Chance of a Lifetime (Chances Are #1)

  To add to the irony, Artie Luther is my savior. He puts a hand on my old gun. "Not yet," Lex says. He stares down at me. "Let's find out who our visitor is first."

  "I'm not anyone," I say. "Just a figment of your imagination."

  Almost as bad as being shot with my own gun is being pistol-whipped with it. The butt of my old gun opens up a cut across my cheek. Tears come to my eyes. This time it's not part of a ruse.

  "That should teach you to have some manners," Lex says. "Now, who are you?"

  "Stacey."

  I resist the urge to spit in Lex's face when he takes my chin in his meaty fingers and then looks in my eyes. "Why are you here, Stacey?"

  "To kill you slimeballs."

  "Why would a little girl like you want to do that?"

  "Because you fucks killed my father." That's close enough to the truth as far as I'm concerned.

  "Is it safe to assume you killed Mr. Blades?"

  "He had it coming."

  Before they can continue the interrogation, headlights wash over us; the light reflects off Lex's bald dome. He lets me go and turns to face the lights. "Looks like our friends are here. Keep an eye on the girl. We'll continue our discussion later."

  The car parks next to Lex's Mercedes. It's a black Cadillac limo. A chauffeur springs out of the vehicle to open the back doors. I expect to see a bunch of Russians or Italians or some other European-born gangsters. Instead a half-dozen Asian guys in suits pile out. Four of them carry weapons similar to the Uzi I had. One of the other two carries a silver briefcase. That must be the payment for whatever Lex plans to sell.

  Lex heads towards them and holds out one arm to the unarmed one without the briefcase. "Mr. Ling! It's good to see you again."

  The man with the briefcase whispers into Ling's ear. Ling says something in a foreign language. Chinese? Japanese? Korean? I've heard bits of all three before, but nothing he says jogs my memory. The guy with the briefcase translates, "We have the money. Where is the product?"

  "A direct man. I like that."

  Ling says something translated as, "He does not wish to spend any more time in this filthy hovel than necessary."

  "I apologize for the state of our meeting place, but one can't be too careful in this city." Lex turns and motions to Bruiser. He hoists me up by the back collar of my sweater. "As you can see, we've already had one party crasher."

  "Mr. Ling does not care about squatters. He wishes for you to deliver the formula."

  "Of course." Lex reaches into his suit jacket. From the inside pocket he takes out a slim metal case. "It's all in here gentlemen: the formula plus Dr. Nath's notes, at least those we could recover from her apartment after her untimely death."

  I go slack in Bruiser's grasp. Formula, Dr. Nath's notes. That can mean only one thing: Lex plans to sell FY-1978 to these people. Are they another pharmaceutical company? That's my guess from what I've seen of Mr. Ling so far. He doesn't seem like a gangster to me.

  Everything starts to fall into place. These must be the people Lex stole the formula for. They might have employed him to do the job for them or else he might have heard they wanted it and then broke in to steal it first. The latter sounds more like Lex's style.

  "Now, let's see the payment," Luther says.

  The translator opens the silver briefcase. There's a bunch of thousand-dollar bills in it. Without being asked, the translator flips through some of the stacks to show there aren't a bunch of blank pieces of paper inside. He probably saw that in a movie. "Very good," Luther says.

  I can't let them make the exchange. Forget about killing Bruiser and Luther; I need that case with the formula and notes. If I give that to Dr. Palmer, it could cut years off the estimate to make a cure for me.

  "Hey assholes!" I shout. "You really think a son of a bitch like Luther is going to give you the real formula? What he's giving you is probably the formula for dandruff shampoo. Then after he gets your money, he'll turn around and sell it back to Lennox to screw you over even more."

  Lex glares at me. "I think we've heard enough from the peanut gallery," he snaps. "Dispose of her, Thomas."

  "Sure thing, boss."

  "Wait!" Mr. Ling says. Apparently he knows a little English after all. "How do we know what she says isn't true?"

  Lex turns and gives the Asians his best salesman grin. "Now gentlemen, why would I lie to you? We've made an agreement-"

  "We will alter agreement!" Ling says. He barks something to his translator.

