The Weasel pushed Tom’s chest against the passenger side and he winced at the cold metal against his skin and the hard ring of the gun barrel against his neck, holding him in place.
Stanley opened the back door. ‘Get him in.’
‘Put him in the trunk,’ said the Weasel.
‘Not after what he did last time. Six hundred bucks that cost and there’s still blood on the lining.’
‘For fuck’s sake, just put him in the trunk!’ hissed the Weasel, glancing at the sleeping houses around them.
‘Fuck that. He can go in here. He’s cuffed.’
The Weasel sighed. ‘And if some cop looks in at a stoplight and pulls us over for having a half-naked guy tied up in the car? Put him in the fucking trunk, Stanley, and let’s get the hell out of here!’
‘It’s not your car.’
‘Jesus Christ!’
‘Let me get dressed. Then I won’t be half naked,’ suggested Tom, helpfully.
‘Shut up.’ The Weasel fisted the gun into the back of his head so hard that his nose banged painfully on the Thunderbird’s vinyl roof.
Two sets of headlights came slowly towards them from the direction of the sunrise.
‘Get him in the fucking car before someone sees us!’ said Stanley, forgetting to keep his voice down.
The Weasel looked at the approaching lights.
‘Shit!’ he said irritably. He dragged Tom off the car and threw him face-down on the back seat. ‘Happy now?’
Stanley said nothing, just got into the car. The Weasel joined him.
The seats were soft, aromatic black leather and Tom determined there and then to piss on them at the very least before this journey was over.
He hoped Lucia wasn’t dying because of him. The thought brought a wave of self-loathing and fury that he’d put her in danger. He should have been smarter than that. So what if he’d needed a place to stay? He’d had one hundred and twelve thousand stolen dollars in his pocket: he could’ve sprung for a bed for the night somewhere that hadn’t involved dragging her into all this.
But he’d wanted to see her. Needed to.
Selfishly.
‘What the hell are these dicks doing?’
Tom dimly registered the Weasel’s words, right before all hell broke loose.
The Thunderbird rocked as the doors were yanked open. Someone gripped him by the hair and dragged him, yelping, onto the asphalt. He caught a glimpse of Stanley on the ground beside him, a gun just inches from his nose, and thought, Thank God, the cops, before he was toed onto his back, and he realized that the new assailants were Japanese.
A young man, in dark glasses despite the sunless sky, pointed a gun at him and said, ‘This him?’
‘Yes!’
It was Minnie Mouse.
‘Tha’s him. Tha’s the cheater!’
‘I’m not—’ He stopped fast when Dark Glasses cocked the gun.
‘Where’s our money?’
‘It’s not your money. I won it.’
‘He cheats!’ cried the girl.
‘Fuck you,’ he said angrily. ‘You lost. You played like a drunken teenager!’
The girl stamped a sharp heel into his shoulder. ‘You steal my money!’
‘Where’s our money?’ added Dark Glasses.
‘That’s not his money!’ He heard the Weasel say. ‘He stole it from us! If you take it, you’re fucking with the wrong people, my friend!’
Someone round that side of the car said, ‘We’re not your friends and we don’t care who we fuck with, so shut your big mouth.’
Tom sighed inwardly. These people – probably Yakuza – just wanted the money. If he gave it to them, there was a good chance they’d all go away. Unlike Stanley and the Weasel, who wanted far more from him than mere recompense.
‘Let me go, and I’ll tell you.’
Dark Glasses glared at him – presumably – from behind his ridiculous shades. How the guy saw anything was a mystery. Then he raised his gun against his cheek like some cheap-movie hood, and stepped away from Tom.
Someone rolled Tom onto his stomach and cut the tie on his wrists. His arms had gone a little dead, and he could barely push himself off the asphalt. Someone else put a strong hand around his elbow and helped to tug him upright.
