Near Death Read Free Page A

sympathetic.”
    “But …”
    “But, it’s a done deal, Cy. He said he’s been protecting you but he’s got no choice. Our number’s up.”
    Cyrus sighed loud enough for Avakian to hear it over the clamor of his foursome ordering breakfast burritos at the half-way canteen. “How bad is it?”
    “It looks like it could be a big case.”

Three
    “ What’s it going to be tonight, honey?”
    She delivered the question as if she were taking an order from behind a deli counter. The man in the car looked back at her with a blank expression. “I don’t know … the usual.”
    “There’s no such thing,” she said impatiently. “I’m not a mind reader.” She was a white girl, early twenties, a little overweight, a lot of foundation makeup filling in burned-out acne craters. Both stockings had ladders disappearing up her skirt. Her cologne had dissipated hours earlier. She smelled of cigarettes.
    “A blow job maybe.”
    “It’s fifty dollars. You okay with that?”
    He wavered, a few beats too long for her comfort. “Yes.”
    “What?” she demanded. She gave her john another once-over. She’d judged him safe enough to climb in after leaning into his car window and studying his face for signs of trouble as she purred her rote introduction in a faux-sexy voice. He was clean-looking, a big handsome face withprominent landmarks: arching cheekbones, high forehead, large hazel eyes and a smooth jutting jaw, long brown hair pulled into a ponytail. Then his hands: dirt-free, not a brute’s. He looked brainy, not her standard street trade. She had a habit of checking out backseats. Nothing good came from a backseat littered with fast-food wrappers and old clothes, greasy tools, hidden lumpy things under blankets. His was barren.
    “Nothing, no problem,” he insisted, pulling away from the curb after checking his mirrors and signaling with the caution of a kid taking his road test.
    At 2 A . M. Mass Ave was traffic-free. The streets were slicked from an evening shower. She pulled her jacket around herself for warmth. He seemed to notice and like a gentleman, turned up the heater. “Where’re we going?” she asked.
    “I don’t want to park on the street. A friend of mine has a lock-up garage in Cambridge. I don’t want to pull a Hugh Grant.”
    “Who’s he?”
    “A British actor. Caught in the act in his car.”
    “You sound like you’re from there. Or at least not from here.”
    “Yeah,” he answered. “People tell me that.”
    “I know places to park that are safe,” she said. “We don’t need to go all the way to Cambridge.”
    “It’s not far. It’s just over the bridge.”
    She screwed up her mouth defiantly. “I don’t like the sound of a lock-up garage.”
    He stopped at a light and smiled weakly. “I understand. The thing is, I’ve got an important job and I can’t risk getting busted. I’ll do a hundred. But if you’re uncomfortable, I’ll let you out here, no harm, no foul.”
    She fumbled for a cigarette and didn’t ask for permission to light up. “Okay, but don’t get weird on me. Tomorrow’s my birthday.”
    He pulled money out of his shirt pocket and politely handed it to her. “You can trust me.” He opened his window to let out smoke then drove toward the river.
    She noticed his knuckles. They were white from gripping the steering wheel too tightly. She’d seen that before. Some of the johns were coiled springs, only letting their guard down a few moments before coming.
    Soon, they left Memorial Drive for the tight, protected grid of Cambridgeport. Cars with pasted-on overnight parking permits lined both sides of the narrow streets. The residential neighborhood was a claustrophobic jumble of triple-deckers, single-family houses, and low,squat apartment blocks, mostly dark except for the students and insomniacs whose lights were still blazing. He made a couple of lefts and a right then slowed to a crawl in front of a two-story house with white siding. The windows were