Crime Machine

38

NIKKI BRUSHED AT HER HAIR, patted it down with her left hand, and brushed at it again. She attacked first one side, then the other, then the back. Brush, brush, brush, it made no difference. No matter what she did, it stuck out from her head in wiry tufts. The only time it looked good was when it was soaking wet, and even then it was only a matter of minutes before it started to frizz out.

“Bozo,” she said to the mirror. The last time she had been called Bozo, she had nearly throttled the girl, a total skank named Charlene two cells down from her in juvie. But she said it to herself all the time. She’d had a laptop for a while—stolen, of course, but it still hurt when it got stolen in turn from her—on which there was a program where you could change your hair, your makeup, your clothes. She wished she could really do that—replace her nose, her cheekbones, her piggy eyes, and most of all this hideous hair.

Nikki curled up on the bed and held Lemur’s iPod. Turned out he had liked a lot of the same songs as her. She wasn’t listening to it right now because she’d forgotten to charge it, but she held it anyway.

The family was coming apart. Lemur dead, and now Papa and Jack had had another fight. Even worse, this time. Jack must have thought Papa was out hunting, because he came on to her at exactly the wrong moment. She had stepped out of the shower, dried off and—wearing her bathrobe—gone straight to her room. Jack was in there with the door shut behind them in a split second. Pulled the bathrobe off, big hands squeezing her tits then shoving her onto the bed.

The funny thing was, she’d been fucked so many times that if Jack had only asked her, she’d probably have fucked him too, just to keep the peace. Or at least she would have before Papa began to get to her about self-respect. But Jack wasn’t asking and she fought and it was noisy and Papa burst in.

Usually when people fight, it lasts about thirty seconds. A couple of wild punches, a kick in the balls, and it’s over. But this went on and on. She thought Jack would win, since he was younger than Papa, and crazier. He picked up the entire coffee table and swung it at him, Papa stepping back cool as you please—then stepping forward and shoving Jack headfirst into the wall. Jack came back at him with a knife that caught Papa in the forearm a good one. Blood everywhere. Papa took it away from him, but when Jack snatched up the poker, she thought Papa was as good as dead.

Papa took the poker from him too. He could have killed Jack then; he had the opportunity. All it would have taken was a crack on the head with that length of iron, but he didn’t seem to want to—it was like he was being held back. He grabbed Jack from behind—by the nuts must have been, judging by the way the fight went out of him—and threw him to the side door. Opened it, shoved him out with his boot and tossed his coat out after him.

There was a knock at the bedroom door, and Nikki said to come in. Papa never came in without knocking. He entered and sat beside her on the bed and put a hand on her shoulder, as if she was the one needed comforting. He was wearing a clean shirt, well ironed—he was fanatical about ironing his shirts—and you’d never have known he’d been in a brawl and got his arm slashed.

Nikki asked how the arm was doing.

“It’s fine. It’s nothing. How are you doing?”

Nikki shrugged.

“Thank you for standing by me,” Papa said. “For helping me.”

Nikki didn’t know what he was talking about. Sometimes Papa saw things totally backwards. “I didn’t do anything,” she said.

“Nikki, Nikki, what am I going to do with you?” He squeezed her shoulder. “Always putting yourself down. Minute Jack was out the door, you were right there for me. Whisky in one hand, clean towel in the other. You were my battlefield medic. I could not be more grateful.”

“If I’d been thinking, I’d have got the hunting rifle and put one in his head.”

“Jack’s your brother. No one wants that.”

“Was my brother.”

“Oh, don’t be surprised if Jack comes slinking back. I’ve seen it happen before, and he’s not going far in this storm. When he does come back, he’ll need forgiveness, and you know what? He’ll get it.”

He handed her the box of Kleenex and she blew her nose and tried to get hold of her feelings.

“Sit up, now. There’s no call for a posture of defeat.” He gripped her biceps and hauled her into a seated position beside him. He draped a comradely arm over her shoulders. They were facing the dresser mirror. “You’re looking so pretty today. Did you do something to your hair?”

She pressed at the frizz. “My crazy hair.”

“Crazy beautiful. That hair’s got spirit, kid, same as you.”

She met his gaze in the mirror and smiled.

“You don’t know how proud I am,” he said, “how grateful I am, that you’ve shared your beauty and your spirit with me. I know I don’t deserve it.”

“But you do everything. You look after everyone.”

“Not so well sometimes, the way it seems lately.”

“Jack’s just psycho. He’s not your fault.”

“I was hoping to be a better influence.”

