Wrong Ways Down by Stacia Kane Page A

that almost hurt—that did hurt, like a burning in his gut that radiated out to his whole body. 
    Fighting weren’t the only way to do it, but Amy and Sela weren’t around neither.
    And he ain’t could call Chess. Not til he’d finished finding Gav, causen he didn’t want to have to take off fast again. Aye, being with her wouldn’t let him work off all that the way he usually did, but … it still calmed him. He just wanted to see her smile, hear her voice. Chess ain’t thought he were just some thug not good enough to be seen at her place. Chess ain’t thought he were so dumb he’d take a little girl into a piperoom or to hang out with whores—not that Felice would even get that most of em were whores, iffen she met em. They were nice dames, most were. Just tryna make their livings, put food on them tables like anybody else. They had themselves something worth selling and they sold it, just business. Just like Felice’s fucking husband with he bank job. Only difference between he and Bump was his kind of stealing and lying were legal.
    Thinking on it made it worse. He lit a smoke, turned up the Lazy Cowgirls on the stereo. It ain’t helped. This was bullshit, driving around. Too cold for the streets to be real busy; he passed flickering candles in windows, shadows moving behind em, small crowds of three or four huddled together on steps for warmth. Firecans lined the road at intervals, flames bright orange lighting up the faces of them standing around with hands out to catch the heat. A few people had blankets and patchworks of cheap furs thrown over em, too. The lucky ones.
    He parked a block over from the squat, ducking the Chevelle into an alley where it wouldn’t be so visible, and started walking. Even the little groups he’d been passing were absent up there, the street just a long stretch of empty broken cement with silent buildings looming over it.
    But the street-man were on the corner like he should be—he’d talk to him first—and even besides him, Terrible had been spotted, and he knew it. Could feel eyes on him, more with every step he took. 
    And just like always he felt something … switch inside him. Like he had feelers coming from every inch of skin and could cast them out into all the empty windows and blank spaces, almost like he could feel the air move. Hyperaware, he’d read somewhere. That were what it felt like. And he had to be that way, causen every time he stepped on the street somebody might could be aiming a gun at he head, planning to jump out at him. Aye, chances were they wasn’t—most were smart enough to know it’d be a big fucking mistake—but crazy fucks existed everywhere, and crazy fucks ain’t used common sense. He were always, always careful.
    Were a good thing that night, causen something weren’t right on that street, and he guessed he were about to find out what it was.
    The street-man were Ronnie Jay. Been with Bump maybe two years, had he a lot of friends. He straightened up when Terrible approached, started reaching into his pocket for what money he’d collected.
    Terrible shook his head, but waited to talk til he were real close. “This you regular corner, aye?”
    Ronnie nodded. “Almost a year. You wanting what I get so far, see how I do this night? Be busy, it is, ain’t for certain why it slowing down on the sudden twenty minutes or so past but it done. Afore that I selling lots.”
    That feeling of something being wrong got stronger, and his anger rose. “What you meaning, got quiet twenty minutes past? Why you ain’t called that shit in?”
    Ronnie Jay shrank back. “Sorry, sorry, only—ain’t gave it the thought til just now, you digging? Ain’t hardly gave it the notice, I figuring it just be one a them lulls, see, ain’t—”
    “Ain’t doing you fucking job.” Ronnie Jay weren’t a bad dude. Worked hard and were honest. But this were fucking important, it were, and Terrible couldn’t seem to stop the hand that reached out and