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“I went to the police, but I couldn’t tell them everything. I’m afraid Bill might be doing something illegal.”
“You’re a good sister,” Felicia said.
The shooter and his partner turned away from us and disappeared down a side street.
“This is like a movie,” Rosa said. “One of those scary ones where everyone gets murdered. And John Travolta is the hit man.”
Felicia was crossing herself again.
“I wish you’d go light on that crossing,” Rosa said to Felicia. “It’s freaking me out.”
“What crossing?” Felicia asked. “Was I crossing? I didn’t notice.”
We paid our bill, and we wandered down the street, past Scuba Dooba, to the next block. We looked at T-shirts, jewelry, sandals, and cotton shirts with island prints. Not high fashion here. This was tourist town. Fine by me, because I couldn’t afford high fashion. Felicia bought T-shirts for her grandchildren, and Rosa bought a Jimmy Buffet shot glass. I didn’t buy anything. It was Saturday, and I was very possibly two days away from being unemployed.
“It’s almost four,” Rosa said. “We should be heading back. I don’t want to be driving too late at night.”
We did an about-face and walked back on Whitehead Street. Felicia turned around twice and looked behind us.
“I got one of those feelings,” Felicia said. “Anybody else got a feeling?”
Rosa and I looked at each other. We didn’t have any feelings.
“What kind of a feeling are you talking about?” Rosa asked.
“Creepy. Like we’re being followed by a big black bird.”
“That’s friggin’ weird,” Rosa said.
Felicia turned around for the third time. “There’s something back there. I know there’s something…what do you call it? Stalking! There’s something stalking.”
Rosa and I looked all around, but we didn’t see anything stalking.
“Okay, now you’ve really got me freaked out,” Rosa said. “I’m not crazy about being stalked by a big black bird. I don’t even like birds all that much. What kind of bird is it? Is it, like, a crow?”
We were on a cross street, heading for the Sentra. The street was for the most part residential. Single-family homes and small bed-and-break-fasts. Cars lined both sides of the street. We walked past a yellow Hummer and the Rent-A-Thug stepped from between two parked cars and stood in front of us. He was followed by the shooter with the slicked-back hair.
“Excuse me, ladies,” the shooter said. “I’d like to speak to Miss Barnaby, alone.”
“No way,” Rosa said, moving between me and the shooter. “She don’t want to talk to you.”
“I think she does want to talk to me,” the shooter said to Rosa. “Please step aside.”
“Take a hike,” Rosa said. “I’m not stepping anywhere.”
The shooter flicked a glance at the Rent-A-Thug. The Rent-A-Thug reached for Rosa, and Rosa bitch slapped him away.
“Watch it,” Rosa said. “No touching.”
The Rent-A-Thug pulled a gun out of his jacket pocket. Rosa screamed. I ducked behind a car. And Felicia whipped a gun out of her handbag and shot the Rent-A-Thug in the foot, and winged the shooter. The Rent-A-Thug went down to the ground like a sack of wet sand.
“Fuck,” the Rent-A-Thug said. “The old lady shot me!”
The shooter stood in speechless astonishment, watching blood seep into the sleeve of his black shirt.
“Run!” Rosa yelled to us. “Run!”
We took off down the street, partially dragging Felicia. Felicia could shoot, it turned out, but she wasn’t much good at running. We reached the Sentra, jumped in, and Rosa pulled away from the curb and floored it.
