He’s nodding — yeah, I have to think of him as a him. I just do. And he says, “It was me at the jobsite in Detroit. When you got that Nissan stuck in the pothole.” The voice is feminine but low. He’s got tits and smooth legs his hair still short but it’s kind of tinted. He’s got makeup on.
I say, “You were at that protest in the park. The gay people, the trans people.”
He nods. “I hadn’t started the treatment yet.”
That’s what he was doing here at the hospital. Not cancer. He’s here to take medicine and do that surgery thing to become a woman. So the clothes and cosmetics we found in his apartment in Detroit weren’t a girlfriend’s. They were his.
Larkin says, “Let me figure this out. You two come here to kill me because I was a witness. I can associate that Nissan with his Porsche.” A nod to Dave, dead and real bloody. Larkin doesn’t seem very upset at the sight. He comes back to me. “The police look up all the yellow nine eleven turbos and find him and they figure out he was the one who did, what? A robbery? A hit?”
I shrug. “We boosted some shit.”
“Boosted?”
“Robbery.”
“Ah. And your boss told you to kill the Porsche guy.” Another look at poor Dave. “Because he was stupid enough to bring that car to pick you up.”
“Something like that.”
“You double-crossed him.”
I nod and for some reason Larkin starts laughing his head off. “Whole new meaning.” He gestures toward the dress, which is white with little blue flowers on it. “Double cross.”
I don’t get it but I’m smiling too just because.
Then Larkin says, “It’s funny about this sex change thing. The hormones, you know.”
I just wait. He’s smiling.
“A month ago, this had happened, I’d’ve beaten the crap out of you. I mean, broken things. Serious. And I know how to do it.”
Another nod.
“But now I’m not — I don’t know — I’m not pissed off. It’s not a mano-a-mano thing. A woman would look at this whole thing and say, well, I came pretty close to getting killed but it’s all right. Nothing to get too worked up about. A woman would find the calmest way to handle it. Least confrontational, you know.”
Which I’m totally relieved at because I know he’s thinking he’ll let me go. He doesn’t want the publicity of police coming here and reporters asking him questions when he’s dressed like that.
Larkin lifts the Glock and shoots me right in the center of the chest.
I fly into the back of the couch. The shock of the impact becomes this burning and that starts to spread outward but then it’s pretty numb.
I whisper, “But...”
Larkin frowns, looking down at a fleck of blood on his dress. Then he stands up and with a napkin picks up the knife I used on Dave and sets it in my hand. I drop it but it doesn’t matter. My prints are on it.
“No, come on...”
He aims the gun at my forehead. I see his finger tighten on the trigger and