F Paul Wilson - Novel 04 by Deep as the Marrow (v2.1) Page A

featuring all week—same as Paulie.
    One thing led to another and soon
they were back in his place. And if he thought she’d looked good in that
outfit, out of it—mama! He was starting to get a woody just thinking
about her.
    Yeah, Poppy was cool—in more
ways than one. She had places in her she never let him see, even when she was
stoned. Some major pain tucked away inside, things she never talked about.
Something to do with those tattoos, maybe? She always managed to worm out of
explaining them.
    Whatever—somehow she got to
him. What he’d expected to be just one more in a long line of live-ins
turned out something more. A lot more. Beaucoup weird, but Paulie had arrived
at a place where he couldn’t imagine living without her.
    A tap on the side window made him
jump: Mac, staring at him, leaning close to the glass. He rolled it down.
    “Jesus, Mac! You scared the
shit outta me.”
    He said, “Back out and follow
me.” Then he walked away.
    “Well, hello to you too,
Mac,” Paulie muttered as he started the van.
    Talk about weird dudes. Mac was
about as strange as they came. He looked like a college professor or something.
A good six feet, big shoulders—maybe like a professor who worked out.
    Always dressed in Dockers and penny
loafers and crew-neck sweaters or tweed jackets; one jacket even had suede
patches on the elbows, for Christ sake. Brown hair, short all around, none on
his face, no jewelry, not even an earring. The ultimate straight. Until you
look a look in his eyes. Paulie knew hit men, stone killers, with warmer eyes
than Mac’s.
    Mac. The name was something that
had always bothered him, mainly because it was the only handle he had for this
guy. Mac who? Mac the Knife? Maybe. He did carry a big one. Also carried a.45
automatic—always. Mac the Gun? Mac the mystery. He never saw Mac between gigs.
    Paulie’d get a call, show up
where he was told—could be Kansas City , Phoenix , West Palm,
anywhere—baby-sit the package, collect his money, and that was it. Mac
dropped off the face of the earth until the next time.
    Not that it mattered much. Paulie
wasn’t exactly looking to hang with the guy. Probably a security thing so
that Paulie couldn’t finger him. Not that he’d ever consider it. He
had his rep as a stand-up guy to consider.
    And besides, Mac had always been
straight up with Paulie—never shorted him or kept him hanging. He paid on
time, to the dime. You had to respect that.
    Also had to respect how smoothly
Mac’s gigs ran. Like well-oiled machines. Everything went down by the
numbers…
    Except the last one.
    And if Poppy was calling the shots
now, that would have been Paulie’s last one too. They’d had a fight
about doing this gig, with Poppy shouting and throwing things, and almost
walking out. That was when Paulie realized how important she was to his life.
    So they cut a deal: One last gig
and then they were out of it. They’d take the money and run, find an
island somewhere, and just sleep, sunbathe, eat, drink, and screw. Yes.
    He cruised the truck over to where
Mac was backing a shiny new Lincoln Town Car out of a slot. He motioned Paulie
to pull into the space. Paulie parked the truck, then got out and ran a gloved
hand over the Lincoln ’s
gleaming black finish.
    “Flash ride. Where’d
you get it?”
    “Get in. We’ll talk
inside.” The windows slid up as Paulie slipped into the passenger seat.
All sound from the outside world faded to zero when he closed the door. Like
being sealed in a coffin.
    “It’s rented,”
Mac said in a low voice, looking straight ahead through the windshield as he
pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his brown herringbone jacket.
    Paulie checked him out: No patches
on the elbow this time. “The Maryland omnibus plates are borrowed.” Paulie tried not to look too interested in
the envelope, but he was hoping he’d find some dead presidents inside. He
was just about tapped out. He had to hold himself back from snatching it