Page 36 of Sting
“How much are you going to ask him for?”
“None of your business.”
“My life isn’t any of my business?”
“Not the price tag on it. That’s between Panella and me.” He watched her for a second or two, then said, “You’ve known all along it was him.”
“Yes.”
“Why’d you let on otherwise?”
“I was in denial.”
“Dangerous place, denial.” He resumed eating.
“I don’t suppose he told Mickey where he is.”
He snorted at the absurdity of that. “No, but he doesn’t know where I am, either. Or, more to the point, where you are. His butt will stay chapped until he gets confirmation that you’re dead.”
Her thoughts were shifting and reshaping as rapidly as storm clouds, making coherency difficult. But she latched onto one word. “Confirmation? You no longer have to produce my body?”
“Never did. How could I deliver your body to him when I don’t know where he is, and he’s not about to divulge it? I only told you that to keep you…cooperative.”
“Terrified.”
“Then it worked.”
Her cheeks turned hot with anger and embarrassment over being so gullible, but she wanted to keep this conversation going. The more she learned, the better armed she would be. She just needed to brush up on her lie-detecting skills, because he was an accomplished liar.
But assuming he was being at least partially truthful, she asked, “What kind of confirmation will he require?”
“I’ll know when I ask him.”
“You’ve had twelve hours or more to negotiate a new deal with him. In the meantime, you’re stuck with mouthy me here in these swell surroundings.” She pointed out a rip in the tin roof that looked like it had been made with an old-fashioned can opener. “Aren’t you anxious to get to Mexico and that cerveza? What’s holding you back?”
He scooped the last of the food from the can, dropped the spoon into it, and set it on the floor. He pulled the bandana from his pocket and wiped his mouth and hands, then stretched his legs out in front of him, folded his arms over his midriff, and crossed his ankles.
She noticed that the soles of his cowboy boots had seen a lot of wear. They’d been lived in. Like his face.
“You love your brother?”
The unexpected question snapped her gaze back up to his. “Why do you ask?”
“Just answer me.”
“Of course I love him. He’s my brother.”
“He’s a double-crossing chickenshit.”
Reacting as though he’d slapped her, she retorted, “What do you know about Josh, about anything?”
“Even a guy like me watches TV every now and again.”
“Triple-X pay-per-view.”
“Sometimes I catch the news. What I didn’t know about the Panella case, Mickey filled in yesterday while we were trailing you.”
“Trailing me?”
