Then she hands the gun back to Lulu.

“We don’t like guns,” she says.

“I know.”

“You brought a gun into our home.”

“And what a nice home.”

“It does us all right.”

“I gotta ask, though. You ladies piss in a communal bucket? What do you do with your tampons? Just fling them into the corner? If you’re all on the same cycle–”

She steps forward, puts her boot on his hip. And presses down. Misery. Sheer misery that refuses to stay contained to that one space. It’s like touching a downed power wire. White. Hot. Cold. He cries out. She steps off.

He has to blink back tears. Suck back a snot bubble.

“You know,” she says, “being a woman isn’t easy. It’s tricky sometimes. But I’ll tell you if there’s one advantage we have, it’s that everybody always seems to underestimate what we can and will do. Men, mostly – but even other women do it. Isn’t that sad? It lets us get away with a lot, daddy-o. Lets us pull little surprises. Lets us get tricky.”

“Fuck you.”

“You want me to stand on that broken coat-rack you call a body again? Maybe we’ll all have a go. Use you like a trampoline. Sound fun, sugarplum?”

He winces past the pain and offers a placating smile. “My… apologies. Ma’am.”

“That’s better. I like a puppy knows when it’s licked. Keep showing your belly and maybe you’ll get out of here alive.”

“Wasn’t sure that was an option.”

Now a new voice: “We need a messenger.”

He knows that voice.

He heard it one time. And it told him sorry just before a bullet tore into him.

Nora Pearl. Persephone.

She steps up. And he can see that she’s not with these girls. Not really. Nora looks like she did a year ago, if a bit more made-up. But it’s still the same costume: navy cardigan, a tartan skirt. Like she’s jailbait, still in high school.

Werth can’t even think of something snappy to say. He just waits there. Seething.

“You look a little pale,” Nora says to him. “You feeling OK?”

“I should kill you.”

“That’s what you came to do. Isn’t it?” With the toe of her shoe, she kicks a few 12-gauge shells around. “Oops.”

“You’re in deep water, little girl.”

“To carry the metaphor, I’m actually sailing on top of the water in my pretty pink sailboat. You’re the one sinking beneath the water, dude. You just fell two stories. Possibly broke your leg or, at the least, aggravated an old wound–”

“An old wound you gave me.”

“And to make it worse, your Boss is dying. And everyone knows it. You know how everyone knows? Because I told them. They’re going to come for you guys. And they’re going to tear your little Organization apart, limb by limb.”

“The Organization is all you piss-ant gangs have protecting you from the–”

“From the Underworld?” She snorts. “Please. I think you’re keeping us from it. Keeping us from all the awesome. We want to get rich and you won’t let us.” She fakes a pout.”You’ve gotten fat and comfortable in your beds and didn’t see the rats in the walls, Werth, but the rats see you.” She mimes a rat gnawing and nibbling. Then laughs.