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Bug-eyed, Lauren looked around the diner. There was no sign of the cook or the waitress. For their sakes, she hoped they’d hit the street running and weren’t looking back. The Man had the same question.

“The cook and the waitress — where the hell are they?”

The black woman shrugged. “Fuck if I know.”

“Well find out, you stupid bitch! Now! We can’t afford any witnesses.”

“What about her?”

The Man grabbed Lauren’s arm, twisting it behind her back until Lauren was certain he’d rip it out of her shoulder. “Her? I can handle her. Now lock the door, turn off the lights and find those two!”

The black woman picked up Lauren’s Glock, did as she was told and disappeared in the back of the diner.

The Man tightened his grip on Lauren’s arm until she grunted in pain.

“You really bite that farm boy’s cock off?”

“Yeah.”

He leaned in close, cupping her breast and rubbing his cock against her, whispering in her ear. “Guess I’ll just have to play it safe and give it to you up the ass.”

A woman’s scream echoed from the back of the diner. The Man grinned until the lights came on and he saw the waitress, holding the black woman’s head in one hand, blood dripping from her severed neck, and aiming Lauren’s Glock at him. She put a round in the center of his face before he could make a sound.

“I swear to God,” the waitress said, “one more ball-sack-for-brains man comes in here and there’s going to be some serious shit go down. Now what’s all this talk about money?”

She dropped the severed head onto the linoleum floor. A bloody cleaver hung from her apron pocket, soaking the cheap fabric red. The waitress was as good with the knife as with the gun. Lauren knew that she was in trouble.

Still gripping the Glock, the waitress made her way closer to Lauren. Her hair was the color of twine with just about the same frizz. Lauren noticed for the first time that her face was completely dotted like her mother’s-you couldn’t tell when the freckles stopped and the age spots started. The skin underneath her chin sagged. The waitress was too old to accept any bullshit, especially from a younger woman. Lauren would have to play this straight.

“They have it now. Or at least had it.” Lauren gestured back towards the Man’s lifeless body and the smear of brain left on the wall.

“Get his keys.”

Lauren complied, stuffing her hand into the man’s jeans pocket, one at a time. Her suspicions were confirmed: the Man didn’t have much to offer.

“Somethin’ funny?”

Lauren remained silent, and fished a circle of keys-including a Ford’s-in the left pocket. She also felt something round and hard which she kept hidden in her palm.

She dangled the keys for the waitress to see. The nose of the Glock directed her out the door to the parking lot.

Police sirens wailed in the distance and Lauren estimated that they had a good five minutes before the black-and-whites arrived.

“Let’s get on with it.”

Lauren didn’t have any arguments with that. But she discovered that she didn’t need any keys because the truck door was already open. The cab was empty, aside from a couple of Circle K coffee cups on the passenger side floor.

Underneath a dim street light, yards away, they saw a slight man in an apron carrying a duffel bag make a run for an old Impala. It was the cook. The door slammed and the engine revved before the car tore out of the gravel lot onto the street.

“Fuckin’ Felipe,” the waitress said.

Around the corner on the other side three police cars came speeding in, their sirens and lights blazing.

Before Lauren could react, the waitress grabbed her by the good arm and hustled her around behind the truck. Five minutes? There were still sirens in the distance but these boys couldn't have been more than a block or two away. As the cruisers slammed to a halt before the restaurant, the waitress put a hand on Lauren's head to push her down and out of sight. The muzzle of the automatic pressed hard against her temple. The waitress peered through the cab and didn't let her up until the cops were safely inside the building.

"Okay, Barbie," the waitress said. "Let's see how well you drive."

"I got punched in the arm," Lauren said. "I can't feel my fingers."

"Sunnuvabitch," the waitress said. "Just get in."

The cops were still inside the diner as the truck pulled away. If any of them heard the squeal of the tires, no one made it out in time to witness their departure.

Two skipped red lights later the waitress said, "Those Cook County cops will be after my ass soon enough if I don’t come up with something.” The woman glanced at Lauren across the cab of the Ford truck, her expression hard in the passing streetlights. "You got a lot to answer for."

"Sorry," Lauren said, squeezing her shoulder and wincing as sensation returned. "Where are we going?"

"Got to take care of some business. Lucky for us Felipe drives like somebody's Grandma."

The Impala was about half a block ahead of them on an empty street of parked cars, and the distance was narrowing fast. The waitress sped up to get alongside and then, with one deft tweak of the wheel, cut across Felipe and drove him into the side of the road where he hit a Volkswagen and then a Toyota, which rammed the empty Chevy van in front of it.

About a dozen car alarms were making a screamers' orchestra as the waitress climbed out of the truck and walked toward the Impala. Felipe was kicking at the driver's door to get it open. He scrambled out just as she got there, and tried to run. She tripped him easily, put a foot on his back to stop him rising, and a shot in the back of his head to stop him for good.

Then she got back behind the wheel.

"Poor guy was heading for home," she said. "Got a wife and two babies waiting for him there. It's a damned shame."

They made a U-turn, and headed back toward the diner.

“The fuck are you doing?” Lauren shouted. “The money’s back in the Impala!”

“Yeah, but I got to get rid of you, first, Barbie.” The waitress laughed. “The cops ‘ll wanna give me a fucking medal when I deliver their prime suspect — all tied up with a neat pink bow.”

Lauren stiffened. She felt her eyes narrow. No fucking way was this bitch gonna get her stash. It belonged to her. No one else. She’d decide who to share it with. Maybe Hank. Maybe she’d even give Jimmy a cut. If she was feeling generous. She whipped her head around. The Impala was receding in the rear view. They were just about back at the diner. She had to act fast.

Three cruisers were double-parked in the street, their engines running. She lunged across the front seat of the truck. Before the waitress could react, Lauren wrenched the wheel hard to the left. The truck slammed into one of the cruisers. The impact threw her back, and Lauren felt her shoulder tear. A wave of pain washed over her. But the Glock, which had been in the waitress’s lap, slipped to the floor. Gritting her teeth against the pain, Lauren bent down and grabbed it. Opening the door with her good arm, she rolled out of the truck and onto the street. She had about two seconds to take off before the cops came outside. She staggered to her feet and took one last look at the waitress. The bitch hadn’t moved, and blood was trickling down her cheek.

Lauren hurried off around the corner, her escape obscured from view by the smashed vehicles, the darkness, and the smoke billowing out from truck’s hood.

Her right arm hung limply at her side as she marched back for her money in Felipe’s Impala. She’d dislocated her shoulder.

Just my luck.

Not that it had been so great lately.

Why was it that every man or woman that I’ve met since I left L.A. has wanted to fuck me…or kill me…or both?

There was a telephone pole up ahead. She stuck the Glock in her waistband, bent her right arm at 90-degree angle, held it firmly across her chest with her other hand, and started running…