  The translator says, "Mr. Ling has decided we must verify the information you give us is accurate before payment is made."

  "That's absurd! We don't have time for a scientific analysis," Lex says. He glares at the translator. "Tell him if he doesn't take this deal I'm giving the formula back to Lennox. They'll pay me quite a handsome price for it."

  Ling says something to the translator, who says, "Mr. Ling does not appreciate being blackmailed." For emphasis the translator gestures to the armed thugs behind him.

  Now we've got a real Mexican standoff-or maybe Chinese standoff would be more appropriate. Lex doesn't want to give the formula to the Asians or as sure as the sun rises in the east they'll take it and kill him, Bruiser, and me. At the same time, the Asians don't want to pay for something without being sure of what it is.

  But Lex has a trump card. He whistles shrilly. A moment later, the windows on the Mercedes come down. Two machine gun muzzles stick out. They start to fire a second later. They're a lot better shots than me and their weapons don't jam. Mr. Ling's guards topple like dominos. The translator takes a bullet in the throat, more universal irony.

  Throughout the gunfire Luther just stands there with arms crossed. Also during the gunfire, I reach into the waist of my pants. Bruiser forgot to search me before he dragged me down here. I take out the .25 I tucked down there. Bruiser is focused on the slaughter instead of me.

  The tiny pops of the .25 are barely audible against the noise of the machine guns. I put three bullets into Bruiser's head. He's still alive enough to roar like a bull and then hurl me a good hundred feet, as if I'm a human Frisbee. Somehow I keep the pistol in my hand as I land. I roll over and aim the gun at the vast expanse of Bruiser's chest. I empty the rest of the clip into him.

  He wobbles for a moment on his feet. Just like at the end of one of his fights, he pitches forward. Only this time it's not a dive. He hits the canvas one last time.

  I scramble to my feet and toss the pistol away. By now Lex has seen what's happened to his enforcer. He reaches into his jacket for a pistol. I lunge towards Bruiser. My old pistol is still clamped in his right fist. I tug at his hand to no avail. I am able to move his arm; I bend it back towards Luther. I pull the trigger.

  I fire six times and never hit the bastard. On the plus side, it forces him to dive for cover. Behind him, I see the two goons from the Mercedes get out. I'm outnumbered and outgunned now. As much as I want the formula, I want to live a bit more.

  I turn and make for the back door of the warehouse.

  Chapter 41

  Adrenaline gets me the first ten blocks, until I'm away from the docks. I look over my shoulder along the way and expect to see a Mercedes with Luther's thugs in it. When I see headlights, I dive behind a garbage can. But it's not Lex's goons, just a white cargo van with the logo of a fish company on it.

  As I lie there, my leg begins to throb, to remind me I've been shot. I've been shot before-you can't be a cop in this city for long and not take some lead. I still have to bite down on my lip so I don't scream at the pain as the adrenaline wears off.

  I struggle out of my sweater; some snobby part of my brain laments it's cashmere as I tear off a sleeve to use as a bandage. The rest of it I toss on the ground. Even if Lex would find it, there's nothing it would tell him, except that I have expensive tastes.

  I lever myself up to my feet and groan from the effort. When I start
out again, my pace is much slower. Each step becomes an ordeal; pain shoots through my right leg. I want to collapse to the ground, curl up into a ball, and sleep. I know I can't or I might never wake up again. This wound isn't fatal, but it would be easy enough for Luther's thugs-or someone just as bad-to find me and nothing good happens to an innocent girl in the middle of the night on these streets.

  It takes me an hour to limp another five blocks. By then my body is coated in sweat and I shiver. I shouldn't have got rid of the sweater, not that it would have done me much good. Don't be a wimp, I tell myself. It's hard not to give in when I see my reflection in the glass. I'm not a hardened cop anymore, just a scared little girl out way past her bedtime. I should be home in bed, with Grace.

  With a sob I collapse onto a bus stop bench. I need to get this damned bullet out of my leg. But I can't go to a hospital. They would ask some inconvenient questions and Lex will probably check the hospital records in case I turn up there. Even if I could use an alias, there aren't a lot of little white girls getting shot in this neighborhood at this time of night.

