Free A Billion Ways to Die by Chris Knopf Page B

noticed, but had the good form to ignore.
    He listened carefully to the end, nodding along to show he was following the narrative. When I was finished, he sat back in the love seat, even more languidly composed.
    “This is not difficult,” he said, “though you leave me curious. Not only about your tormentors, but about you. Why don’t I know who you are?”
    “I can’t answer that,” I said. “But I can tell you, honoring my privacy will make me an ideal customer.”
    He nodded, not necessarily in response to my comment.
    “Do you know what I miss the most?” he asked me, after a long pause.
    “About what?”
    “The loss of innocence. What becomes of us after so many years of experience.”
    “Trust,” I said. “You regret the assumption of betrayal.”
    He nodded again, this time directly to me.
    “Yes, Señor Rana. Precisely put.”
    “Regrettable, but necessary,” I said, “when engaged in pursuits other than piano playing and Caribbean cruising.”
    “How do I communicate?” he asked.
    I asked if I could take something out of my shirt pocket. He said yes.
    “My phone number,” I said, putting a slip of paper next to me on the love seat. “It’s good for a week. Then we’ll have to make other arrangements.”
    “Your e-mail?”
    “Already shut down.”
    “Of course.”
    We both stood up and he reached out his hand.
    “Keep your phone within reach,” he said.
    A door opened and the driver came into the room. I shook the general’s hand and turned to leave. He called to me before I cleared the door.
    “Señor Rana,” he said. “You didn’t ask what happened to my brother.”
    “I didn’t think it polite.”
    “I killed him,” he said. “For betraying my trust.”
    I shrugged, turned on my heel and followed the muscular gait of the driver through the house and out to his SUV where we once again rode in silence through the sultry streets of Miami.

C HAPTER 7
    I was on the phone with Natsumi after an evasive zigzag trip back to our hotel, so I barely noticed the slim shape in a long summer raincoat and black Mary Janes fall in behind me. In the elevator, I saw it was a woman with straight brown hair nearly covering her face, much of which was also obscured by a Toronto Blue Jays hat. On her back was a lightweight leather backpack. She pushed my floor number then leaned up against the rear wall. I signed off with Natsumi before leaving the elevator.
    The woman followed me. I walked past our room to the end of the hall, then turned to walk back, almost running into the woman who was following close behind. She stood back to let me pass, then fell in behind again. I ignored our room a second time and returned to the bank of elevators.
    The woman waited with me at the elevators. She had her hands in her pockets and rocked back and forth, letting her toes lift off the floor. She rode the elevator with me to the lobby. I got out and went into the small bar that served the hotel and a restaurant that opened out onto the sidewalk. I sat down at the bar and she sat next to me, pulling off the backpack and setting it on her lap.
    When the bartender approached, I said, “I’ll have whatever she’s having,” nodding my head toward the young woman.
    “Give me a hurricane,” she said. “With bitters.”
    I balked at that and ordered a beer. The woman turned on her stool and faced me, her arms wrapped around her backpack.
    “I expected more in the adventurous department, Spanky,” she said.
    “Strider?” I asked.
    “You found me, sort of. So I found you. Like, for real.”
    “Crap.”
    “It’s not that hard anymore. You should know that.”
    “I suppose I should.”
    “I guessed at the visual ID. I had two false hits, if that makes you feel any better.”
    The hurricane looked too big for her hands—fragile and white, with chipped fingernails and nicotine stains. She held up the glass and drank a third of it through the straw.
    “I’ve been up for almost two days,” she said,