'No. No, thanks.'
'Are you waiting for someone?'
Mersiha made a show of looking at her watch again. 'Yeah.
But she's late.'
'Well, you just let me know if you need anything.' She moved down the counter, freshening coffee and trading quips with the diners. The Buttery in Charles Street was open twenty-four hours a day, catering to students and workers during the day and to insomniacs through the night. It was a comfortable eatery, never empty but never busy enough for a girl on her own nursing a coffee for more than an hour to be a problem. Mersiha had left Allison's house at eight o'clock. Allison's mother was already lying down on the sofa with a half-empty bottle of white wine by her side. Mersiha had caught the light-rail train into the city, her bag clasped close to her side all the way.
A biker with shoulder-length hair and old acne scars kept smiling at her and trying to make eye contact. Mersiha pointedly ignored him. Two overweight cops came in, their caps under their arms, and ordered coffee and doughnuts to go. Mersiha sipped her coffee, fighting back the feeling of panic that threatened to overwhelm her. The loaded handgun was in the bag at her feet, still wrapped in a hand towel. The cops scanned the diner professionally, comparing faces with mug-shots they'd been shown at roll-call. The elder of the two cops nudged his companion and nodded in Mersiha's direction.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw them walk in her direction.
She swallowed nervously. When they drew level with her, the younger of the two men put his hand on the butt of his pistol.
Mersiha sighed and closed her eyes. It was all over. They'd find the gun and they'd give it to forensic experts who'd be able to show it was the same weapon that had injured Dr Brown, and that would be it. They'd take her away and lock her in a cell and she'd never see her father again. She cursed herself for her stupidity.
The cops walked by her and over to the biker. The younger cop hung back, leaning against the bar with his hand on his gun, as his partner approached the man. Mersiha couldn't hear what was said, but she could see the biker pull out his wallet and show his driving licence to the officer. They talked for a while and the cop pointed out of the window. All conversation in the diner had died away as its occupants strained to hear what was going on, but the cook had burgers and onions sizzling on a hot plate and the sound of frying food obscured what was being said. Eventually the biker and the cop laughed together and the atmosphere in the diner became more relaxed. The younger cop took his hand off his gun and took a sip from his paper cup. He looked over at Mersiha and smiled. She smiled back nervously.
The two cops left the diner, carrying their coffee and doughnuts, and a few seconds later the biker went out. Mersiha heard the angry growl of a motorcycle. The sound faded into the distance as the biker drove away. She slowly finished her coffee, and another refill, before paying her bill and picking up her bag.
She carried it through to the women's lavatory and locked the door behind her.
There was a wooden chair in the corner of the room and she pulled it in front of the mirror. She sat down and unzipped her bag. From inside she took out her make-up supplies – lipstick, foundation, mascara, eye-liner and nail varnish – and lined them up on the shelf under the mirror. The black dress was rolled up in a protective bag and she hung it up on the back of the door.
She looked at her watch. She had plenty of time. A club like The Firehouse wouldn't be busy until midnight.
Lori Fantoni wiped the counter surface clean and replaced the plastic-coated menus behind the bottle of ketchup. Her back ached and she pushed her knuckles against the base of her spine, leaning backwards and looking at the ceiling.
'Back giving you trouble again, Lori?' asked Curtis Baker, a retiree who always popped into The Buttery for a late-night mug of hot milk and a pastry before turning in.
'Tell me about it,' she wheezed, arching her back as far as it would go.
'I could give you a massage,' he offered.
Lori grinned and flicked her cloth at him. 'You can wipe that thought right out of your mind, Curtis.' He was a widower and Lori's husband had died three years earlier. Curtis asked her out every Friday as regular as clockwork, and just as regularly she turned him down. It wasn't the age difference – Curtis was in his seventies and she was only fifty-three – it was just that there wasn't a spark between them. No chemistry. And no money, either. Curtis had owned a small furniture business which had gone bust in the late eighties and he only had a small pension to live on. Lori had enough money troubles of her own not to want to tie up with a man like Curtis.
