Wicked Prey

was sitting across the shop under a poster of Albert Einstein. He went after the sandwich like a starving man, hunched over it, eyes scanning the shop, pieces of bread and strands of sauerkraut falling like shrapnel on the tabletop and onto his jacket and shirt and lap.
    Lane and Cruz worked slowly through their hot dogs and French fries, not much to talk about, until Lane asked, “You’re from LA, right?”
    “We don’t talk about where people are from,” Cruz said. Her voice was soft and pleasant, her eyes amused.
    “Well, everybody knows where everybody else is from . . . if Brute’s from anywhere. Most of the time, he isn’t, but he used to be from Birmingham.”
    “I like my privacy,” Cruz said.
    “Sure. But, I figure you’re from LA. You look California. You act California.”
    Now she was interested. “How do you act California?”
    Lane checked Weimer, then turned back. “You know. Me ’n’ Tate were talking. When we’re done with a job, and you’re heading out to the airport, you dress like California. Light and cheerful. Lacy. We don’t dress like it in the middle of the country. Then, whenever we go to a restaurant, you pick at the food like you never seen it before. Like that hot dog. You ain’t gonna finish it, are you?”
    “It’s not so good,” she said.
    “It’s a good hot dog,” Lane said. “I haven’t had many better. But you guys, in California, you don’t eat hot dogs. You eat . . . fruit. Fruit drinks. Yogurt. And you eat fruit, I’ve seen you do it. If you wanna get nasty, you eat a Fat Burger, or you go to In-and-Out. We all eat McDonald’s out here. It’s the food that makes me think California. You look big city, but in New York, they eat everything. In Dallas, they eat a lot of Mexican and a lot of ribs, and they don’t really give a shit about anything else. You don’t look like Chicago or Denver. You don’t eat like Dallas or New York. You’re LA.”
    “You know a lot about LA?” she asked, implying that he didn’t.
    “A fair bit,” Lane said, not taking the bait. He studied her for a minute, then said, “Marina del Rey. Or maybe you got more money than that. Laguna Beach.”
    “You’re so full of shit, Jesse.” She patted his hand. “But you’re a nice guy.”
    Jesse leaned forward and said, “You didn’t blink an eye when I said Marina del Rey, which means you know where it is. How’d you know that, if you weren’t from LA?”
    She shook her head and said, “Okay, Jesse, you got me. I’m from Marina del Rey.”
    He said, “Okay. So where in the fuck are you from?”
    Cruz said, “He’s moving.” Weimer was up and brushing off his jacket and pants as he waddled between tables, headed for the door. Which was good for Cruz, because Weimer’s move covered the shock of the conversation: she had a house more or less across the street from Marina del Rey, in Venice. Nobody had ever gotten close, and here this shitkicker from Alabama figured her out, because she ate fruit .
    On her cell phone, she said, “He’s coming.”
    * * *
    WEIMER BEEPED the rental car, an Audi A6, and punched himself lightly over the heart, where the sauerkraut was threatening to back up. He walked between the Audi and the minivan beside it, edged open the door—the van was parked too close and he didn’t want to dent it. As he lifted a leg to pivot onto the front seat, he heard a metallic slide . . . and a heavy hand grabbed his coat collar and yanked him straight back inside the van, smashing his calves against the edge of the doorsill, one shoe popping off his foot, and then the door slammed.
    The whole thing was so quick that he yelped, “Hey! Hey!” and then there was a gloved hand over his mouth, and a man said, “If you yell, if you make a fuss, I cut your fuckin’ throat.”
    “Don’t hurt me,” Weimer said, when the hand lifted back. “Don’t hurt me. Take my wallet.”
    “Where’s your room key?” Cohn asked.
    A moment of silence, then Weimer said, “Oh, Jesus. You’re them.”
    Cohn backhanded him across the face, hard. “Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” he said. “Where’s the card?”
    “In my wallet,” Weimer said. “My back pocket.”
    “Better be.”
    Cohn pulled a fabric shopping bag over Weimer’s head, tied it with a string. Weimer said, “Don’t choke me, don’t choke me, I’m cooperating.”
    Cohn tied the knot, said, “Put your hands by your side,” and when Weimer did it, he grabbed Weimer’s feet