Page 41 of Wicked Roses

“You or me?” Stitches asks.

“You go. I’ll catch up.”

“I always get the crummy end of the deal. Just once I’d like to be the cool guy.”

Stitches pockets his wire-framed glasses for safekeeping and then sprints after Ralph. The shoppers have already cleared a direct path leading up to him and the glass elevator’s still on the fourth floor.

Ralph panics as soon as he glances over his shoulder and sees Stitches closing in. His legs do a little jig, like when you’ve got to take a piss really bad, but you’re shit out of luck. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if Ralphdoestake a piss.

A coward is as a coward does.

Rather than risk Stitches getting his hands on him, Ralph opts for a stunt that draws everybody’s attention. He dashes over to the guardrail on the second story of the Northam City Mall and launches himself over it.

For one freeing second, Ralph Mirra’s done it—he’s escaped our clutches! He soars through the air, his jacket flapping like wings, before his inevitable downfall. Right into the Halloween display the mall’s set up for photo ops for children. He crashes into an inflatable Casper the Ghost with a deafeningpop!

Stitches isn’t worried. He diverts to the other walkway and skips his way down an escalator. By the time Ralph’s climbing out from under the suffocating rubber blanket that’s Casper’s deflated form, Stitches is on the ground floor with him.

Ralph’s bleeding from his knee and brow from his action star stunt, but he runs for it anyway. As those two blast off down the mall’s front atrium, I stick my hands in my pockets and head in the opposite direction.

We’re dealing with no genius here. The moron went the wrong way.

I take the escalator into the parking garage and check the time. My gaze flits up to the signs hanging off the lamp posts in each row.

D6.

Ralph’s only half a pace ahead of Stitches by the time he rounds the corner and beelines for his car. He really thinks he might make it. That he’s free and clear.

I wait until he’s coming up on the driver’s side before I step into his path and punch him in the face. My fist collides dead center with his long, crooked nose, and he drops like a sack of potatoes. His nose will probably be even more crooked now.

Not that my knuckles have escaped scathe-free—I’ve busted them open for the thousandth time.

An automatic high comes over me when I do. It gives me great pleasure; it means I’ve used my hands to cause damage in some way.

As Ralph lays on the concrete, practically seeing cartoon birds twittering over his head, I step over him with an amused grin.

“All that running for nothing,” I say. “Was it worth it, Ralphie?”

* * *

An hour later, I sit and sip whiskey in my office at the club, watching Ralph stir.

“Hey, Ralphie. Glad you’re awake. Not so glad you thought you could get away.”

“Look, I’ve got no idea what the fuck you want!”

“Yes, you do. You know exactly what this is about. You ran, did you not?”

He’s got a cleft in his chin that becomes more pronounced when he grits his teeth. “Or maybe I just know trouble when I see it.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere with me, Ralphie. I like trouble.”

“If you’re gonna break my legs or knock my teeth out, get to it already. I’ve got nothing you want.”

“You sure? You’ve been getting all mixed up with the law lately.”

“This about the kid? It was an accident!”

“Is that why you skipped town for two weeks?”

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