I swing around, heart pounding, and see Davy heading toward me. He looks much rougher than the last time I saw him at Fast Mike’s motorcycle garage, which is saying a lot. He’s not only wearing a shirt, miracle of miracles, he’s wearing a sand-colored trench coat, and it looks like he’s still on at least one crutch, partially hidden behind the coat.
“Hello, cowgirl,” he says in an emotionless, lazy voice that sounds like it got attened by an eighteen-wheeler. He’s high as hell—on what, I don’t know. But his eyes are just as dead as his words, and his head’s moving a little funny, bobbing and weaving.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see movement from Porter.
“Nuh-uh.” Davy lifts his crutch and points it in Porter’s direction.
Only, it’s not a crutch. It’s the shotgun from the bon re.
I freeze. So does Porter; he was in the middle of bounding over the counter.
“Saw you riding around in the parking lot earlier,” Davy says to me. “?ought maybe you were coming over to apologize. But you drove right past me.”
Shit! How could I have not noticed Davy’s big yellow truck?
“Put the gun down, Davy,” Porter says in a casual voice that sounds a little forced. “Come on, man. ?at’s insane. Where did you even get that thing? If someone saw you walking around with that, you could end up in jail. Don’t be stupid.”
“Who’s going to see me?”
“Anyone who walks in here,” Porter says. “Dude, we’re open. My folks are on their way back from the beach. ?ey just called. ?ey’ll be here in two minutes. And you know Mr. Kramer comes in here every morning. He’ll call the cops, man.”
Davy thinks about this a second and waves the gun toward me.
Breathe, I tell myself.
“Cowgirl here can go lock the door. I want a private conversation, just the three of us. I’ve got a beef with the two of you. An apology is owed, and maybe a little cash out of the register while you’re at it. Payback for pain and misery suffered. What you did to my knee.”
I don’t move.
“My parents are just down the street,” Porter repeats, this time sounding angry.
Davy shrugs. “Guess you better hurry with the register, then. Go lock the door, cowgirl.”
I ick a glance at Porter. He’s breathing heavy. I can’t read his face all that well, but what I do know is that he’s absolutely miserable and con icted. Funny thing is, for the rst time in forever, I’m not. I’m scared and worried, yes. And I hate the sight of that goddamn gun with an unholy passion I can’t measure.
But I am not afraid of Davy.
I am furious.
I just don’t know what to do about him.
Eyes guarded, I plod to the front door and lock it. ?e windows are enormous; I can see his re ection in the glass, so I watch him the entire way there. Watch him watching Porter, because that’s where he’s pointing the shotgun now. And why wouldn’t he? Porter’s the one who kicked his ass. Porter’s the one who nearly jumped the counter. Porter’s an athlete, nothing but muscle. Even a rational, sober person would consider Porter the bigger threat.
Davy’s not sober.
I take my time strolling back to them, and I think about my dad’s warnings about oversteering, and about how I exploded in the Hotbox—twice. I think about all my Artful Dodger skills and how they’re partly inherited from my CPA dad, and his love of details and numbers, and partly inherited from my attorney mom, and her love of nding loopholes. I think about how my dad said I’m going to be okay because I’m willing to try to get better.
But mainly I think about that day last month when those two punks tried to steal the Maltese falcon from the Cave. ?ey underestimated me too.
Davy gives me a brief look, enough to see that I’m approaching but giving him a wide berth, head down. “Locked up tight?”
“Yep,” I say.
“All right,” he says, pointing the shotgun at Porter. “Register. Empty it.”
Lowest of lows. Robbing your best friend’s family. I know Porter’s thinking it, but he says nothing. His jaw is tight as he presses a few buttons on the computer screen. “Haven’t started it up yet,” he explains. “Can’t open the drawer until the program’s running. Hold on a sec.”
Bullshit. He must have put the drawer in himself, so the computer’s on. He probably has a key to the drawer. But Davy’s too stoned to realize this, so he waits. And while he does, Porter’s eyes dart toward mine. And in that beautiful, singular moment, I know we’re both linked up.
