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“And now, live, back to the San Geronimo festival.”
SondraBeth didn’t look at Pandy as she casually put down three twenty-dollar bills. “Keep the change,” she called out to the bartender, who nodded.
And once again, they were running. The lyrics from the Talking Heads’ “Life During Wartime” played over and over in Pandy’s mind as she dodged hot dog stands, small fuzzy animals attached to leashes, zombie humans attached to their devices, old people on bicycles, electrically silent taxis, flattened cardboard boxes, trucks, police cars, and an ambulance or two.
They ran all the way to Union Square, darting between the booths in the farmers’ market, into the center of the square. Where, finally, Pandy stopped panting heavily as she tried to catch her breath. Above her head, screens mounted on the tall buildings flashed tickertapes of useless information. The national debt. What was trending. The most famous person on Instalife. The number one photograph. And with the exception of the national debt—insurmountable, immutable, and dependably growing—Monica was at the top of the list.
Monica was everywhere. Pandy could never outrun her, never outgrow her, and most of all, never kill her.
Monica was totally fine.
Monica was safe.
On the other hand, with Jonny still on the loose and blabbing to the press about Hellenor, Hellenor might not be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SONDRABETH caught up with Pandy on Eighth Street. “What the fuck?” she shouted.
“Jonny.” Pandy turned, her eyes blazing. “He’s still on the loose.”
She began walking again, heading diagonally through Washington Square Park, past the old men playing their endless games of chess. Jonny looking into Hellenor’s background was the one part of the equation she hadn’t considered when they’d cooked up this scheme to get even with him. In her attempt at revenge, she’d stupidly put Hellenor at risk. Jonny asking who Hellenor was; the authorities looking into Hellenor’s background? That was not good.
SondraBeth grabbed her arm. “What’s this about?”
“I can’t say,” Pandy said stubbornly.
SondraBeth looked at her closely. “It’s about Hellenor, isn’t it? What’s the big secret? Is Hellenor some kind of axe murderer?”
“Please,” Pandy said. “She’s just someone who wants to live her life a certain way, and I’ve always tried to respect her wishes. She’s my sister.” Pandy reached Houston and, looking left and right, began crossing against the light.
SondraBeth walked briskly next to her. “Okay. I get it,” she said. “I won’t ask questions.”
“Great. Just help me find Jonny before he says anything more about Hellenor.”
“What about the leg?”
“This is more important than those union guys,” Pandy muttered.
Jonny, she figured, must still be in front of her building, looking for her. At least he had been ten minutes ago, when she’d seen him on one of the screens.
Halfway down her block, however, she was forced to stop. The base of her building was cluttered with the debris of flowers, Monica dolls, and pink plastic champagne glasses. A large group of women were holding up hand-lettered LET MONICA LIVE! posters.
“Are you a Monica fan?” one of them asked Pandy.
“Yes, actually I am.”
“Will you sign the petition?”
“For what?” Pandy said, looking around for Jonny.
“To let Monica live.”
A black town car pulled up to the curb. The back window slid down and Freddie the Rat stuck his head out.
“Freddie!” SondraBeth exclaimed, rushing the car. She and Freddie had a brief conversation, and then the window went up.
“Well?” Pandy demanded as the car drove away.
