“So what do you do?” I sipped my beer.

“I make my money as a taxidermist, but I consider myself an artist.”

“Isn’t it creepy working with dead things?”

A little smile pushed up the edges of her mouth. “I don’t know. Is it?”

Blade returned, and over sweet-’n-sour pork, we agreed to cut Marcie in for ten percent if she identified Rollo’s body.

“My brother’s a tattoo artist,” said Marcie. “For our wedding present, he gave Rollo and me matching tattoos. They say Rollo Loves Marcie inside of a heart.”

“Where?”

“On our butts.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You too?”

“I had mine removed. It looks like I sat in acid.”

Too bad.

We adjourned to the back of the Chrysler. I opened the trunk and peeled Rollo out of the drapes. Most of the blood had dried, but he was still as headless as ever.

“Oh God.” Marcie swallowed hard.

“You gonna be okay?”

She nodded.

I pulled down Rollo’s slacks just enough to reveal the tattoo. It was bigger than I thought it would be.

Marcie’s sudden intake of breath made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I stiffened, realizing I’d leaned too far into the trunk, my back to Marcie and Blade. I got the sickening, dull ache of stupidity in the pit of my stomach. I turned slowly and found myself on the bad end of Blade Sanchez’s 9mm Luger.

“That’s all I needed to see,” said Blade. “I guess old Rollo and I will be going now, and I’ll take the whole bonus.”

“Don’t be a blockhead, Blade. Stan won’t stand for this.”

“I don’t think so, Mr. Smarty-fuck hired gun. I know something you don’t. Beggar Johnson was in Raiford with Rollo for two years. They were cellmates, so I’m sure he’s seen that cute little tattoo in the shower. Beggar says I can go work for him anytime.”

“Even so, Blade, this ain’t professional. It’s gonna look bad.”

“To hell with you.” Blade quivered and shook the pistol in my face for emphasis. “You been riding my back since we took this job. You think you’re just the shit, the big-shot trigger-man on the block, huh? So you team with me like I’m some kind of charity case. Well, I’m getting the last laugh. Now give me the car keys, you smug, cigarette-hating, black-coffee-drinking son of a bitch.”

I gave him the keys.

Marcie and I stood and watched as Blade tore out of the gravel driveway in the Chrysler. Thank God I always rented under a fake name.

Marcie turned to me immediately. “If I give you the keys to my Volvo so you can go after him, will you cut me in for his half?”

I blinked at her, not quite sure if I’d heard right. She’d just seen her ex-husband’s decapitated body without flinching. Now she wanted me to go after Blade. I liked her a lot.

“Well?” She jingled the keys in front of me. “He’s getting away.”

“Deal.”

“I’m coming with you.”

Her baby-shit yellow Volvo was about ten years old but in good shape. It didn’t take us long to catch up with Blade. I’d seen him drive once, so I wasn’t surprised he was taking it easy. He didn’t recognize Marcie’s car, so we came up behind him slow. I made like I was passing him, but he recognized me when I pulled alongside. He tried to gun the Chrysler, but I got ahead of him a little and swerved hard into his lane. He went off the road and smacked the rental into a pine tree. I pulled the Volvo over and told Marcie to stay put.

Blade was slumped heavily over the steering wheel, a trickle of blood running from his forehead to his chin where he’d bashed his head. I reached in the driver’s side and pushed Blade back in his seat. His eyes blinked open, and he pointed his pistol at me groggily.

I said, “You smell that, Blade? Smoke. You’ve landed in tall, dry grass and your exhaust pipe’s caught it on fire. Give me the gun, and I’ll pull you out.” While he thought about it, I went around to the passenger side, opened the door and grabbed my National Geographic off the floor.

Back around on Blade’s side. “What’s it going to be?”

He glanced in the rearview mirror, and when he saw the smoke billowing behind the Chrysler, he handed me the Luger. I pulled him behind the Volvo and dropped him on the ground. Rollo was still in the trunk, but before I could go back for the keys, the whole car went up in flames.

I walked over to Blade, thought about him pointing his little Kraut gun at me and flushed hot around the ears and up through my cheeks. The smug expression on his moron face when he thought he’d put one over.

I squeezed the trigger and put a bullet in his chest.

Marcie got out of the Volvo and stood next to me. “What a mess.”

“Yeah. You’ll have to pay your brother out of your half,” I said.

“My brother?”

“To tattoo Rollo Loves Marcie on Blade’s butt.” I sized up Blade’s carcass. “He’s roughly the same build as Rollo.”

She raised her eyebrows in appreciation. “Okay, but I’m not cutting off his head.”

Right. With no head and a tattoo on Blade’s ass, Beggar wouldn’t notice the switch. I hoped.

“Just help me get him in the trunk before the sheriff comes.”

Marcie sighed as she opened the Volvo’s trunk. “I just wish we had some plastic or something to put down.” She rolled up her sleeves and went to work. Good girl.

“Marcie.”

“Yes?”

I felt suddenly clumsy and foolish. I didn’t like feeling that way, so I hurried ahead to get it over with. “Maybe when we take care of this, I could take you to dinner? Do something that doesn’t involve dead bodies?”

“Someplace nice?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure.” She bent, took Blade under the arms. “Get his legs, will you? This son of a bitch is heavy.”

The deal went off without a hitch, and thankfully Beggar Johnson sent two of his muscle boys to meet us instead of coming himself. They’d driven up from Miami, and we met them in the desolate regions of a mall parking garage in Altamonte. The car ride had been quiet and nervous.

Beggar’s goons identified themselves as Norman and Vincent. Norman was in charge, a gangly scarecrow of a man who tried to hide his lack of bulk inside a suit too big for him. Vincent knew he was just there to kill anything if Norman told him to. He was short but wide, a big, meaty guy with thinning hair and a sweaty face.

“You bring him?” asked Norman.

“In the back.” I jerked a thumb at the Volvo.

Vincent was looking hard at the back of Marcie’s car, maybe getting the tag. I didn’t like it, but also didn’t see how I could complain.

When they saw Blade’s body, Norman flipped open his cell phone and described the tattoo to his boss. He nodded a lot, grunting without emotion. I started to feel a little moist under my arms. My eyes kept darting into the corners of the garage, looking for trouble. I’d sent Marcie into the mall and told her I’d join her for coffee when the exchange was completed. I needn’t have worried.

Norman folded up the cell phone and looked at me. “What a fucking mess.”

“Sorry.”

“What did you do to the poor slob?”

“He got out of line, so I bit him.”

Norman frowned. “You’re a laugh riot.”

They took what they thought was Rollo’s carcass and stashed it in the trunk of their black Mercedes. There was a nice layer of plastic in the trunk, all ready for the body. Bastards. Norman handed me a wrinkled manila envelope. I didn’t bother looking inside. I knew the money would be there. We nodded to each other, and I walked away trying not to hurry. In the mall, I found a pay phone and dialed Stan.

“I got it.”

“Understood,” said Stan.

We hung up.

I didn’t know how to explain to Stan that one of his guns had cashed it in, so I pretended it never happened. I was counting on the fact that Blade was a flake and nobody would miss him. Or at least I’d wait, maybe think of a better way to explain how it couldn’t have been helped.