“What then?”
A wider grin. “But don’t panic. He told me the way. The way to Mexico. There’s a plane making the trip once a week.”
“You need some kind of a passport,” Joe said softly.
“Not for this plane, baby. This is a private plane. It goes straight to Monterrey. From Chicago to Monterrey. Makes three stops at private airfields. Carries a dozen passengers, no more. You don’t need anything like a passport for this one, baby. All you need is money.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred a person.”
“That’s six hundred dollars.”
“You add good, baby.”
“How the hell can we get six hundred dollars?”
“Easy.”
“Easy? Are you going to kill some more men, Shank? Shoot more old men in alleys?”
“It made the paper, huh?”
“It made the paper. And they traced the gun. They know it’s us, Shank.”
“I figured they would.”
“So no more hold-ups, Shank. You can’t pull a hold-up without a gun. Right?”
“Right as rain, Joe, baby. You’ve got a head on your neck. You truly do.”
“Then how?”
Shank found a cigarette, placed it between his lips. He took a pack of matches, ripped one out and struck it. He lit the cigarette and dragged on it.
“Same way Bunky feeds his habit,” he said. “Bunky uses almost three big bills a week. That’s a lot of bread. And he gets it.”
“How?”
“He’s got a stable of girls, man. Three of them. Good little girls. Hustling girls. Working girls. Fly chicks. They take good care of Bunky. They go out and earn a habitful of money.”
The message was beginning to sink in.
“We’ve got an asset,” Shank said. “A natural resource. We’ve got little Anita. She can take care of us, Joe, baby. We carried her this far. Now she can carry us a little bit of the way. She can go wiggle her behind and carry us all the way to Mexico.”
“I won’t do it,” Anita said, her tones flat. Shank looked at her. She was standing up now, fear and disgust in her eyes. Shank walked to her, put his hand on her shoulder. She tried to shrink away, but his hand held.
“Sure you will,” he said.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No—”
“You listen to me,” he said. “You shut your mouth and listen. They’re going to kill us. All three of us. Strap us in the chair and turn on the juice. We’ll die. Die for murder.”
“You did the murders,” she said. “You killed the cop. You shot the old man. I read in the paper the old man had three children. A wife and three children.”
“So they’ll get his insurance.”
“You bastard!”
He laughed. A loud laugh. But he did not take his hand from her shoulder. “You took my money,” Shank said. “And you ran with me. Both of you. You were there when I killed the cop. And I killed the old man for you, for both of you. I could have run alone. I had enough money to make Chicago. I killed so you could come with me. So don’t pin it on me, little girl. It doesn’t work that way.”
“Shank—” She stopped. She had nothing to say. She could only stare at him and listen to him.
“Now you’ll hustle,” he told her. “We need six hundred dollars. Sounds like a lot of money. It’s not that much. Say you get ten bucks a trick. It’s only sixty tricks. You can handle twenty a day easy. Just quick tricks. Fast and easy and simple. Three days and we’re ready to roll. Plane leaves in four days. So we can’t miss. All you have to do is turn your tricks.”
“I’m no whore.” Easy laughter rolled out of Shank.
“Whoever said you were?” he said. “I’m not telling you to make a profession out of it, baby. Just sixty times. Just sixty quick tricks to save us all. That’s all, Anita. Maybe less, if you can get some guys to go more than ten bucks. Say, twenty. And the more tricks you turn, the faster you’re done. And then—”
“You filthy son of a—”
“You’ll do it, Anita. You’ll do it whether you like it or not. Because it’s the only way.” She tried to imagine herself as a prostitute. She pictured herself walking the streets, picking up men, taking their money and letting them use her body as a mute receptacle for their lust. She thought about the last thing he had suggested, the twenty dollar tricks, and she thought she was going to be sick to her stomach.
“Don’t play virgin with me, Anita.”
She turned to Joe, “Joe,” she said. “I can’t do it, Joe. Do you want me to do it? Do you want me to be a whore, Joe? Is that what you want?” Joe’s eyes were filled with pain.
“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me to whore for you and I will. Tell me that’s what you want and I’ll do it. I can’t think straight any more, Joe. I thought I was your woman. I thought I was just for you. But tell me to do it and I’ll do it. You tell me, Joe.”
Joe stood up. His body uncoiled slowly and he stood up, his eyes on Shank. “No,” he said.
“Joe—” Shank started.
“No,” he repeated. “Think of some other way, Shank. Some cleaner way.”
“It’s the only way.”
“You better find another. She’s my woman. She’s not a hustler. Not now and not ever. So find another way.” Shank looked first at Joe, then at Anita, then at Joe again. He began to laugh. “Your chick? That’s funny, man. Too funny. You don’t know how funny it is.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I made it with her, baby. Back in New York. Right on your own little bed, man. So don’t play possessive papa with me, baby. She’s nobody’s chick at all. And she can hustle and get us to Mexico like I said.”
Joe went white. “Is it true, Anita?” he said in a beaten voice. Her voice was soft.
“He made me, Joe. He made me do it. I didn’t want to.”
“Go on.” Joe’s eyes were on Shank, cold. He listened to what she had to say.
“He made me, Joe. He…beat me up. He hurt me. And he was going to cut me with his knife. I was afraid. He…he raped me.”
“You never told me.”
“I was afraid.” Something happened to Joe. Something inside. He turned on Shank and his eyes were on fire.
“You son of a bitch!”
“Easy, baby.”
“You rotten—”
“Cool! It don’t change a thing, Joe. It’s the same scene all across the board. Now she can hustle, you dig? Now she can earn some bread and—”
“No.” Shank sensed something. He knew that Joe was not kidding now. He shoved the girl and she skidded across the room.
“Back off, Joe.” But Joe moved forward. Shank’s hand dropped to his pocket. The knife came out in a single fluid motion. He held it in his right hand, his finger poised on the button.
“Back off.”
“Drop it.”
“I don’t want to cut you, Joe. I don’t want to hurt you. You better let it alone, man. It happened a long time ago. It’s ancient history. We got to swing together or we both lose.”
“You’ll have to kill me.”
“Don’t make it tough, Joe.”
“It’s going to be tough. Very tough.” Shank nodded. His finger pressed on the button. The knife blade shot forward, six inches of glistening steel. Shank rubbed his thumb back and forth across the face of the blade. His eyes were on Joe. Joe kept coming. Shank moved the knife back and forth like the head of a cobra about to strike, He moved around in a little dance. His eyes were on Joe’s face. Joe backed away and Shank moved in, the knife moving back and forth, ready. Joe moved to the side of the bed. His hand dropped, gripped a pillow. Shank lunged with the knife and Joe swung with the pillow. The timing was perfect. The knife slashed into the pillow and feathers filled the room, fluttering to the floor. Joe yanked on the pillow, dropped it and crashed a fist to the side of Shank’s jaw. Shank staggered. His head dropped and Joe caught it on the way down with both hands. He cupped the head, pushed it down, raised a knee to meet it. Teeth gave way. Shank sank to the floor. He started to raise himself on his knees. Then Joe kicked him in the face and he fell down again. The feathers settled over him. Some of the feathers were red from the blood from his mouth. This time he stayed down.