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“Who’s that?”
“The richest man in California.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Exactly.”
I turn to Allegra.
“Do you want to get in the nice man’s car? He says he has candy and a puppy.”
She shakes her head.
“I don’t think so.”
I shrug.
“You heard the lady. Not interested.”
He takes a couple of steps toward us.
“I assure you, this is for your own benefit. Afterward, if you decide you don’t want the job, you can just—”
A bullet hits the wall, then two more. I push Allegra into the alley. The Banker crouches by his car and starts duckwalking around the front.
The shots come faster. Maybe three or four guns. AKs by the sounds of them. Wild shots spray cars and the wall behind me, sending other smokers screaming back inside the bar.
I’m kneeling on the sidewalk. I try to make it into the alley, but there’s too many bullets flying. Same thing when I try to make it back into Bamboo House. The Banker is back inside the Lexus. He opens the passenger door. There’s nowhere else to go. I dive headfirst into the passenger seat.
I wait a beat, expecting the Banker to get us out of there. But he’s paralyzed, staring at the shooters in his rearview mirror. They’re aiming at the car now. Bullets tear through the trunk and rear window. I duck and grab the wheel, stomping the accelerator. I hope no one is in the street because I can’t see a damned thing.
Half a block on, the shooting stops. I hit the brake and the Banker and I bounce off the inside of the car.
I raise my head just high enough to see the shooters’ car, a white Miata, smoke its wheels as it does a one-eighty and drives like hell away from us.
I look at the Banker. He’s resting his head on the steering wheel, breathing hard and trying to get his breath. It doesn’t help any when I pull my gun and put it to his head. I glance through the front and back windows to make sure no one is coming up on us.
Pressing my gun harder into the Banker’s temple, I say, “Did you just set me up? Create a little drama so I’d get in the car?”
He gasps and holds up his right hand. It’s covered in blood. His ring finger is gone.
“I wish we were that clever,” he says.
I put my gun away and open the passenger door.
“I’m driving. Slide over here.”
I walk around the car and get into the driver’s seat.
“You’re taking me home?”
“No. I’m going to meet the richest man in California. What’s the address?”
The Banker tells me. He takes a handkerchief from his breast jacket pocket and wraps it around his bleeding hand. There’s blood all over the steering wheel. It sticks to my palms as I drive.
“Is Norris Quay Sub Rosa?”
He shakes his head and tries to work the seat belt with his left hand. He fails miserably and gives up.