Two black teenagers slouched into the diner and slid on to stools at the far end of the counter. They were young, barely into their teens, but wore expensive leather jackets and were bedecked with gold chains and medallions. Lori shook her head sadly. There was only one way two young kids could earn enough money to dress like that, and it wasn't by flipping burgers in Mickey D's. She walked over to them and held out menus, but they shook their heads.
'Coffee and steak sandwiches,' said one. 'One heavy on the onions. One without.'
'Yeah, onions give me gas,' said the other.
'Sorry to hear that, hon,' Lori said. She poured two mugs of coffee, slid a bowl of whitener over and handed their orders to the cook. Close up the boys looked even younger than when she'd first seen them. One of them couldn't have been much older than thirteen. What was the city coming to? If she had a son, there was no way he would have been allowed out this late, and if she'd ever found that he was dealing drugs – well, she didn't like to think what she'd do. Children today, they just didn't get any moral guidance, not in the city anyway. Baltimore's slogan was 'The City that Reads', but like the rest of its one million or so inhabitants Lori knew that was a pipedream; the city had one of the lowest literacy rates in the country, and along with illiteracy went a lack of morals. It wasn't the fault of the children, she thought sadly. There was no such thing as a bad kid, just bad parents. And the city had more than enough of them.
She walked to the middle of the counter and began polishing it, her mind only half on the task. She didn't have any children.
Hell, she didn't even have a husband any more. That was one of the reasons she liked working the night shift at The Buttery. She hadn't slept well for three years, not since she'd woken up to find her husband lying still beside her, killed stone dead by a massive coronary. Her days she could fill, with mind-numbing talk shows and movie re-runs, but time seemed almost to stop at night. That was when she missed her husband the most. And it was when she wished that they'd been able to have children. A son. Or a daughter. It wouldn't have mattered. One thing she was sure of, if they had had children, there was no way they would have been out on the streets late at night. Not like the two boys at the end of the counter. Or the girl, the young one who'd gone pale when Chuck and Ed had gone over to talk to the biker. She'd been in the washroom for almost twenty minutes, and if she didn't come out soon then Lori was going to knock on the door and ask if there was something wrong. She hoped that the girl wasn't on drugs or something.
The cook slid the sandwiches on to plates and garnished them with tomato and lettuce. Lori tucked her cloth into her waistband and put the food in front of the boys. They thanked her politely, as meek as choirboys. The door to the washroom opened and Lori looked up sharply, worried that she was going to see the young girl stagger out with blood pouring from her arm. What she actually saw took her even more by surprise. A beautiful black-haired girl in a tight dress walked out, high heels emphasising her long, shapely legs. The two teenagers turned and gawped at her, and Lori heard a long, low whistle from Curtis. The girl was carrying a sports bag over one shoulder.
It was the same girl who'd been sitting hunched over her coffee, but now she looked stunning. Lori wondered what on earth was going on. The thought that the girl might be a hooker passed through her mind. Hookers regularly dropped into the diner for coffee or a meal after work, but this girl was nothing like them.
She didn't have their hard eyes. She was young and fresh. Lori wondered where she was going so late at night. Wherever it was, she hoped that she'd be okay.
The girl stepped out of the diner and on to Charles Street without a backward look. Lori, the teenagers and Curtis all watched her go.
Mersiha walked carefully, watching where she placed her feet.
She wasn't used to high heels. The temperature had dropped several degrees and she could feel goosebumps on her shoulders.
She shivered. She'd have been better wearing a warm coat, but she knew she was going to have to leave The Firehouse in a hurry. A blue Toyota slowed down and a balding middle-aged man leered at her, licking his upper lip. He waved for her to come over to the car but she shook her head and moved away from the kerb. The car roared off. A young black man using a public telephone watched her walk by. He put his hand over the receiver and whistled at her. 'Hey, baby, do you wanna give me some of that?' he called. Mersiha ignored him. 'Come on, bitch. You know you want it.' She shuddered. The man laughed harshly and went back to his phone call.