  What I could use almost as bad as the bullet out of me is a drink. A couple shots of whiskey right now would really take some of the edge off. The thought of booze brings me a solution to both of my problems. I reach into my pocket and take out my cell phone to call for a cab. I hope I'm not too late.

  ***

  Big Al is closing down for the night when the cab drops me off at Squiggy's. By the time we arrive, my head swims and the slightest movement prompts everything to spin. I'm not sure how much money I give the driver, but it must be enough because he drives away without a word.

  Al is locking the front door as I stagger towards him. "We're closed," he says. "Go find one of them after hour clubs." He turns and gives me a harder look. "Wait, I remember you. You're that kid who was in here with Maddy the other night."

  I stumble forward and trip on the concrete. Al catches me before I can fall. He brushes sweaty hair out of my face to look me in the eye. "What's wrong with you? You OD-ing?"

  "I've been shot," I say. I wave my hand towards the bullet wound. "Help me."

  He sets me down on the sidewalk so he can unwrap the makeshift bandage from around my wound. "Jesus," he says. "We have to get you to a hospital."

  "No! No hospitals. They'll find me."

  "Who?"

  "The bad guys," I say. I reach out towards Al and grab a handful of his shirt. "You can fix me."

  "What? I'm not a surgeon, kid."

  Despite the pain and blood loss, I still have the wherewithal to keep to my cover story. "Maddy said you fished a bullet out of her father."

  "What? Oh, right. That was years ago." Ten years ago. It started down the road in an apartment building. Jake and I were on the trail of some jewel thieves who'd killed a security guard. A routine case. At least it should have been.

  We tracked them to the apartment building, where Steve Fischer charged into the apartment where he thought they would be. I found one of them on the couch with a girl, pants down around his ankles. I was careless; I let myself get distracted by the scene on the couch to let one of the guy's buddies get the drop on me. I'm lucky he only shot me in the left shoulder.

  Before Jake or I could take him down, he hopped onto the fire escape and headed down for the streets. I wouldn't let a little bullet wound slow me down; I followed him down the fire escape. I ran after the bastard until we were almost to Squiggy's. Then I started to get tired. So I reached for my gun and fired.

  My aim wasn't very good; I hit the sign for the bar. The thief would have gotten away, except Al charged out with his shotgun at the ready to see who'd broken his sign. He didn't shoot the kid, just clobbered him in the face with the butt of the shotgun. I staggered up, blood oozing from the wound in my shoulder.

  "Christ, Steve, what happened to you?"

  "Punk shot me," I said. I kicked the bastard in the ribs, though he couldn't feel it.

  Jake had caught up with us by then. We let him take care of the perp while I went inside. Al took me upstairs to his apartment over the bar. From the closet he took out a black bag. "I didn't know you were a doctor," I said.

  "I was an army medic," Al explained. He was in Vietnam in the last days of the war, not long enough to see much action. I was only his third patient. He gave me a couple of drinks to ease the pain and then took the bullet out of my shoulder. The hospital cleaned it up later, but he'd done good work.

  Now I need him to do it again. "Let's go inside, kid," he says. He scoops me up in his arms and then carries me upstairs. It looks about the same as ten years ago. I use my hands to sweep some old magazines and bills off of his dining room table so he can set me on top of it. The last time my legs dangled over the edge, but now there's enough room for my entire body. Al finds a throw pillow to set beneath my head. Then he gets to work.

  ***

  The hardest part, even worse than the pain, is to stay awake. While Al washes his hands and sterilizes his instruments, he gives me a fifth of vodka. I drink just about the whole thing by the time he's ready to operate. The alcohol along with the pain and blood loss make my eyelids heavy. He must notice this, because he says, "It's OK, honey. You can sleep."

  I shake my head. "No. You'll take me to the hospital and then they'll find me."

  "No one's going to find you. You'll be safe. I promise."

  While I know Al would never lie to a girl in trouble, I still force myself to stay awake. The fresh pain from when Al starts to cut around the wound helps to keep me awake. I'd like some more vodka-or something stronger-but then I might fall asleep. Instead I stare up at the ceiling and try to count the number of holes in the tiles while I try not to whimper too loud.

