Poison backed up, appraising him and thinking about Punkin Head in its van, watching. It had yelled at her and slapped her around this morning. It had hurt her in places no one could see, because of what Blondie had put in the paper. Poison started feeling hateful about it and made a decision that perhaps wasn’t very wise, considering she and Punkin Head had already whacked one rich dude tonight, meeting their quota for the week, and cops were all around.

She seemed amused by something Brazil didn’t know, and she pointed. “See that corner there, little boy?” she said. “That old apartment building? Nobody in it no more. Meet you back there, ’cause we can’t be talking here.”

Poison stared into a dark alleyway across the street, where Punkin Head watched from inside its windowless van in dark shadows. It knew what she was up to and was aroused by it and in a mood to murder since it was taking less and less time for it to cool down and get the tension again. Punkin Head felt an insatiable rage toward Blondie that was more exciting than sex. It couldn’t wait to watch that fucking snitch soil his fancy jeans and beg on his knees before the almighty Punkin Head. It had never wanted to ruin anything more in its despicable, low, nasty, hate-filled life and its excitement mounted unbearably.

West spotted Brazil’s car up ahead. She saw the hooker walking off as Brazil drove to the corner and took a right. She saw the old windowless van slide out of the dark alleyway, like an eel.

“Christ!” West panicked. “Andy, no!”

She grabbed the radio and slammed down the accelerator, flipping on strobing lights. “700 requesting backups!” she screamed on the air. “Two hundred block West Trade. Now!”

Hammer heard the broadcast, too, and sped up. “Shit,” she said.

“What the hell’s going on?” Cahoon was on red alert, in military mode, ready to take out the enemy.

“Don’t know but it’s not good.” She threw on her lights, whelping her siren as she passed people.

“You got an extra gun handy?” Cahoon asked.

He was in the Marines again, launching grenades at North Koreans, crawling through the blood of his buddies. Nobody went through that and came out the same. Nobody messed with Cahoon, because he knew something they didn’t. There were worse things than dying, the fear of it being one of them. He unfastened his seatbelt.

“Put that back on,” Hammer told him as they flew.

West was trying to find a place to do a U-turn and finally gave up. She bumped and slammed over the concrete median, rubber squealing as she headed the other way. She had lost sight of Brazil, the hooker, and the van. West was as frantic and frightened as she had ever been.

“Please God, help!” she fervently said. “Oh please God!”

Brazil turned behind haunted ruins of graying old wood and broken windows gaping ragged and black, where there was no sign of life. He stopped and sat in silence. He looked around, increasingly jumpy. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. He dug in a pocket of his jeans and was taking an inventory of crumpled bills when suddenly the young hooker filled his window, smoking a cigarette, holding a washcloth, and smiling in a way that increased Brazil’s misgivings. It was the first time he’d noticed how crazed her eyes were, or maybe something was different now.