Mersiha hated the way men reacted to a short skirt and make-up, as if by dressing sexily she automatically became public property. Men seemed to assume that any girl out at night was fair game. They didn't seem to realise how intimidating it was for a girl on her own to be approached by strangers. Or maybe they did know and just didn't care. The man on the phone shouted something else at her. For a wild moment Mersiha felt like taking the gun out of her bag and pushing it under his nose so that he'd know what it felt like to be intimidated. That would wipe the smile off his face. She wondered what it would be like to pull the trigger and to see his head explode. The thought made her grin. The heel of her left shoe caught in a grating and she lurched forward, losing her balance and leaving the shoe behind. She hopped back and pulled it free, glaring at the errant footwear. Only a man could have designed something that served no other function than to make women's legs look longer. They pinched her toes, they made the backs of her legs ache, and they were a danger to walk in, but men were turned on by high heels so women had to wear them. She put the shoe back on her foot and walked on. She hadn't realised how far it was to the Greyhound bus terminal in West Fayette Street and it was much colder than she'd anticipated, so she stuck out her hand and flagged down a yellow cab. The driver was an Arab and he kept staring at her in the driver's mirror. She sidled along the seat to get out of his vision but he moved the mirror.
She reached into her sports bag. On top of her rolled-up sweater was a small black handbag on a gilt chain. She unzipped it and slipped her hand inside, feeling the comforting coldness of the loaded HK-4. She still wasn't sure exactly what she was going to say to Sabatino. He was a dangerous man, that went without saying, but Maury had told her father that he was a bully and bullies usually backed down if confronted. She remembered how Dr Brown had trembled at the sight of the weapon. Sabatino would probably react the same way. He'd realise that she was. But what if he wasn't intimidated? What then? Would she shoot him? And would a bullet in the leg be enough? It had worked with Dr Brown, but he was a psychiatrist, not a gangster. What if Sabatino wasn't scared? What if he thought she was bluffing? How far would she be prepared to go?
The Arab was staring again. She could feel his eyes boring into her chest and she glared back at him. He averted his gaze.
When he looked back she was still glaring at him, her face set tight. She felt nothing but contempt for the man, and she stared at him until he looked away again. This time he moved the mirror so that he couldn't see her face. Mersiha smiled. The driver had backed down. So would Sabatino. And if he didn't – well, then she'd do whatever she had to in order to protect her father.
The cab driver dropped her outside die bus terminal. She thought of asking him to wait but decided against it. He was more likely to remember her if she did, and anyway she didn't like the look of him.
A group of black teenagers were standing outside the entrance and diey whisded as she walked by. One of them shouted something about her legs but she couldn't make out what it was. She found the left-luggage lockers and chose one in the middle to store her sports bag, slipping the key into her handbag after locking the door. The handbag was heavy but there was no indication from the outside that it contained a gun. She pulled the skirt down over her thighs and walked back outside. This time one of the teenagers blocked her way, his hands on his hips.
'Where you going, girl?' he asked. He was wearing baggy jeans with the crotch hanging down almost to his knees, a back-to-front football jersey under a leather jacket, and huge Reeboks. Despite the funny-looking clothes and his baby face, Mersiha was scared.
His eyes were unfocused and he seemed to have trouble standing upright. She tried to walk around him but he moved in front of her again. 'You deaf, bitch? I said where are you going?'
His friends laughed. They circled around her, like hyenas around a wounded gazelle. Mersiha put her hand on her bag.
Someone laughed behind her. 'Bitch thinks we're gonna steal her purse.'
The teenager in front of her grinned. 'Bitch might be right.'
She moved to the side but a hand gripped her arm, the nails biting into her flesh. 'Don't,' she said. The teenagers laughed at her discomfort. They moved in closer, laughing and swearing.
Mersiha undid the clasp of her bag and slid her hand inside.
Her fingers tightened around the butt of the gun. 'Don't,' she repeated, her voice harder this time. One of the teenagers howled like a wolf, his head thrown back and his mouth wide open, showing several gold teeth. 'Don't touch me,' she said, her voice hardening. A hand touched her back and she whirled around, eyes blazing. 'No one touches me,' she hissed. 'No one.'
