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“It better be classic,” says Orange Beard.

“It is,” says AB Wings. “Guaranteed.”

“Sweet,” says Orange Beard. “After we step on it, it'll be diet.”

They all laugh and then Rocco Wings gets back to business. “If the product is here, then someone else is too. Let's have a look aroun'. This would be a nice quiet place to settle everything.”

It's going to take them about ten seconds flat to find us. We have to do something, fast.

“Call nine-one-one,” I hiss to AmberLea.

“Don't call nine-one-one,” hisses Al.

“I can't anyway,” she hisses back. “There's no signal.”

“Is that Rocco Wings out there?” says GL. “Let me deal with him.”

“No!” Al and I hiss together. “They'll kill us.”

“Keep trying to get a signal,” I tell AmberLea, “and keep GL quiet. I'm going to stall them.” There's only one thing I can think of. I ditch my camera, then reach into GL's bag and pull out the can of spray paint.

Out in the clearing, Rocco Wings is saying, “It would make things a lot simpler.” I palm my cell phone, still set on Bun's tattoo photo, and step out from behind the railroad ties.

“Let's make things a lot simpler right now,” I say.

THIRTY-ONE

They all spin around and whip out guns; so much for being “gentlemen.” All the guns are pointed at me, except maybe Rocco's. His gun is a monster revolver, so big you'd think it would tip him over, and his hand shakes so much it's hard to tell where the gun is pointed. Also, he doesn't have his giant glasses on. That's good, because it comes to me in a flash that he saw me in the
TV
room at Erie Estates. It doesn't help me much though. I don't care how bad the shooters are; when five guns are turned your way, you do not feel like a movie hero. But what I have to do is turn into one.

“Who the bleep are you?” shouts AB Wings. He sounds like a closet biker.

I don't say anything. Instead, I push my glasses up my nose with my cell phone hand and turn my back to them. “Drop it!” someone warns as I raise my hand, but I don't. I shake the tin of spray paint. The little ball inside it clatters like a rattlesnake. Then I spray a copy of Bunny's tattoo on the side of the boxcar.

The only sound is the hiss of the spray can. I inhale the tang of the paint. It's probably bad for you, but who cares? It might be the last thing I smell; that and insect repellent and creosote. At least I won't be around if they give me cancer. I'm trying not to imagine what it will feel like to get shot in the back, but I do anyway. Will I hear the shot before it hits me? Will I feel it or be in shock? Will I be dead before my face smacks the freight car? My back muscles are screwed so tight I can hardly lift my arm. My arm is shaking so bad I can hardly point the spray can. But there it is, white on rusty brown: a wobbly, striped number fifteen with what might be a blown-out candle beside it. I turn to the bad guys.

“You're
Posse
?” Orange Beard says. “Fifteenth Street?”

“That's right.” I try to keep my voice from being as wobbly as the paint job.

“Where'd you come from?”

“Toronto. That's my car over there.” I nod at the battered Civic.

“Where's Scratch?”

“Busy right now.”

“Bleeping bleep bleep,” says Orange Beard. He raises his gun.

“No, wait, man,” says Mustache. “Scratch said they brought in this whacko little white dude. Remember?”

“That's me,” I say. “Yup. I'm him.”
Shut up
, I scream at myself.

“What's your name, man?”

Now I have to go with it. “Bunny.”

“
Bunny
?”

“It's a nickname. You've probably got one too.”

“Yeah.” Mustache grins. “Meat Hook.”

“Where's Scratch?” says Orange Beard, still suspicious.

“Taking care of things,” I say. “There was a problem.”

“No kiddin'.” says Rocco Wings. “You're about ta have a bigger one. Where's my good friend Al Capoli?”

“Oh, him,” I say. “Outta the picture. Not very good at cooperatin'.” Why am I starting to talk like Rocco Wings? “And it's not my problem, it's yours.”

“How so?” growls Rocco, waving off a blackfly. I want to do the same, but I'm scared they'll shoot if I wave my arms around.

“Point o' fact, you got two problems.” I seem to be stuck with the gangster voice now. “See, he was travelin' wit' some people. One of them was our plant, my own brother. There was a girl too, underage. An' there was a good friend of yours, Mr. Wings, name of Gloria Lorraine.”

