to draw attention."
The man dug his car keys from his pocket.
Black suit, black sunglasses, like a reject from Reservoir Dogs, and it should look ridiculous,
but it doesn't because I know how dan-gerous these people are.
"Jazz, for fuck's sake."
The man began to turn around, and when Jazz saw his profile she dipped her head, turned, and buried
her face against Stevie's neck. She gasped, breathed in his scent, and managed to ease her hold on his
biceps.
Uncle Mort, she thought, and any thoughts of revenge or retribution were swallowed by a moment
of outright terror.
"Stevie," she whispered. She put her arms around his waist and held him tight, and Stevie lowered his
own face against her neck and hugged her as well.
"Hey," he said. She felt his warm breath against her ear, and it gave her some comfort. He was no
longer acting the part but playing it for real, and she hoped that later he did not suspect she had put this on.
She wasn't yet sure what she was going to tell him —her mind was a muddle—but she grabbed this
moment as hard as she was grabbing Stevie Sharpe. She felt his dark hair mingling with hers. She let out a
sob, one shuddering exhalation that shook her body.
Jazz raised her head, careful not to turn around. Stevie looked up as well. They were so close that
she could not focus on his eyes.
"Has he gone?" she asked.
"Just getting into his Porsche."
"Porsche," she said. "Tacky. Yeah, tacky suits him, I guess."
"You know this guy?"
Jazz shook her head. "Not yet. Tell me when he's gone. And I mean away, completely out of the
square."
She heard the motor start behind her. A horn beeped and another beeped back, and she sensed
Stevie's expressions change as he smiled.
"He can't drive for shit," he said.
Jazz giggled, and it felt good. There was suddenly some-thing uniquely thrilling about being here,
thirty yards away from a man who had probably spent weeks looking for her and who would likely kill her if
they ever crossed paths. If she'd been on her own it would have been different, but al-though she knew
Stevie would be in danger as well, they were accomplices in this deceit. Tires screeched, and Mort drove
away from the girl the Uncles wanted most.
"He's gone," Stevie said. "We should go too. But we're not going straight back down."
"We're not?" Jazz asked. But she already knew that. Stevie still had not let go of her waist.
Stevie shook his head. "I know a place where we can talk."
They left the square as they had entered an hour before, holding hands and smiling. The smile still felt
false, but now Jazz was sure the holding of hands had meaning. It was hot, her palm was sweaty, but she
did not want to let go.
****
Music blasted from the speakers at about a million decibels, so loud that Jazz felt her stomach and
chest rippling in time with the beat. It produced a wall of noise she thought she could probably climb. She
didn't know who the band was, but the song screamed about rock and roll, drinking, and doing the horizontal
dance. At least two of the three were actively being pursued in here.
Though it was still early morning, the cafe was packed. The front portion of the shop consisted of a
secondhand record-and-CD dealership, but at the back there was a sur-prisingly well-appointed coffee
counter selling coffee, tea, hot chocolate, and a selection of cakes and snacks. A few peo-ple had brought
their potential purchases here to mull them over while having a drink, but most of the dozen tables were
taken by obvious regulars. They sprawled casually across the chairs, drinking something from large mugs
that most defi-nitely did not resemble coffee. It did not steam, for a start.
But though the music was loud and the clientele all seemed to know one another, Jazz felt completely
comfort-able. Part of it was the anonymity, she guessed, but she also felt as though this was somewhere
people came to get lost. Everyone here was doing their own thing, laughing and talk-ing with friends of a
similar bent, and there was no hint of tension or exclusivity in the air. It certainly was not the sort of place
where shoppers popped in for a quiet coffee before their cab home.
"I thought you said we'd come here to talk!" Jazz said into Stevie's ear.
He smiled and shrugged, and leaned close to her. "At least we won't be overheard."
They were both drinking coffee, and Stevie had bought a selection of small cakes, which sat on a
plate before them. Jazz didn't feel at all hungry, but she felt