'Bitch has balls,' said one of the teenagers.
'Let's see, shall we?' said another, laughing.
'Touch me and you're dead,' Mersiha whispered.
The teenagers stood back, eyes wide in mock terror. One of them started trembling as if he were having an epileptic fit. 'Look, I'm shaking,' he said. The others burst into laughter.
Another hand touched her, this time brushing her bare shoulder.
'I warned you,' she shouted, starting to draw the gun from the bag.
'Leave the girl be,' said a deep masculine voice from behind her. The teenagers stopped laughing. Mersiha turned to look at the newcomer. He was an elderly black man, a cleaner by the look at it, an old baseball cap on his greying hair and a dishevelled mop in his hand.
'This ain't your business, man,' said one of the teenagers, the youngest of the group but with the build of a basketball player, tall and lanky with huge hands which he flexed as he confronted the cleaner.
'This is my business, son,' the old man said. 'It's all our business. The girl has a right to walk undisturbed through the city. You can see that, can't you? You wouldn't want your sister interfered with, would you?'
'She ain't no sister,' said the guy in the leather jacket. His friends laughed and jeered, but the cleaner wasn't perturbed.
'She could be somebody's sister,' the old man said, pushing the baseball cap to the back of his head. Mersiha saw a thick black scar cutting across his forehead, an old, ugly wound that had healed badly. 'You gotta treat people the way you wanna be treated, the way you'd want your own family treated. Now leave her be.'
The teenagers looked at the old man, and at the mop he was holding. They could have taken it from him easily, they were younger and stronger, but Mersiha could see that they were unwilling to confront him. There was something about his bearing that inspired respect.
'Go on now, girl,' he said quietly. 'Go on your way.'
Mersiha mouthed 'thank you' and walked away as quickly as the high heels would carry her. She took her hand off the gun and wiped her mouth nervously. Despite the cold night air, she was sweating.
There was a line waiting outside The Firehouse and she joined it. One of the doormen, an imposing black guy in a tuxedo, spotted her and motioned th
at she could go in. 'Pretty girls don't have to wait,' he said, opening the door for her. 'And you don't have to pay 'cos it's Ladies' Night.'
Mersiha smiled her thanks. She walked down a red-painted corridor, feeling like a morsel of food sliding down the gullet of some strange animal. Another doorman in an identical tuxedo opened a second door for her. Loud, pulsing music billowed out, along with warm, smoky air that smelled of sweat and cheap perfume.
The Firehouse was just that – a former fire station that had been turned into a nightclub. Red was the dominant theme, and many of the original fittings had been left in place, including a line of six poles stretching up to holes in the ceiling. Midway up the poles were man-size gilded cages in which young girls in bikinis writhed and gyrated in time to the music. The dance floor was packed and customers were standing three-deep at the bar.
The crowd was mainly white, young, and stoned. Mersiha had never smoked marijuana but she'd been at several parties where it had been handed around, so she recognised the sickly-sweet smell. A man in his early twenties with slicked-back hair and a shiny suit came over to her. 'Hiya. I'm Simon,' he said, flashing her a film-star smile.
'Yeah. Hiya. I'm looking for someone.' At the far end of the building she saw stairs. Two men in tuxedos stood at the foot, their arms folded across their chests. Sentries.
'Well, look no further. You've found someone.'
Mersiha stepped to the side. 'Sorry. Not tonight,' she said.
'Pity,' Simon said as she walked away.
The two sentries looked down at Mersiha with hard faces.
'Ladies' room is down there,' said one, nodding towards the bar.
'Is Mr Sabatino upstairs?' she asked.
The smaller of the two men put his head on one side like a budgie studying its reflection in a mirror. 'Is he expecting you?'
'Sure,' Mersiha said, her heart racing.
'What's your name?'
'Allison,' she said, then cursed herself. She'd said the first name that had occurred to her. She hadn't meant to use the name of her friend. That was a mistake.
The birthday girl Page 27