For a second, Rocco Wings turns to stone on his walker seat. Then he starts shaking again, but now his eyes are glittering and his voice is more like a purr; a tiger's purr, maybe. “Where is she?”

“Not far. She's with some of our people. She's safe—for now. The others? Not so lucky.
Boom
,
boom
,
boom
. All gone.”

“You zipped your own brother?” says KK Wings.

I shrug. “It's business. If he was willin' to snitch on his friends, maybe he'd rat me out someday.” I don't know where this is coming from or exactly where it's going. I seem to be channeling every mobster movie I've ever seen. For now I'm going to ignore that none of them have happy endings, because I've got the beginning of an idea.

I've almost got it figured out when Mister Bones comes trotting out of the bush. I hadn't even noticed he'd gone. Now he's the sole survivor of my made-up massacre unless he trots over to Al and gives everyone else away. He yips and starts toward me, then sees the Wings and starts to growl. I do the only thing I can think of. I dig in my pocket for Al's car keys. “Mister Bones!” I call. “Mister Bones!” I jingle the keys till he looks at me. “Go get 'em!” Then I throw the keys as far as I can into the bush. As Mister Bones dashes off, I hear a noise behind me that might be Al moaning again.

“Whaddabout Miz Lorraine?” Rocco Wings says. He's got those glittering eyes locked on me now, boring into me like lasers, even without his glasses. Sweat is running under my shirt.

“With all our hearts we wanna see her back with you and safe at home,” I say, “but first, see, there's this other little problem.”

“What might that be?”

“It's the product. It's not classic
or
diet.” Now they're all looking at me hard. If I ever get out of this, I promise myself I'll find out what that means. In the meantime, I pray AmberLea has found a cell signal and called the cops before these guys shoot everything in sight, and that I can get everyone away from here and back to the Superior Motel before the Wings and the bikers find them. It occurs to me that throwing away the car keys probably didn't help, but it's too late now. Besides, I need time to also pray that Al really is the King of Cannoli as well as a drug-dealing gangster.

“If it isn't product, then what is it?” says Mustache.

“It's icing sugar.”

“What the—?”

They all turn toward the Cadillac, except for Rocco Wings, who keeps his beady old eyes more or less on me. As they start across the gravel, I wonder if it really is icing sugar. I wonder if I can get over and grab Rocco's gun while they leave him alone. Then I wonder what I'd do with it if I had it. If I knew how to ride a motorcycle, I could jump on one of the choppers and roar off for help. Maybe I could dive into the Lincoln. In the movies, the bad guys always leave the keys in the ignition.

I don't do any of it, of course, but it doesn't matter. Before the Wings and the bikers even get to the Caddy, there are faint crashing noises from the far end of the clearing. Out of the bush stumble two black guys, waving crazily at the blackflies swarming around them. The bigger one is wearing a basketball jersey over a white T-shirt, huge hip-hop jeans, gigantic untied runners and a barrel-size silver fullback cap twisted to one side. Not to mention a lot of bling. His voice carries across the clearing. “Jackfish! Jackfish, my butt! Drive all night! Forget
classic
, there's
nothin'
there!”

The smaller guy is wearing a black dress shirt under a black suit and those dress shoes that make it look as if your toes are an extra six inches long. He looks like a hip young business guy in a bank ad. He's not saying anything. But together, Orange Beard and AB Wings say, “Hey, that's Scratch!”

Oh. No.

THIRTY-TWO

The black guys look our way when they hear voices. Then the one in the suit—Scratch, I guess—starts to jog toward us. I want to run away, but I can't make anything move.

Then I'm guessing he sees the guns and the Cadillac and he slows down near the Civic. “Glad you made it,” he calls out. “That what we're looking for?”

“You should know.” Mustache laughs.

“You finish your business?” That's Rocco's voice. Scratch doesn't see him at first; then he looks over. The little old gangster has shuffled his walker halfway around so he can see Scratch.

Scratch looks confused for a second; then he gives a little laugh and says, “Thought we were going to get started.”

“Where's Miz Lorraine?” Rocco Wing's voice has the tiger purr in it again.

