“Make her believe, Stark.”
“That’s the idea.”
I take the blindfold from around my neck and put it over her eyes.
“Don’t mind the blood,” I tell her. “None of it is mine.”
“Where are you taking her?” says Sinclair.
“Where we can have a heart-to-heart in private.”
Sandoval points to my shoes.
“You can’t go through the house like that.”
“Watch me.”
I take Marcella’s arm and lead her inside, grinding my bloody heels into the carpet all the way downstairs to the bowling alley.
WHEN WE’RE INSIDE I turn on the lights and take her blindfold off. Marcella looks around.
“You’ve got to be kidding me
. This is your torture chamber?”
“Like it? It belonged to Eva’s granddad. She lets me use it on the weekends.”
“It’s not the weekend yet.”
“This is a special occasion.”
I grab a folding chair from the back of the room, pull Marcella to the end of a bowling lane, and push her into it.
“Won’t it be hard for me to take my turn from down here?”
“I doubt you’ll live long enough for it to be an issue.”
“Come on, Boy Scout. We both know you’re not going to—”
I pull her gun from my pocket and fire at her head, close enough that she has to duck.
She says, “You missed.”
She looks cool, but I can hear her heart going like a jackhammer.
“You sure? Maybe you’re right—I haven’t done much shooting in the last year. I’m still getting the hang of it.”
“Because you’ve been dead, Mr. Sandman Slim?”
“You still don’t believe? You saw me change my face upstairs.”
She leans back in the chair and crosses her legs.
“Just because you’re Sub Rosa doesn’t make you Sandman Slim. You and the fools upstairs, you don’t scare me. This is Hollywood. Any good makeup artist could give you those scars.”
“Hey, I earned these scars.”
Marcella sighs. “When does the torture start? Or is this it?”