of his hand, Diaz’s body spilling to the ground. His lips were tensed in a crooked scowl, eyes glossed with a lifeless film. Evan reached down and closed his lids.
Then hustled across the lot, trying not to limp.
He reached the Ferrari and pried up the lid of the trunk. Andre roared something unintelligible, swinging and kicking wildly.
Evan stepped back, none of the blows landing. “You’re safe. We need to move.”
Andre came back into himself and nodded, his neck tensed, the hollow of his throat glistening with sweat. He offered a hand, and Evan clamped it and tugged him out.
They cut through the next aisle, passing the tall man’s body, his mouth gaping where the flashlight had been rammed through, front teeth chipped.
Andre’s voice came out strangled. “Were you … trying to kill him?”
“I was trying to take him out of the fight as quietly as possible,” Evan said. “Whether that killed him or not was secondary.”
A flash of disgust in Andre’s eyes. Fear, too. “The fuck are you, man?”
Evan grabbed his arm, urging him forward, their shadows thrown before them, two irreconcilable parts of an imperfect whole.
They half jogged toward the front gate, Andre turning to take in the rest of the bloody aftermath. “Jesus God.” He was crying quietly.
“I’m gonna get you back to your place, okay?”
Andre looked glazed, descending into shock.
They got into the truck, Evan dropping the gearshift into drive. Andre looked wrecked.
“I told you not to come,” Evan said, a hard edge beneath the words. Guilt?
Andre’s lips barely moved. “I’m sorry.”
“This is why you’re not coming to talk to the sensor operator either. Understand?”
Andre’s nod looked like a tremor. “Okay. Okay.”
Evan peeled out, drove forward a quarter block, and screeched to a halt just before the lonely stall of the First Union Bank ATM. “Open your door.”
Andre obeyed.
“Lean back and cover your ears.”
Andre did as asked, closing his eyes for good measure.
Evan drew the ARES 1911, aimed it across Andre’s chest, and shot out the ATM’s surveillance camera.
He peeled away, the passenger door slamming shut from the thrust.
Ten blocks later Andre still hadn’t opened his eyes.
35
Science for Two Hundred
Queenie splayed her fingers atop the steering wheel and applied another coat of Her Majesty’s Red, a high-shine polish from Butter London. Declan climbed out of the passenger seat, slotted a third tranche of quarters into the parking meter, and got back in. The meters in El Sereno took credit cards, which would make matters easier, but of course that would memorialize their being here, parked outside the All Saints Catholic Church.
The gasoline scent of nail polish laced the air, heady and keen. He watched his sister lean forward, purse her glossy scarlet lips, and blow across her fingertips. She regarded them approvingly, then flipped down the visor and checked her hair.
“Queenie,” Declan said. “Relax. You look beautiful.”
“Yeah?” she breathed.
“Yeah.”
“Remember Mom…” She bared her teeth and squeaked a finger back and forth across her incisors, though there was no lipstick smudge. “‘All that glitters isn’t gold. But if it doesn’t glitter, it’s got no shot.’”
Declan felt the familiar twitch tugging at his right eye. He scrunched his eyes shut hard to overpower it, then looked down and picked lint from his lapel. He realized what he was doing, Queenie’s words still hanging in the air, and stopped himself.
“We might not get to feel good,” Queenie said. “But we can look good.”
“Why are you talking like that?”
She shrugged. “Coming up on thirty, baby brother. Means I’m starting to see beneath the surface.”
“Maybe what’s beneath the surface isn’t worth looking at.”
Across the street the meeting spilled out of the church onto the sidewalk. Ragged folks huddled close, sucking on cigarettes and sipping coffee out of Styrofoam cups. Declan scanned the crowd, but they were the same faces as the night before and the night before that. No Andrew Duran.
A stout lady in a pink pantsuit walked over from her parked car bearing a bakery box. She lifted the lid and tilted it to show off a cake to the onlookers. Even from here Declan could make out the white lettering across the dark chocolate frosting: HAPPY TWO YEAR BIRTHDAY. KEEP COMING BACK!!
The burner phone in the cup holder animated. Queenie had Bluetoothed it to her Corvette, her custom ringtone issuing through the speakers: “99 Red Balloons” in German.
Careful not to smear her nail polish, she pressed a button on the steering wheel to answer.
Declan said, “Yes, sir.”
“Six dead.”
Declan said, “Excuse me?”
“Six dead,” the doctor repeated. “I’m considering it an R