The Lady And The Tiger

Jason saw them coming down the sidewalk. Les Scarpetta, capo of the Scarpetta crime family, flanked by two bodyguards. All three in dark suits that made them look like walking shadows. Behind them, Terence Marcott, the Scarpetta family consiglieri, struggled to keep pace. He was taller than Scarpetta, but thinner. Like his skinny legs didn’t have as many muscles in them as Scarpetta’s. Or like he was so worried about running into the capo that he fumbled over himself.

Jason stood up from the bus stop bench. There was no reason to wait. He reached into his jacket. The bodyguard on his left saw the move, hunched that he was going for a gun and acted on it. But Jason was too fast. Even as he went for his shoulder holster, Jason had cleared his and set his firing stance. The Blackhawk revolver spoke, sending a clenched fist of a .44 Magnum round into the bodyguard’s chest.

Jason aimed at Les next, as he stumbled backwards, grabbing at Marcott to keep himself upright. He fired. The shots went into Marcott, but broke through the consiglieri’s slender body, scattering blood on Scarpetta. Was it his? Marcott’s? Jason didn’t know. The second bodyguard was pulling his gun. Jason shifted smoothly, fired two rounds that hit and moved the bodyguard into the street, where he took a speeding car in the back like a deer on a country road.

Jason reoriented on Scarpetta, but the mob boss had his own gun out as he laid there on the pavement, Marcott sprawled on top of him. He fired, 9mm rounds sledgehammering through Jason’s shirt and into his Second Chance vest.

Jason reeled backwards, firing his Blackhawk but the shot went wide.

Scarpetta’s next shot got into his throat. He tasted blood washing up his sinuses, spilling down his nostrils, and fell.

Popped the cylinder of his Blackhawk to reload, but he knew it was too late.

His fingers were becoming shapeless; his vision was like a TV with the antenna pointed the wrong way.

Jason reached into his pocket for a fistful of Magnums anyway, but Scarpetta was on his feet, his neat little magazine slid into his 9mm to replace all the shots he’d taken, and the bullets were jumping out of Jason’s fingers instead of going into their chambers—

Jason took another drink. The liquor burned away the last of the scenario. Much fun as it was to think of plugging Scarpetta, he knew it wouldn’t work. Scarpetta’s world was full of violent thugs who wanted his blood and would try to get it by walking up to him in the middle of the street. He was ready for that.

Jason nursed the drink, thinking of it some more. A gun in each hand—but then he couldn’t aim for shit, and that shower of bullets would go right through Scarpetta’s party and into anyone behind them.

Same problem with an SMG.

There was a reason men like Scarpetta liked crowds. Because when the guy trying to kill him had rules, he had the edge.

Jason finished his drink and signaled for another. The barman saw him but pretended not to. What did he care if he made a profit? He’d long since stopped thinking he could strike it rich.

And that was how the bar looked. Like something given up on. Pinball machines against the far wall lit up and let out garbled electronic noises, but couldn’t be played. The only thing that really worked in the dive was the cigarette machine in the men’s room.

Not that it was legal to smoke in bars, God no, but the brown patina on the bare lightbulbs showed how respected that was. Jason thought just about the only people who came in here were those who wanted to smoke without running afoul of a zoning law. Or at least, someone who’d care to enforce them.

He didn’t plan on giving secondhand smoke enough time to kill him. But as much as he wanted Scarpetta dead, he wanted it done right. Done best.

Jason knew he was good at killing. That was his problem, being so good at that and so shit at everything else. Well, if he was going to do what he did best, he should show he did it the best. A virtuoso performance, not just him proving he knew where the safety was on an automatic.

“What’s a nice-looking guy like you doing in a place like this?”

Jason started, his eyebrows shooting up. If there was one thing he wasn’t expecting, it was a come-on. He swiveled his head to check who was intruding on his private thoughts. And if he wasn’t expecting the flirtation, he definitely wasn’t expecting the flirt to be someone who absolutely did not need to flirt.

She was a blonde—a whole hell of a lot of blonde for five feet and change. She wore shorts like a pair of panties with delusions of grandeur. A fray up one pantleg showed him her real panties, and she circled her hips to show it off. Her breasts were sweet little C-cups that looked just right to fill his hands like they filled the T-shirt she had on; with its yellow color, it looked like she’d been tanning naked and hadn’t bothered to wash off the beach before coming here. Then there were the sandals, the little Coachella necklace, the sunglasses with pink frames, and the handbag shaped like a seashell.

Her overt sexuality verged on marking her as a prostitute, but no streetwalker would wear things so obviously expensive—not when they might be ripped off her by any dissatisfied customer. And she didn’t look like a ‘walker.

Her eyes were smart, over the tops of her sunglasses. Smart enough to know that she was pretty enough that she could make more money not letting men have it than giving it up: a model, a receptionist, a secretary. That was her calling, not cruising for heavy wallets in a dive bar.

So what was she doing? Did she just need it so bad that she’d gone into the first bar she’d seen and picked out the first guy who looked like he could both afford and put on a condom? Because Jason didn’t think he was being falsely modest when he said that he was not good-looking enough for a woman to trawl through the undercity until she got to him.

“I could ask you the same question,” Jason returned, in answer to her opener.

“Who says I’m nice?” she fired back, hitting a pose self-consciously.

That was another thing. The clothes were skanky, but she didn’t wear them like a skank. She was as nervy as a teenager wearing her first little black dress. It appealed to Jason, probably in a Neanderthal sort of way. She was an uptown girl if ever he’d saw one, but here she was, sleazing it up, making a decent spectacle of herself, for him. If he’d bought into it, the whole thing would’ve been a powerful aphrodisiac. A fantasy fit for a beer commercial.

She sat down across from him, bringing herself into the light from the flashing pinball machine nearby. Shocks of pink and red and green suited her, making her look like a punk rocker.

That was another thing. Despite the clothes, her make-up was subdued and tasteful, the only excess her red lipstick. And that looked good on her, made her mouth a tart little strawberry he had to taste.

“Buy you a drink?” she asked.

“Still my line,” Jason retorted, holding up the beer he was still working on.

She reached across the booth and pulled it to her side the moment he’d set it down. “Now you need one,” she said, and took a stiff blast from the can.

A muscle in Jason’s jaw twitched. He didn’t like women who came on this strong. It made him feel like he was being sold something.

“How about giving me a name before a drink?”

“Quinzel. Doctor. Harleen.” Her words stepped on each other’s toes enough to let him know this wasn’t how she’d planned to introduce herself. Which meant maybe she hadn’t thought she’d get this far. Which meant, what, that this was her first day in that cheerleader body?

“Nice to meet you, Quinzel Doctor Harleen. Anything I can help you with?”

She smiled widely. Almost relieved. “Yes. The thing is, Mister…?”

“Jason Todd,” he answered.

“Jason,” she said, trying out the name like it was a new flavor of ice cream. “The thing is, Jason, I need to be fucked. Fucked hard. I don’t care where, I don’t care what position, I don’t even care if you want to record it or let someone watch. You just take me out of here, find me four walls and something soft to lie on, I’m yours.”