18
ANSON
“Clients?” Paul spat the word out more than spoke it. Like he’d bitten into something that had gone bad and couldn’t rid himself of the taste fast enough. “Seriously?”
Vincent silenced him with a glare and held it for a moment, as if daring Paul to say something else. When it was clear Paul had gotten the message, he looked back at Twill. “You’re still . . .”
If Twill had been embarrassed, she quickly buried it.
Her face became stone. “How else do you think anyone can survive out here? I’ve got no ID, so I can’t get a real job.
No real skills, so I don’t qualify for a job even if I can find one.
Hell, I tried, believe me. When I first got out, I filled out applications all over town.
Even went to a few interviews. Guess how that went?
How far you think you can get on fake names and a bullshit history with no residence? ”
“When you ran,” Vincent said, “you told us you were going home.”
Twill dipped a French fry in ketchup and popped it in her mouth.
“I have no home. My mom’s a junkie in San Francisco, last I heard.
My stepdad”—she did air quotes around the word stepdad—“when last I had one of those, he spent his days trying to score his next hit, and his nights trying to get in my pants. No way I’m going back to that. ”
Vincent appeared confused. “You told us your mom was an ad exec for some tech company and you only ran away because she was too controlling.”
Twill blew out a breath and ate another fry. “Grow up, Vincent. I told you what you wanted to hear.”
“You could have told us the truth.”
“I couldn’t tell myself the truth. You think I’d tell you?”
“We all come from shitty circumstances. We would have—”
“Understood? Maybe I didn’t want you to understand.
Maybe I didn’t want you to think of me that way at all.
Maybe, for once in my life, I wanted the people around me to see me as something other than some cliché born and bred on the streets of California.
” She sighed and shook her head. “I think part of me hoped if I pretended long enough, I could make the lie real.” She gestured around.
“Clearly that’s worked out well for me.” Finishing off her fries, she wiped her hands on her skirt, studied her newly acquired hoodie, and sighed.
“I look like touristy shit and I stink. I need a shower. Then I need to burn these clothes. Are we done here?”
Aside from a few errant fries, the food was long gone. Inhaled more than eaten. Empty boxes and wrappers littered the table.
Paul and I exchanged an uncomfortable glance as the realization of our circumstances sank in—after this, we had no place to go.
Our stolen car was back at the hospital, possibly crawling with cops.
Any money we had was in the bag attached to that wheelchair, also back at the hospital, no doubt also crawling with cops. And they had our photos . . .
If Vincent was having similar thoughts, he didn’t show it. His eyes never left Twill. “Weasel’s dead.”
The color drained from Twill’s face. “What? How?”
Vincent told her about the chase down the alley with Van Man. Sam Porter. The gunshot.
She looked at Paul. “You saw it? He shot Weasel?”
Paul hesitated, then nodded.
Her fists curled into tight balls.
“We only got a quick look at the guy back in the hospital,” Vincent continued, “and he was in rough shape. Van Man was in his room, just standing there.”
“What does Porter look like?”
Paul plucked one of the empty boxes from the center of the table and tore off the cover. “Anyone have a pen or pencil?”
Nobody did.
It took Twill all of three seconds to lift a pen from a woman’s purse on the ground at the next table over and hand it to Paul, who quickly went to work on a sketch. When he finished, he slid the drawing across the table to her.
Twill studied the image for a moment, then looked up at him with a newfound wonder. “Damn, boy. You got skill.”
Vincent tapped on the drawing. “Do you know him?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never seen him before.”
I took in the drawing from across the table.
I hadn’t gotten a good look at Porter when he drove out to Finicky’s.
Not in the alley, either. Things happened so fast. At the hospital, he was covered in bandages.
This was really my first real look at the guy, and knowing Paul, it was spot-on.
He could recreate just about anything. I remembered the drawing he’d made me of Libby back at Finicky’s.
He’d drawn her naked, probably just to embarrass me.
She and I slept together that night. My first time.
I had no idea where that drawing had ended up.
I had no idea where Libby . . .
That thought sent a pang through my stomach. She could be anywhere by now. Maybe—
Your mind’s wandering again, Champ. Stay in the game.
Snap.
Back at the table.
Sam Porter.
I memorized every inch of his face.
Twill slid the drawing back to Paul. “You know, the rubes here eat this kind of thing up. You could probably get twenty bucks a pop for drawings like this.”
Paul’s eyes lit up at the prospect. We needed money.
Vincent shot the idea down real quick. “We can’t exactly set up shop on the sidewalk right now. We—”
Twill kicked him under the table and lowered her head.
Two uniformed officers were standing at the mouth of the courtyard.