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the kid at the register. No problem there. Your friend had a gun, which is now in my possession. I’ll
take you with me and you can watch the kid’s head go splat. It’s up to you, okay? You get it?”
“Yes,” Abra said. A little more awake now. “Can I have a Coke and a water?”
His grin this time was high, wide, and handsome. In spite of her situation, in spite of the
headache, even in spite of the slap he’d administered, Abra found it charming. She guessed lots of
people found it charming, especially women. “A little greedy, but that’s not always a bad thing. Let’s
see how you mind those Ps and Qs.”
She unbuckled her belt—it took three tries, but she finally managed—and grabbed the doorhandle.
Before she got out, she said: “Stop calling me Goldilocks. You know my name, and I know yours.”
She slammed the door and headed for the gas island (weaving a little) before he could reply. She
had spunk as well as steam. He could almost admire her. But, given what had happened to Snake,
Nut, and Jimmy, almost was as far as it went.
13
At first Abra couldn’t read the instructions because the words kept doubling and sliding around. She
squinted and they came into focus. The Crow was watching her. She could feel his eyes like tiny warm
weights on the back of her neck.
(Dan?)
Nothing, and she wasn’t surprised. How could she hope to reach Dan when she could barely figure
out how to run this stupid pump? She had never felt less shiny in her life.
Eventually she managed to start the gas, although the first time she tried his credit card, she put it
in upside-down and had to begin all over again. The pumping seemed to go on forever, but there was a
rubber sleeve over the nozzle to keep the stench of the fumes down, and the night air was clearing her
head a little. There were billions of stars. Usually they awed her with their beauty and profusion, but
tonight looking at them only made her feel scared. They were far away. They didn’t see Abra Stone.
When the tank was full, she squinted at the new message in the pump’s window and turned to
Crow. “Do you want a receipt?”
“I think we can crutch along without that, don’t you?” Again came his dazzling grin, the kind that
made you happy if you were the one who caused it to break out. Abra bet he had lots of girlfriends.
No. He just has one. The hat woman is his girlfriend. Rose. If he had another one, Rose would kill her.
Probably with her teeth and fingernails.
She trudged back to the truck and got in.
“That was very good,” Crow said. “You win the grand prize—a Coke and a water. So . . . what do
you say to your Daddy?”
“Thank you,” Abra said listlessly. “But you’re not my daddy.”
“I could be, though. I can be a very good daddy to little girls who are good to me. The ones who
mind their Ps and Qs.” He drove to the machine and gave her a five-dollar bill. “Get me a Fanta if
they have it. A Coke if they don’t.”
“You drink sodas, like anyone else?”
He made a comical wounded face. “If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not
laugh?”
“Shakespeare, right?” She wiped her mouth again. “Romeo and Juliet.”
“Merchant of Venice, dummocks,” Crow said . . . but with a smile. “Don’t know the rest of it, I bet.”
She shook her head. A mistake. It refreshed the throbbing, which had begun to diminish.