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"Changes nothing." Fontaine reached across the table. He put his hand over hers, just for a second, before she pulled away from him. "I will get you what you need, Ada. I promised."
"Okay," she said. "Okay. Word is, the Redemption Choir is going through a schism. The Madrigal's top agents decided to pull a mutiny and hive off into their own thing. He's in town trying to convince them to come back to the fold."
"So we've still got a shot," Rache said. "We can catch all four targets, plus the bonus."
Ada nodded, just a little. "You can, but you'll have to be fast. Foster, the Choir's money launderer, is the first name on your list. He's holed up at this shithole of a bar on Gilbert Street, and according to the bartender, who gets paid to notice things for me, the Madrigal's already come and gone twenty minutes ago. He'll probably pay a call on the Russo twins next."
Rache rapped her tiny knuckles on the Formica table. "There we go. Let's hit the twins and set a trap."
"You could," Ada said, "but Foster's on his way out of town. If you don't get him in the next hour or two, you won't get him at all."
"And bye-bye bounty," Fontaine murmured. "All-or-nothing deal. Got a fix on this guy?"
Ada slid a folded scrap of paper across the table. Fontaine cupped it in his hand, gave it a look, and nodded before slipping it into his pocket. He glanced sidelong at Rache.
"We're burning moonlight. Let's ramble."
They rose. Fontaine held out his open palm. Ada paused, curling her bottom lip, then their hands brushed once more. Just for a heartbeat.
"I will take care of this, Ada."
She stared at her coffee. "I'm running out of time."
"I know. We all are. I'll keep my promise. Don't worry."
11:36 p.m.
Rain battered down on the stolen Buick's windshield, a staccato drumbeat punctuated by distant, rolling thunder. Across the street, under the curl of a green plastic awning, punks in greasy denim passed a forty around. A steel door swung open. A skinhead staggered out into the cold. He bent over, puking into the gutter as the rain pounded his back.
"It's for her, isn't it?" Rache said.
Sitting behind the wheel, Fontaine stared at the graffiti-coated wall, squinting, reading the gang signs like tribal markings. "Hmm?"
"The bounty. You told Irving you wanted human money, not Order scrip. She's the one with the debt, not you."
Fontaine drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.
"We go way back, Ada and me. Lady found herself in a jam. I'm just trying to dig her out."
"Aww." Rache cupped her hands to the bosom of her frilled smock. "A knight in shining armor. That's adorable."
The rain pulsed through the broken driver's-side window, turning Fontaine's overcoat black and damp at the shoulder. He shoved open the door and got out.
"C'mon. Bring the briefcase and follow my lead. You might just learn something."
Past the front door, the club--Fontaine wasn't sure if it even had a name, and doubted it had a license--was a whirlwind blast of screaming guitars. The music shrieked and groaned, a carousel of the damned, off-key and spinning like the room after three beers too many. A potbellied bouncer stepped up, holding up a beefy hand and glaring at Fontaine.
"Whoa, whoa, what the fuck, man? You can't bring a little kid in here!"
Rache looked up at him, batting her eyelashes. "But it's my favorite band."
The bouncer squinted at her. "Rancid Brains is your favorite band. Seriously?"
Fontaine sighed, digging in his pocket, tugging out a couple of rumpled twenties.
"She's an aficionado of the musical arts. Think you can look the other way for fifteen minutes?"
The bouncer made the twenties disappear, then turned his back to them.
