The Four-Night Run by William Lashner Page A

totaled.” Then in a hushed tone, like a conspirator, he said, “So what do you think?”
    “I think I’m in serious trouble,” said Scrbacek.
    “No. About her.”
    “Who?”
    “Elisha.”
    “Baltimore?”
    “Isn’t she wonderful?”
    “The Lady Baltimore?”
    “Yeah. I don’t know. I’ve never met anyone quite like her. She’s very spiritual.”
    “She’s a drug-addicted stripper, Donnie.”
    “Well, see, that’s what makes her so special. She’s employed, has outside interests . . .”
    “Donnie.”
    “She’s more than just her struggle, Mr. Scrbacek. You’re on the run now—you should know that as well as anyone.” He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. “We found the money in your boot. I had to pay Squirrel, and I used some of it to buy the medicine, the new clothes, and to pay Elisha, because, well, that’s what I did with it. And then I had to give some to the Contessa to get her to come. This is what’s left. Fifteen hundred or about.”
    “The Contessa must be expensive,” said Scrbacek as he put the wadded bills in his back pocket.
    “But she’s worth it.”
    “What exactly does she do?”
    “She reads the future.”
    “Ahh, now I recognize the name. She’s the fortune-teller on the boardwalk.”
    “You know her?”
    “I’ve passed her shop.”
    “She’s got a good sign, doesn’t she? ‘Contessa Romany: The Mistress of Tarot.’”
    “Send her home, Donnie.”
    “It wasn’t easy to get her to come. She doesn’t like it in Crapstown. I had to almost beg. Though the bills I gave her from your stash helped.”
    “Donnie, I don’t want any help from the Contessa. One of my fondest hopes is that I go through my life never having been helped by a contessa. Send her home.” He stopped dressing and looked at Donnie. “I have a lot of questions.”
    “I know you do.”
    “About the things that are happening. About Malloy. About something called the Inner Circle.”
    Donnie spun around and looked behind him and then back, letting out a soft “Shh.”
    “But most of all,” said Scrbacek as he put on his socks and slipped on his boots, “I need to find out who’s trying to kill me.”
    “That’s why the Contessa is here.”
    “Donnie, no.”
    “Come on,” he said. “She’s setting up downstairs. But I want to show you something first.”
    “I’m not paying a hundred more bucks to have my fortune told by some Gypsy fraud.”
    Just then, the Nightingale hopped down from the bureau, moving with the athletic grace of a gymnast. She was short and lithe, pretty in a boyish way, with short dark hair, and she carried an AK-47, the trigger pointing to the sky and the barrel leaning on her shoulder. Fastened to the barrel’s tip was some sort of tube, black and wider than the rest. She didn’t say a word. She just stared at Scrbacek for a moment and then tilted her head toward the exit.
    Scrbacek’s eyes widened before he grabbed his raincoat and followed Donnie out the door.
    Donnie led Scrbacek through a dark hallway, the noise of the ever- present television growing louder, and down a stairwell with a rickety handrail. The Nightingale trailed the two of them, the gun still perched on her shoulder. At the landing, they passed into a hallway to the right and came to a room at the back of the house. Donnie turned a switch, and two hanging industrial fixtures clicked and blinked and finally hummed to life, filling the room with a harsh light that forced Scrbacek to cover his eyes until they adjusted.
    “This is my shop,” said Donnie.
    The room was large, with workbenches lining one of its walls. It smelled of oil, and solder, and burned and twisted metal. Beside one of the benches was a scatter of large metal tanks, one tank still attached to a torch, heavy goggles hanging from the tank’s nozzle. Scrbacek walked slowly around the room, studying the workbenches, the tools, and the piles of material.
    In the center was a table with a