  After a couple of minutes, he pats my hand and says, "This isn't too bad. Looks like it didn't hit any of your arteries or anything."

  "Good."

  "I need you to be very still, honey. I have to pull the bullet out now. If you move, I could wind up doing some damage and you might lose this pretty leg."

  I smile a little as I think of his threat to Maddy a couple days ago. "I'll be fine," I say. "Just get it out of me."

  I hold onto the edges of the table to make sure I don't flinch too much as Al starts to pull out the bullet. I can't bear to look, so I keep my eyes squeezed shut. When I open them again, I'm on Al's bed. I try to sit up, but pain shoots up from my leg at the effort. I sink back against his pillows.

  I see a bandage spotted with blood around my right leg. There's no sign of Al until I hear the toilet flush. Before I can pretend I'm asleep, he sticks his head into the room. "How are you feeling?" he asks.

  "It hurts," I whine.

  "It will for a little while," he says.

  I nod and wonder how long it will take the FY-1978 to kick in, if it kicks in. A couple of days maybe that I'll be laid up. Will Lex have worked out a deal for the formula by then? I try to sit up again, but sink back down from the pain.

  "Hey, it's all right," he says. "I'm not going to hurt you. Or turn you in."

  "Thanks. For everything."

  "Anything for a friend of Maddy," he says. "You want to call her?"

  "No!" I say too quickly. I force myself to smile. "I don't want to worry her."

  When I think of Maddy, I think of Grace and what Grace and I did. I start to sob, which triggers more pain in my leg; this prompts me to cry harder in a vicious cycle. Al is pretty much a stranger to Stacey Chance, but he's a good-hearted man. He leans over to wrap me in a hug until I've cried myself out. "It's all right, sweetheart," he whispers again and again.

  "Thanks," I say again once I've gotten myself under control. With a sniffle I ask, "Can I use your phone? I want to call my uncle."

  "Not a problem." Al hands the phone to me. It's an old rotary model; I need three tries before I can get Jake's cell phone number right.

  He answers on the
first ring. "Al?"

  "No, it's me."

  "Stacey? What are you doing at Al's?"

  "I needed him to take a bullet out of me."

  "A bullet? Jesus Christ! How bad is it?"

  "I'll be fine. It's just a flesh wound."

  "Thank God. Do you have any idea how worried we all are? That friend of yours-"

  "Grace?"

  "Yeah, her. She called and said you disappeared. Tess had me out beating the bushes. Where have you been?"

  "I'll tell you later. Can you just come and pick me up?"

  "All right, but stay right there. Got it?"

  "I couldn't go anywhere if I wanted to," I say with a yawn. "I'd better go before I pass out."

  "I'll be there soon as I can."

  "OK." I hang up the phone. I'm sure Jake will be here in about ten minutes. That should give me enough time to make another call. My clumsy fingers need a couple more tries before I can get Grace's number right.

  Like Jake, she answers on the first ring. "Stacey?"

  "It's me."

  "Thank God! Where are you?"

  "A friend's house."

  "A friend? You mean Maddy? Is that why you left? You didn't tell her, did you?"

  "No, not Maddy. Someone else."

  "Tell me where you are, Stace and I'll be right there."

  "Don't worry, my uncle is coming to get me."

  "Oh. I see." I can hear Grace start to cry. "I should have expected it. You care about Maddy. She's your friend."

  "She's your girlfriend," I say.

  "I know. What a mess." Grace sniffles into the phone. "Can't I come over and talk to you in person? We need to work this out."

  "I don't think that's a good idea. My uncle will be here soon."

  "Stace, don't you understand? I love you. Don't you love me?"

  "Yes," I say and mean it. The pain of that hurts almost as much as the bullet wound. "Maddy loves you too. I don't want to come between you two."

  "Stace, please-"

  "No. What we did was a mistake. It can't happen again."

  "But we love each other. We can't just break it off." I hear Grace sob. "God, I've been thinking about you all night. After a couple of hours when you didn't come back I started to freak out. I thought you might be dead. I didn't want to lose you, not so soon."

  "Grace, please-"

  "No, you have to hear this. Stacey, you're the most wonderful person I've ever met. What happened tonight was so magical. It was like nothing I ever experienced before."