“You are, Papa. You are. Like you say, he’ll probably come back.”

“You think so?”

She nodded.

“You’re a fine individual, Nikki the Kid. You truly are, and you make me one proud Papa.”

Nikki’s heart was full and she wanted to give him something. Sex was the only thing she had of any value, and she would have really liked to show him what she could do in that regard. But Papa didn’t want sex from her.

“I need you to do something, Nikki.”

“Sure. Anything.”

“We talked about it before. It’s something for the family. It was going to be Lemur’s job, but Lemur’s no longer with us.”

“What is it?”

“Well, it’s a hard thing and it’s crucial and it just absolutely has to be done. And to be honest, Nikki …” He looked at her, those honest blue eyes creased with worry. “To be honest, I’m not a hundred percent sure you’re ready.”

Delorme tried her phone again. She got crackle and fizz and nothing else. Cardinal had been trying to tell her something. Something he didn’t want the man sleeping in the other room to hear. Go outside, he had said.

She got up on her good foot again and steadied herself against the wall, waiting for the pain to subside. It didn’t, but she moved anyway, taking a quiet hop into the other room.

The man had turned on his right side. His mouth was open, but he had stopped snoring. In his left hand, an automatic. Well, you could have an automatic with you in case you wounded an animal and had to finish it off, Delorme told herself. Not exactly a sporting weapon, but possible. Balancing herself against the door frame, she took a short hop forward, noisier than she wanted.

The man stirred but did not wake.

Another hop. Delorme nearly fell, and touched the end of the bunk with her fingertips to keep her balance. She held her breath. The man didn’t stir. She bent forward, fingers still on the end of the bunk, to try to see the make of the gun. It looked almost identical to the one at the ATM scene, but she had to squint to be sure of the manufacturer’s imprint: Browning Hi-Power.

The man’s eyes opened. “You got a problem?”

“I was just trying to see if you were awake. You want some tea?”

“Thought you had a broken leg.”

“I’m thirsty. I’m going to make some tea.”

“You look like you’re in pain. Maybe you should lie down.”

“I’m all right.”

“Plenty of room right here.” He tapped the bunk with the gun.

“I don’t think so.”

“Come on. See if we can make that leg feel better.”

“You want some tea or not?”

“Tea. Sure. Why the fuck not? Where’d your partner go?”

“He went looking for the house,” Delorme said, and regretted it right away. Wished she’d said something that meant he’d be back in one minute.

“If he finds it, he’s gonna wish he had an army with him.”

Delorme turned and took a hop toward the door.

Behind her, a creak, and the sound of the man’s feet hitting the floor.

She hopped as hard as she could and that got her into the other room, but the man’s full weight hit her and slammed her to the floor, the pain forcing a scream out of her.

He pulled back hard on her hair. “Hold still.”

Delorme twisted onto her back and brought her good leg up and around his face. She forced him back and he let go of her hair, but as he fell he yanked at her broken leg and she shrieked in agony.

When Delorme regained consciousness, he had her belt buckle undone and was trying to slide her pants down. He had put the gun aside on the floor. Delorme reached for it, but he got to it first and clouted her in the temple.

She hit him a hard backhand, her knuckles catching him in the eye.

He swung again with the pistol, but the floor took most of it. Delorme got hold of the barrel and twisted and the man let go. The gun flew out of her grasp and hit the floor somewhere behind her head. The man lunged for it, his face so close she could smell his breath. She pulled him closer and bit his cheek. The sudden heat of his blood on her face.

The man roared and clutched his cheek, blood spilling through his fingers. Delorme reached back for the gun and the man grabbed her throat and punched her face. His knuckles slid on blood.

Delorme grabbed his waist and felt the knife handle. The man lunged for the gun and she undid the snap and got the knife out. He reared back with the gun in her face and she brought the knife up and jammed the blade just under his arm.

He screamed and dropped the gun and fell sideways to the floor. When he reached for the gun again, Delorme twisted and brought the knife down hard on the side of his head. The bone gave way and she could feel the blade lodge in his temple.

She held on to it and felt the force drain out of him. It was as if he were becoming smaller under her hand. He lay there, half curled, still breathing, staring at some fixed point through and beyond Delorme. Blood flowed from his face wound into his eye, but the eye didn’t blink. Delorme kept her grip on the knife until he stopped breathing, and for a while after.

She rolled back and dragged herself toward the bunk. She took up the gun and, when she had twisted herself into a seated posture with her legs out in front, held it in her lap.

“Fucker,” she said. Her breath came in ragged gasps. “Teach you. Fucker.”