The Birthday Girl (29 page)

'What's in the bag?' Allison asked as they walked towards the school bus.

'Clothes. Handbag. Make-up,' Mersiha replied. She wondered how Allison would react if she'd continued to list the contents. Gun. Ammunition. She smiled at the subversive thought.

Allison pounced. 'What are you grinning for?'

'Just thinking about tonight.'

'Oh, please tell me who it is.' They climbed on to the bus and sat together near the back. Allison leaned across. 'Is it Lester Middlehurst?'

Mersiha looked across at Allison and imagined shooting her in the head with the gun. It would probably be the only way to put an end to the torrent of questions. She smiled sweetly. 'No, it's not Lester Middlehurst. Now don't ask me anything else.'

'Okay. Okay.' Allison jiggled up and down on her seat excitedly.

Katherine Freeman closed her eyes and luxuriated in the hot water. She turned on the hot tap with her foot and swished the water around, enjoying the way the warmth gradually spread up her body. The feeling was decidedly sexual and her right hand slowly strayed between her legs as if it had a life of its own.

The telephone rang, jarring her out of her reverie. The nearest extension was in her bedroom and she was damned if she was going to get out of her bath. The answering machine picked up the call and she closed her eyes again. Her hand began to caress her soft, soapy skin.

She heard Maury Anderson's voice, urgently calling her name. 'Come on, Katherine, I know you're there. Pick up.'

She groaned. 'Now what?' she muttered to herself.

'Come on, Katherine. I'm not hanging up until you answer.'

She wondered if Anderson really did know she was in or if he was guessing. Either way, he'd already spoiled the moment for her. She climbed out of the bath and wrapped a towel around her shoulders before running into the bedroom and grabbing the phone. 'Damn you, Maury. I'm dripping water all over the carpet.'

'Katherine. I have to see you.'

I 'Is that all? You've dragged me out of the bath because you've I got a hard-on? Isn't your wife back?'

'This is business. It's about the offer for CRW.'

'Fine. So why bother me at home? Can't you talk to Tony?' 'Tony's being totally unreasonable. {Catherine, you have to get him to listen to reason.'

'Maury, love, I don't have to do anything.'

i*r 'We have to sell the company. You can't say no to a man like Sabatino.'

'Maury, go and screw your little wife. You can close your eyes and think of me if it makes it any better, but stop bothering me. ^k You're becoming a nuisance.' She slammed the phone down and < went back to her bath.

Mersiha toyed with her coffee cup. A thick beige scum had formed on the surface and she touched it gently with the tip of her index finger. It felt like human skin. She looked at her watch for the thousandth time. It was nine thirty. Too early to go to The Firehouse. A buxom, middle-aged waitress came over. 'You want me to freshen that, hon?' she asked. Mersiha smiled and nodded. The waitress splashed in more coffee. 'Can I get you anything to eat?'

'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 THE BIRTHDAY GIRL 241 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 THE BIRTHDAY GIRL 243 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 244 STEPHEN LEATHER 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 BIRTHDAY GIRL 245 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 246 STEPHEN LEATHER serious and he'd back off. Hopefully the threat alone would be enough. 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?