was their clubhouse on Durham Avenue. There’d be a record of where Rose was living there, he was sure of it. But it was a bad idea, just the same. The place was a modified fortress. You’d need a keycard of some sort—one that probably looked quite a lot like his stolen bank card—to get in, and maybe a set of numbers to keep the alarm system from going off, as well.
And what about the people there? Well, he could shoot the place up, if it came to that; kill some of them and scare the rest off. His service revolver was back at the hotel in the room safe—one of the advantages of traveling by bus—but guns were usually an asshole’s solution. Suppose the address was in a computer? It probably was, everyone used those pups these days. He’d very likely still be fucking around, trying to get one of the women to give him the password and file name, when the police showed up and killed his ass.
Then something came to him-another voice. This one drifted up from his memory like a shape glimpsed in cigarette smoke: ... sorry to miss the concert, but if I want that car, I can’t pass up the ...
What voice was that, and what couldn’t its owner afford to pass up?
After a moment, the answer to the first question came to him. It was Blondie’s voice. Blondie with the big eyes and cute little ass. Blondie, whose real name was Pam something. Pam worked at the Whitestone, Pam might well know his rambling Rose, and Pam couldn’t afford to pass something up. What might that something be? When you really thought about it, when you put on that old deerstalker hat and put that brilliant detective’s mind to work, the answer wasn’t all that difficult, was it? When you wanted that car, the only thing you couldn’t afford to pass up was a few extra hours at work. And since the concert she was passing up was this evening, the chances were good that she was at the hotel right now Even if she wasn‘t, she would be soon. And if she knew, she would tell. The punk-rock bitch hadn’t, but that was only because he hadn’t had time enough to discuss the matter with her. This time, though, he’d have all the time he needed.
He would make sure of it.
2
Lieutenant Hale’s partner, John Gustafson, drove Rosie and Gertie Kinshaw to the District 3 police station in Lakeshore. Bill rode behind them on his Harley. Rosie kept turning in her seat to make sure he was still there. Gert noticed but did not comment.
Hale introduced Gustafson as “my better half,” but Hale was what Norman called the alpha-dog; Rosie knew that from the moment she saw the two men together. It was in the way Gustafson looked at him, even in the way he watched Hale get into the shotgun seat of the unmarked Caprice. Rosie had seen these things for herself a thousand times before, in her own home.
They passed a bank clock—the same one Norman had passed not so long before—and Rosie bent her head to read the time. 4:09 p.m. The day had stretched out like warm taffy.
She looked back over her shoulder, terrified that Bill might be gone, sure in some secret part of her mind and heart that he would be. He wasn’t, though. He shot her a grin, lifted one hand, and waved at her briefly. She raised her own hand in return.
“Seems like a nice guy,” Gert said.
“Yes,” Rosie agreed, but she didn’t want to talk about Bill, not with the two cops in the front seat undoubtedly listening to every word they said. “You should have stayed at the hospital. Let them take a look at you, make sure he didn’t hurt you with that taser thing.”
“Shit, it was good for me,” Gert said, grinning. She was wearing a huge blue-and-white-striped hospital bathrobe over her split jumper. “First time I’ve felt absolutely and completely awake since I lost my virginity at Baptist Youth Camp, back in 1974.”
Rosie tried for a matching grin and could manage only a wan smile. “I guess that’s it for Swing into Summer, huh?” she said.
Gert looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”
Rosie looked down at her hands and was not quite surprised to see they were rolled into fists. “Norman’s what I mean. The skunk at the picnic. One big fucking skunk.” She heard that word, that fucking, come out