Certain prey

'I know how it works,' on-screen Carmel said. 'They'll get it. And nobody'll be able to trace it, because I've had it stashed. It's absolutely clean.'

'Then if you say "Yes," I'll call them tonight. And they'll kill Barbara

Allen.'

Carmel, off-screen, had to admire her on-screen performance. She never flinched, she just stood up and said, 'Yes. Do it.'

The tape skipped a bit, then focused on a black telephone. 'I'm really sorry about this, but you know about my problem. I'm gonna have to have twenty-five thousand, like, tomorrow,' the man's voice said. 'I'll call and tell you where.'

The tape ended. Carmel took a long pull on her coffee, walked into the kitchen, poured the last couple of ounces into the sink, and then hurled the cup at one of the huge plate-glass windows that looked out on her balcony. The cup bounced, without breaking. Carmel didn't see it; she was ricocheting around the kitchen, sweeping glasses, dishes, the knife block, a toaster, silverware, off the cupboards and tables and stove and onto the floor, kicking them as they landed, scattering them; and all the time she growled through clenched teeth, not a scream, but a harsh humming sound, like a hundred-pound hornet.

She trashed the kitchen and then the breakfast area; and finally cut herself on a broken glass. The sight of the blood flowing from the back of her hand brought her back.

'Fuckin' Rolo,' she said. She bled on the floor. 'Fuckin' Rolo, fuckin' Rolo, fuckin' Rolo…'

Chapter Five

For the rest of the evening, Carmel worked her way through alternate rages and periods of calm; fantasized the painful end of Rolando D'Aquila. And finally admitted to herself that she was in a corner.

She called Rinker, left a number and said, 'This is really urgent. We've got a big problem.'

The next day, a little after one o'clock in the afternoon, Rinker called on

Carmel's magic cell phone. She didn't introduce herself, she simply said in her dry accent, 'I'm calling you back. I hate problems.'

Carmel said, 'Hold on: I want to lock my door.' She stuck her head out into the reception area, said to the secretary, 'I need ten minutes alone,' stepped back inside and locked the door.

'All right…' she began, but Rinker cut her off.

'Is your phone safe?'

'Yes. It's registered under my mother's name -she's remarried, and has a different last name. Like the Volvo. It's good for… special contacts.'

'You have a lot of those in your job?'

'Enough,' Carmel said. 'Anyway, I'm calling about Rolando D'Aquila, who is the guy who put me in touch with you.'

'What happened?' Rinker asked.

Carmel explained, quickly, then said, 'I would have thought the people on your side would have been warned against this. You push somebody into a corner…'

'What? What would you do?' Carmel could feel the warning edge on the other woman's voice.

'I'm sure as hell not going to turn you in, or talk to the police, if that's what you're worried about,' Carmel said, defensively. 'But there has to be some kind of resolution. Rolo's a junkie. If I give him every dime I've got, he'll put it up his nose. When he's got every dime, he'll still have the tape, and he'll start looking around for somebody to sell it to. Like TV. Then I'm gone – and you, too. The cops will put Rolo through the wringer before they give him any kind of immunity, and you can't tell what'll come from that.'

'Maybe nothing,' Rinker said. 'He's off there on the edge of things.'

'Bullshit. Sooner or later, he'll give them the guy he called about you,' Carmel argued. 'Then they'll squeeze that guy. You know how it works. This is murder we're talking about; this is thirty years in the state penitentiary for everybody involved. That's a lot of squeeze. And believe me, I'm well enough known in the Cities that there'd be a hurricane of shit if this got out. This is not something the cops would let go.'

'When are you paying him off? This Rolo guy?' Rinker asked.

'I'm supposed to meet him in the Crystal Court tomorrow at five o'clock. I put him off as long as I could, told him it'll take time to get the money together. The Crystal Court is this big interior court.. .'

'I was there,' Rinker said.

'Okay. Anyway, I give him the money, and he gives me the tape. I insisted that he show up, personally. But the best he'll do is give me a copy of the tape. He says there's only one, but he's lying. He'll want to come back for more money.'

'You're sure about that?'

'He's a fuckin' dope dealer, for Christ's sakes.'

After a couple of seconds silence, Rinker said, 'There's a flight into

Minneapolis tomorrow morning. I can be there at eleven thirty-five.'

'I don't know…' Carmel started. Then, in a rush, 'I don't know if I want to see your face. I'm afraid you'll have to kill me.'

'Honey, there're a couple of dozen people who know my face,' Rinker said. 'One more won't make any difference, especially when I know she paid me for a hit.

I'd rather you not see me, but we've got to fix this thing. You're gonna have to help.'

Carmel didn't hesitate: 'I know that.'

'The thing is, we're gonna have to talk to him about where the tape is,' Rinker said.

'Yes. Talk to him privately,' Carmel said. 'I'd figured that out.'

'That's right… Why'd you insist that he meet you in person?'

'Because I thought you might want in… at that point,' Carmel said.

Rinker chuckled: 'All right. You ever kill anybody?'

'No.'

'You might be good at it. With a little training.'

'Probably,' Carmel said. 'But it doesn't pay enough.'

Rinker chuckled again and said, 'See you at eleven fifty-five. Bring the Jag.

And wear jeans and walking shoes.'

Carmel hadn't known what to expect. A tough-looking, square-faced hillbilly with bony wrists and shoulders, maybe – or somebody beefy, who might have been a prison guard at Auschwitz. The next day, at noon, she looked right past the first passengers getting off the plane from Kansas City, looking for somebody who fit the assorted images she'd created in her mind. When Rinker's voice came out of a well-dressed young woman with carefully-coiffed blonde-over-blonde hair and just a slight aristocratic touch of lipstick, Carmel jumped, startled. The woman was carrying a leather backpack, and was right at Carmel's elbow.

'Hello?'

'What?'

Rinker grinned up at her. 'Looking for somebody else?'

Carmen wagged her head once and said, 'It's you?'

'It's me, honey. I checked a bag.'

As they started up the concourse, Carmel said, 'God, you really don't look like

… you.'

'Well, what can I tell you?' Rinker said cheerfully. She looked past Carmel to her right, where a tall, tanned man was angling across the concourse to intercept them. 'Carmel,' he said, dragging out the last syllable.

'James.' Carmel turned a cheek to be kissed and, after James kissed it, asked,

'Where're you off to?'

'Los Angeles… My God, you look like an athlete. I never suspected you had jeans or Nikes.' The guy was at least six-six and looked good, with a receding hairline; like an athletic Adlai Stevenson. He turned to Rinker and said, 'And you're cute as a button. I hope you're not a raving left-wing feminist like

Carmel.'

'I sometimes am,' Rinker said. 'But you're cute as a button your own self.'

The guy put one hand over his heart and said, 'Oh my God, the accent. I think we should get married.'

'You've been married too often already, James,' Carmel said drily. She took

Rinker's arm and said, 'If we don't keep moving, he'll drown us in bullshit.'