We rounded a corner near the rear gate. Indigo and Medusa were posted up there again—shotgun and bat, same as yesterday, different weight to their shoulders now.
I gave them both a chin lift. They returned it.
We kept going.
“So,” she said. “You actually think he might not come back?”
I thought of 8-Ball’s voice. His hand on my shoulder. The way Blackjack had sounded on the phone, half laughing, fully serious.
“No,” I said. “I think if Roman wanted him dead, we’d already be hearing about a sudden gas leak at some casino. But I also think wanting isn’t the same as knowing.”
“Spoken like a man who’s had more than enough surprises in his life,” she said.
“Haven’t you?” I asked.
“More than my share,” she replied.
We walked a few more yards in silence. There was a spot near the old loading dock where the fence buckled out slightly, pushed by some old crash or pressure. She stopped there, pressed her fingers to the metal, testing.
“Loose?” I asked.
“Not loose enough,” she said. “But it makes me itch.”
“You ever not itching?” I asked.
“For the twenty minutes after a really good fight,” she said. “Or a really good orgasm.”
I choked on a laugh. “Jesus.”
“I said what I said,” she replied easily.
“Modest,” I said. “Saintly, even.”
“Oh, absolutely,” she said. “Ask anyone. I’m a fucking nun.”
We started walking again.
“Turnpike likes your book girl,” I said after a second.
“India?” she asked. “He does?”
“He watched her walk past like his brain fell out of his ears,” I said. “He’ll deny it.”
“I like India,” she said. “If he hurts her feelings, I’ll castrate him.”
“You go straight to the classics,” I said. “No warning shots.”
“Waste of ammo,” she said.
I shook my head, but the grin wouldn’t stay down.
“You’re different than I thought you’d be,” she said suddenly.
“How’d you think I’d be?” I asked. “Be honest. I cantake it.”
She thought about it.
“Louder,” she said. “More bark. Less… spine.”
