The Blonde

3:05 a.m.

Sheraton Lobby Eighteenth Street

The security guy, Charles Lee Vincent, had locked the front doors, much to the displeasure of a curly-haired guy in a tuxedo, who was missing his tie and had his cummerbund slung rakishly over his shoulder. Vincent didn’t seem to give a shit. He pressed the master key into the desk clerk’s hands and said, “Only for the cops and EMT guys. Got it?” He got it. And for the next nine minutes—Jack watched them tick by on the clock mounted above a shimmering koi pool in the middle of the lobby—they stayed locked. The curly-haired guy threatened all kinds of violence, both physical and legal. The desk clerk didn’t seem to give a shit, either.

Now the cops had finally arrived. Showtime. Red and blue lights danced across the walls of the lobby. If the lobby lights had been dimmed, it would have looked like Disco Night at the Sheraton.

Jack got ready. All he needed was a cab to be outside those doors. This was a hotel. And sure, it was three o’clock in the morning, but cabs flocked to hotels like iron fillings to a magnet, right? Once he was in a cab, he could get to the airport. There were a lot of people in airports, no matter what time of day. He could feign an illness, get a security escort. Hang with that person the whole time. Buy a flight to D.C. He could use the home-equity credit card. They’d always kept that for emergencies, and Theresa hadn’t closed out the account yet. If this didn’t qualify for emergency, he didn’t know what would.

In D.C., he’d go to the FBI. The CIA. Homeland Security. Whoever. Someone who would listen to his story, then dispatch somebody to the Westin Horton Plaza in San Diego and verify everything.

Somebody in the government had to be around at this time of the morning.

All he had to do was get into a cab, and he would have a chance to breathe again, and think this through a bit more. But D.C. still seemed like the right move.

There. A flash of dark yellow and black in a checkerboard pattern.

Go, go, go.

Slip past the bustle. Pray no one paid him any mind. Quick glance at Charles Lee Vincent: busy with an EMT chick. Laughing about something, probably a dumb joke to break the tension. Yeah, laugh it up. You’re not the ones whose brains could explode at any given moment. Out the door, from the air-conditioned cool into the damp summer night. The cab, dead ahead.

Jack reached around to pat his butt cheek; his wallet was still there.

Funny if he didn’t have that, huh? He could go back and tell Charles Lee Vincent all about it: You’re never going to believe what I forgot up in my room. Har har har …

The cab rocketed away.

Fuck almighty. Was there even a passenger in the backseat? No, not that Jack could tell. Did he get a sudden call? Or had someone called ahead and said, “Hey, let’s screw with Jack Eisley’s life a little more”?

Jack found himself standing alone on the sidewalk as the seconds ticked away.

He scanned the sidewalk to his right, along the side of the hotel and up the length of Rittenhouse Square: no one. Then to his left. There. A couple, walking away from him, arms intertwined.

Go back inside, or race forward?

Forward.

Jack jogged, then power-walked, then tried to feign a normal pace. It didn’t work. The taller one of the two, a woman, looked behind nervously. Jack blew air through his mouth, then offered a sheepish grin. The woman turned back and hurried the pace a bit. That grin wasn’t fooling anybody. Jack now saw that her companion, the shorter one, curly brunette hair, was also female. Both were young. They must be walking home together after a night out clubbing, he figured, or whatever it is young women do in Philadelphia late on a Thursday night.

Ten feet. How far was ten feet?

So damned tough to judge. How long was a car? About ten feet? Did he need to keep a car length’s pace behind these girls?

His head throbbed.

The women looked at each other; one whispered and the other nodded. The curly-haired girl appeared to be rooting around in her purse for something. Christ, they think Fm a mugger. Then again, why wouldn’t they think that?

Down the street, rushing toward them beneath the mercury vapor lights, was salvation: another cab.

The taller nudged her companion to the right, shot her hand high in the air. High beams flashed and the cab swerved to the left, increasing speed. Jack ran forward, almost pushing the women aside. The cab must have thought he was going to race right into its path, because it braked hard.

The throbbing in his head worsened.

Fingers hooked under the door handle. It was greasy.

“Hey! Fucking asshole!”

“Medical emergency,” Jack muttered, and yanked open the door.

“Sir, those girls hailed me first.”

“I don’t care. Just drive.”

Jack slid across the seat and slammed the door shut. Then he autolocked the back door. The taller girl, whose eye shadow was eerily dark, and lipstick unearthly white, pounded on the window, shouted, “Asshole!”

The cabbie turned around and regarded him carefully. “Wait. I know you. You’re the guy who puked in my cab before.”

“Could you please just drive? I have plenty of money.”

“You’re not feeling sick again, are you?”

Another pound, one that shook the cab. “Motherfucker!”

And a tug at the door.

“I didn’t puke in your cab. We pulled over, remember?”

Jack saw that the curly-haired girl was walking around the back of the cab, headed for the other door. He reached across and locked that door, too.

“God, you’re a dick. This is no way to treat women.”

“Fifty bucks just to drive away. Now.”

Angry slapping on the other door now. One slapper, one pounder—these girls made quite a team. Pretty soon, the tall one would peel back the roof of the cab and reach down for Jack, opening her jaws wide, endless rows of teeth …

“Just fucking go. It’s life-and-death.”

The cabbie shifted his vehicle to drive and gave a short burst of horn. Both girls jumped back, a bit startled. The cab lurched forward, the engine coughed, and then the driver continued up Eighteenth Street.

“Okay, Life and Death. Where do you want to go?”

“The airport.”

“Again?”

“Fuck the flat rate. Charge me whatever you want. I need to get to the airport.”

“Well, here’s the sad thing. I’m not going anywhere near the airport. I’m off duty.”

“What do you mean? You just picked me up.”

“You notice the meter’s off? I thought I was going to pick up those two ladies back there. Odds are, they were headed somewhere in Center City. I thought I’d make a last buck before punching out.”

“I need to get to the airport as fast as I can.”

“I would, but I got an errand to run. There’s a package that needs to make it to a friend of mine at Fourth and Spring Garden. That’s not on the way to the airport.”

“I’m desperate.”

“I can see that. You’ve had a night, haven’t you?”

“Please. I just need a ride to the airport.”

“Tell you what. Indulge me for a few minutes, and I think we can work something out.”

Jack rested back into the seat. Whatever. He’d been indulging people all evening. Why not a cabdriver?

“Only a few minutes?”

“Not even. Say, you’re not a Mormon or anything, are you?”