Mortal Prey

of Corona and a couple of lemons. I gotta talk to you about something.”
    Rinker got a grocery bag out of her car and she and Pollock walked side by side down the slanting sidewalk. Pollock had a two-bedroom apartment in a red brick house that had been painted white and looked as though Mark Twain might have walked past it. An elm tree had once stood in the patch of front yard, but had died years back of Dutch elm disease. The stump was still there, along with what her neighbors called a sucker maple, a clump of foliage that was a cross between a tree and a bush.
    Pollock’s apartment was two-bedroom only technically—the second bedroom might have been more useful as a closet. Pollock called it her shit room, because that’s where she put all the shit she didn’t use much. The place smelled of twelve years of baked potatoes and cheddar cheese and nicotine and human dirt. A small dry aquarium sat in a corner, the goldfish long gone. A photograph of Jesus hung over the TV, his hands pressed together in prayer, his eyes turned heavenward, his sacred heart glowing through his robe.
    Rinker followed Pollock through the door and looked around. She didn’t say, “Nice place,” because Pollock was too old a friend, and they both knew exactly what kind of place it was: the kind of place that you could still rent for two hundred and fifty dollars a month, utilities included.
    Pollock dropped her grocery sack on the kitchen table and said, “You want some ice in that beer?”
    “Wouldn’t mind,” Rinker said. They’d drunk iced beer when they were kids. She put her bag on the table next to Pollock’s, fished out a couple of bottles, and twisted the tops off. Pollock found glasses and filled them with ice, put a slice of lemon in each and a dash of salt. They went out to the front room, and Pollock dropped on her couch. Rinker took the La-Z-Boy, poured a little of the Corona over the ice, and held her glass up. “Big City,” she said.
    Pollock held hers up: “Big City.” They both took a sip, and then Pollock said, “What’s going on?”
    “I’m running from the cops,” Rinker said. “I need a place to stay for a couple of weeks.”
    “You got one,” Pollock said promptly.
    “More complicated than that, Patsy,” Rinker said. “This is heavy shit. Everybody in the world is gonna be looking for me. The FBI, the St. Louis cops. If they find me here, and take you in, and fingerprint you, you’re toast.”
    Pollock shook her head. “Makes no never-mind to me. You got a place. When I was running, you kept me for three months. Besides, they put me in jail, couldn’t be no fuckin’ worse than this place and my job.”
    “I got a load of money,” Rinker said. “It won’t cover the risk, but I’ll give you a thousand a week plus whatever I got left over at the end.” Pollock opened her mouth to object, but Rinker held up an imperious finger. “Don’t want to hear about it. I’m leavin’ the money, and you take it and spend it on something stupid.”
    “I can do that, no doubt about it,” Pollock said. “Maybe buy a stair-climber, or something.” She sucked up an ice cube, ran it a couple of times around her mouth, and then spit it back into the beer. “So tell me what you’re up to.”
     
    POLLOCK THREW MOST of the shit out of the shit room, and Rinker put down an inflatable guest mattress she’d bought at a Target store, with a sheet and an acrylic blanket. Her clothes stayed in her suitcase. Pollock’s landlady had an extra space in the garage next door, and Pollock walked around the house and rented it, thirty dollars a month, so that Rinker would have a place to put the California car. That night, Rinker left Pollock in front of her television and began to scout the men she’d come to kill.
     
    NANNY DICHTER WAS the richest of the bunch, with a home in Frontenac; he had a fountain on the front lawn. The fountain, in the figure of a small girl with a water jug on her back, was carved out of golden marble imported from Austria. Dichter sold drugs, and had for most of his adult life. He’d been one of the first to make cocaine imports into a business, instead of an adventure. He was married, had two sons and four daughters, and three or four live-in servants. He owned the majority interest in a chain of midwestern mall-based import stores that sold native art to the aesthetically impaired, and provided a convenient network for his bulk cocaine sales.
    Paul Dallaglio worked with