“What?” I shook my head, almost laughing out loud. “Hey, wait a minute …”

›Waiting.‹

“I don’t know if you know this,” I went on, “but I’m in one of the worst areas of the city right now. If I try hiking over there, I’m probably going to get a knife stuck between my ribs.”

The map was replaced by Ruby’s genderless face. ›I am aware of your location and of the hazards of traveling on foot. While we have been discussing the situation, I have arranged for safe transportation to the reservoir.‹

At that instant, there came the short bleat of a car horn from outside the house.

I jerked, almost dropping Joker to the floor; the stray dog awoke from its slumber and, leaping to its feet, ran to the window, growling and barking loudly at something out in the darkness.

›That is all for now. We will speak again soon.‹

Then the screen went blank.

I waited for another moment, half expecting the toneless voice to return. When it didn’t, I folded up Joker and shoved it into my jacket pocket, then got up off the floor and tiptoed cautiously to the window. The dog was barking at a car that had pulled into the driveway; its headlights were out, but I vaguely recognized its shape from the amber brake lights.

“It’s okay, boy,” I murmured, giving the dog a scratch behind the ears as the car horn sounded again. “C’mon, it’s time to go …”

I opened the front door and let the dog out; he followed me across the tiny front lawn to the end of the driveway where a black ’92 Corvette was parked, its V-8 engine idling. The passenger window slid down as I approached, and there was the soft click of a gun’s hammer being pulled back.

“Chevy?” I called softly, freezing in midstep. “Chevy, is that you, dude?”

The dome light came on, revealing one of Chevy Dick’s garage buddies riding shotgun in the front passenger seat. The Glock automatic in his hand was pointed straight at me. “That him?” he asked the driver, never taking his eyes off me.

“Yeah, that’s him,” Chevy Dick replied. “C’mon, Gerry, get in already! It’s fucking dangerous ’round here! Jeez!”

I looked down at the dog; he was squatting on his haunches, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. The tongue disappeared as the mutt frowned, catching the expression on my face: hey, Ger, don’t leave me here …

“Can I bring the dog?” I asked.

“Aw, man, he’ll just tear up the upholstery-”

“No, he won’t,” I said. “He’s cool.”

“I’ve got genuine leather in here. He’ll drool all over it-”

“C’mon, Chevy … he saved my life. Honest.”

Chevy Dick looked away and muttered under his breath, then he reluctantly nodded his head. “Okay, okay,” he muttered. “But if he shits back there, you gotta clean it up, awright?”

I nodded. The Latino kid opened the door and stepped out of the car, pulling forward the back of his seat to let the dog and me scramble into the cramped rear compartment. As his buddy climbed back in and slammed the door shut, Chevy switched off the dome lamp, then pulled a can of Budweiser out from under his seat and tossed it back to me.

“Hey, it’s good to see ya, man,” he said as he backed out of the driveway, “but you picked a fuck of a time to call me.”

“I’m sorry,” I murmured, tucking the beer into my jacket pocket. The dog curled up next to me, placed his head in my lap, and licked the back of my hand. I ran my hands along the fur at the nape of his neck. “I didn’t mean to …”

I stopped as I realized what Chevy Dick had just said. “What do you mean, I called you?”

The two men in the front seats glanced at each other in confusion. The kid in the passenger seat muttered something in Spanish, and Chevy Dick responded with a laugh; then he put the car in gear. “Hey, man,” he said as the Corvette rumbled down the narrow street, its headlights still extinguished. “Maybe you don’t remember, but you called me. Begged me to come out here and pick you up right here.”

“I did …?”

“I saw your face, heard your voice.” Chevy Dick shrugged and looked back at me again. “Listen, I don’t mind doing a favor for an amigo, but if you can’t remember, I’d just as soon-”

“No,” I said hurriedly. “That’s great … I just forgot, that’s all. Get me out of here.”

Ricardo and his fellow motorhead glanced at each other again; there was another exchange of Spanish jokes at my expense, then Chevy hit the headlights.

“Hang on to your dog, buddy,” he said. “We’ve got a rough ride ahead.”

Then he popped the clutch, and the Corvette hurtled down the street, its engine roaring as the massive machine pitched itself into the night.

(Saturday, 3:22 A.M.)

Chevy Dick’s Corvette cruised along dark, rain-slicked Gravois Avenue like a sleek black torpedo, passing the ruins of row shops and boarded-up supermarkets, skirting around potholes and dodging piles of burning debris left over from gang fights. We cruised down the vacant four-lane street, ignoring all the stop signs; shadowy figures huddling around garbage-can fires stared at us with dull curiosity. The rain had finally stopped, so Chevy’s friend Cortez kept his window rolled down halfway, his Glock cradled in his hands above the warm can of Budweiser resting between his thighs.

As we approached the broad intersection of Gravois and Grand Boulevard, we saw an ERA patrol. An LAV-25 was parked in front of a closed-down White Castle, a couple of troopers sitting on top of the armored cars next to the water cannon. Upon spotting the Corvette’s headlights, one of the soldiers jumped off the front of the Piranha and sauntered out into the street, waving his arms over his head.

“Aw, shit,” I whispered as Chevy Dick began to slow down. “That’s the last thing I need to see right-”

“Hang on to your mutt,” Chevy said.

“Punch it,” Cortez muttered.

Chevy smiled, then floored the gas pedal. The digital speedometer flashed into the higher numbers as the car hurtled down the blacktop toward the lone soldier. He gaped in disbelief as he fumbled for the rifle slung against his back, but at the last moment he lunged for the sidewalk.

I caught a brief glimpse of his astonished face as the Corvette whipped past him, then Chevy Dick hauled the wheel to the left. Its tires screeching against the pavement, the Corvette hugged the curb as it tore through the intersection and made a sharp left turn onto Grand.

“Chinga tu madre!” Cortez yelled at the troopers who were scrambling off the top of the Piranha, thrusting his right arm through the window to give them the one-finger salute. The dog put in his two cents by barking a few times, then the Corvette was roaring north down Grand, leaving the troopers a block behind us before they could even fire one round.

“God, but I love doing that.” Chevy took a big hit off his beer. Cortez was smiling but otherwise played the cool. He glanced back at me. “Wasn’t that great?”

“Yeah. Big fun.” I gazed back at the intersection through the rear window. The troopers were probably already on the radio, calling all ERA units in the area to spread the alert. Chevy Dick bragged a lot about his wheels, but I didn’t recall him saying anything about making it bulletproof.

I looked down at the dog; he was curled up in my lap, his long red tongue lolling out of his mouth like a big grin on his canine face. “Figures you’d go for something like this,” I murmured to him.

“Don’t worry about it, man,” Chevy said. “I’ll be on the interstate before they manage to get their act together, and nobody knows these plates for shit.” He glanced at me again. “Y’sure you want me to drop you off at Compton Hill? It’s still a long walk home, man.”

I knew what he was implying. The Grand Avenue I-44 ramp was less than a block from the reservoir; once he got on the eastbound lanes, it was a quick sail downtown, with Soulard only a few minutes away. If I skipped the rest of the ride, though, I would be marooned in a nasty side of town; between gangs, cops, and ERA troopers, I would have a tough time getting home.