Page 101 of Into the Fire

“Sure you did,” Tommy said. “When I outfitted you with that low-rent Remington, I told you I was getting Ballistas in.”

Evan tossed the last two charcoal pills into his mouth. “I don’t need a sniper rifle anymore.”

“Any man worth his salt needs a precision pea-shooter. I’m in L.A. on Monday. I’ll drop her by for you.”

As Joey weaved through sparse traffic, they passed under the shadow of Men’s Central, a blocky construction of intersecting concrete slabs rising behind a perimeter of chain-link. Beyond it rose the dueling chunks of Twin Towers, one seven stories of misery, the other eight, each a study in beige efficiency. Evan forced the pills down his gullet. “I’m a little busy at the moment, Tommy.”

He’d barely thumbed off the phone when Joey was on him again. “You don’t have to do this,” she said. “We have enough on Bedrosov to turn over to the cops now. Let them run with the football from here. They’ll put him away for good.”

“The case will take months to prosecute,” Evan said. He scooped a few coins and some beat-up singles from the ashtray, seeding his pockets. “And in the meantime? Bedrosov is a shot caller in jail. With access to a phone. And hit men on the outside.”

He remembered Benjamin Bedrosov’s voice over the line, his tone the epitome of reasonableness: You can keep killing them. But I can keep sending them. He might as well have been updating shareholders on an earnings call.

“X—”

“Even if he’s found guilty and goes to prison,” Evan said, “do you really think he won’t see it through and end Max?”

Headlights swept the windshield, highlighting her hair, her full cheeks. Her eyes were brimming, and he was confused yet again by the turmoil of her moods.

“If it goes bad…” Joey paused, struggling, seemingly forcing each word out. “What happens to me?”

“There’s enough in your account to—”

“I’m not talking about money,” she said. “Goddamn it. You’re such an idiot.” She screeched the truck over to the curb. “Just get out. Here’s as good as anywhere. Just go, okay?”

He sat in the passenger seat, watching her. She was turned partially away, but he could see her front teeth pinching her bottom lip to keep it from trembling. Biting down hard. Nostrils flaring with each breath. She blinked several times, fighting her way back to control.

“Joey.”

She ignored him.

“Joey.”

Still nothing.

Gently he said, “Josephine.”

She pulled her face to profile. It was the most he was going to get.

“Take a breath,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because you can’t take a breath from the past. And you can’t take a breath from the future.”

He watched the words land on her. She took in their meaning. Then she said, “This is lame.”

“Do it.”

She closed her eyes. Inhaled deep. Let it go.

“Feel better?” he asked.

“No,” she said. And then, “Maybe a little.”

He reached to brush her hair out of her eyes, an avuncular gesture, and she let him. He sensed a hint of softness in her face now.

She said, “Why do you care so much about Max Merriweather? I mean, aside from the fact that he lucked into your phone number?”