“Miss—who?”

“Your boy Bunny here says you got her for safekeeping.” Rocco shakes a hand in my general direction. “He also says the product is icing sugar. Are you saying we're pulling a double cross, or are you pulling one?”

“Bunny?” Scratch is clearly trying to catch up. “You mean the white dude? He's in—”

“Hey,” says the hip-hopper. “Who tagged us on the train car?”

“Bunny,” says KK, pointing to me.

“That's not Bunny, man. He's in T.O.”

They all turn to look at me. Rocco Wings has put his glasses on. “I thought I seen you before,” he purrs.

“I'm Spencer,” I yell to Scratch. “Bunny's brother! You know, the one who told him where we were.”

Rocco Wings raises his monster revolver and fires at me. The
crack
and
whang
as it ricochets off a freight car makes me almost, but not quite, wet my pants. I'm not sure which is the bigger surprise: that I almost wet my pants, or that I manage not to. Wet pants never seem to be an issue in action movies. Not that it matters. Rocco's voice snaps me back to the real problem.

“Where's Miz Lorraine?”

And now it's all over. I don't know what else to do, except hope they've snuck away.

“She's—she's back here, behind the wood. They all are.”

“Tell them to come out. I needa speak to Miz Lorraine.”

Al comes out first. “Rocco,” he pleads, then turns to KK. “Vincent. Check the bags. I tried to tell you. It explains everything.”

Nobody says a word but Rocco, who says, “You, I do personal.”

“No signal,” AmberLea whispers to me, as she helps GL out from behind the railroad ties. She has my camera strap slung over her shoulder. Rocco pulls off his glasses as soon as GL appears.

“Rocco,” GL cries. “What a nice surprise! What brings you up to this neck of the woods?” You have to hand it to her.

Rocco sighs. “Miz Lorraine—”

“Gloria, puhleeease.”

“Miz Lorraine—Gloria—I've always been what you call a sincere admirer, more thanna fan, you know. And it's been a joy anna pleasure to, so to speak, make your acquaintance these last few years. So I want to tell you myself that I'm sorry it has to end this way. Also, I know that you was married long enough to Little Moe Chopsticks, may he rest in peace, to unnerstan that it's gotta happen.”

GL nods, then tips her head up and angles her eyebrow in her classic pose. “Oh, I understand. Women were born to understand. A kiss and a kiss-off; what's the difference?”

If I had what it took to care right now, I'd ask which of her movies she took that from. It doesn't matter; she's already moved on.

“Do what you have to, but I need to do something first. You're too much of a gentleman to refuse a lady's last request, Rocco.”

“As long as it don't take too long,” says Rocco Wings.

“This young man”—GL waves gracefully at me—“is only here because his grandfather's dying request was that he get a kiss from me. I promised I'd kiss him if he got me here, to the graveyard.” She gives a little laugh. “Maybe this
is
the right ending, for me anyway. Everyone is here because of me. I'm sorry about that. The boy's grandfather was a good man. No matter what happens, I have to honor his request.”

“Make it snappy.”

“Up yours,” says Gloria Lorraine. “Spunky, get over here.”

I go over to her. “I'm sorry,” I say. “I tried.”

“You were sensational,” she says. “David would be so proud. Now, stand there.” She moves me to her other side, then cocks an eye up to the clouds. “Damn, the light's bad. Never mind. Amby, set up the shot over there. Get about three feet back. I want you to frame it tight from a little below. Bottom it with our shoulders. And whatever you do, no cane.” She ditches the cane and grabs me with both hands. She's surprisingly strong.

“Got it.” AmberLea hurries over and starts fussing with the camera. “It would be better with the tripod.”

“We'll make do,” says GL.

“Hey, hey, wait a minute!” AB Wings starts forward. “
VIDEO
? You can't film this!”

“Says who, you little wimp,” GL snarls without looking at him. “What this boy's grandfather wants, he gets. What are you going to do, kill us?”

“Maybe I will.” AB Wings checks the clip in his pistol.

Rocco Wings raises his shaky hand. “Maybe you won't; not until I say so.”

AB stops and glares. His pink oxford button-down has come untucked under his blazer. He backs off, muttering.