with the excess. First on the list is another poker game though he’ll probably have to find somewhere else to play just in case Lady D, or some other snitch, figures out who took her money.
Frank touches the piles with one finger as if sensing the quantity by feel alone.
“So,” DeBoer says, “we’re all squared now?”
Frank picks up one of the bills, holds it up to the light.
“They’re genuine,” the detective insists, exaggerating offence. “You don’t seriously think I would—”
“No,” Frank says. Then he stops, the bill still pinned between two fingers. “But it looks like whoever you got it from wasn’t giving it up lightly.”
And he nods at the scratches on DeBoer’s forearm.
29.
When Lady D comes to, the anger hits her first but it is unconnected to anything for a short time. Fizzing and hot, it dances around her like an impatient child desperate for attention. Then it snaps into place.
That pink-haired bitch Soelberg fucked her over.
She grasps at the back of her neck and finds something still sticking in there, plucks it out. An empty syringe.
Her head
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