But not anymore. Not after this gig. With the money Mac was paying, he wouldn’t need to work for a looong time.

And besides, Poppy had had it with this life. She’d changed after the last baby-sit. She’d started exercising and eating vegetables and that sort of stuff. And to tell the truth, she was looking damn good.

Not that she hadn’t turned heads before. He still remembered the first time he saw her. He was sitting at the bar at The Incarnate Club on Avenue A in Manhattan when she walked in. She’d poured herself into this slinky tight black latex outfit that showed off every curve of her not-too-thin-but-no-way-fat figure. Tall—had to be pushing five-ten—with nice hips, long sweet legs, and a real nice set up top.

He was made helpless, completely ga-ga by the way her purple China-doll hair swung back and forth when she walked, the way her black-lined blue eyes stared out from under those heavy bangs that looked like they’d been sliced with a scalpel. The eyebrow ring, the nostril stud, and some cool tattoos: a red heart on each upper arm, with glory inside the one on the right and 89 in the one on the left. He bought her a drink, found out she’d come in to hear the goth-industrial battle of the bands the club was 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 when Mac handed it over.

“Here are some papers you’ll need,” Mac said. “Just in case.” Paulie lifted the flap, looking for green paper. The first thing he found was a supply of business cards. He held one up.

“ ‘Reliance Limousine Service.’ Is that who I am?”

“For the next hour or so, yes. You’ll find a Reliance Limo ID and Maryland driver’s license with matching names. Plus directions to your pickup neatly typed on Reliance Limo stationery.” Paulie emptied the envelope. No green, but boy, Mac was thorough. The bogus license and ID were beauties.

“Where’d you get these?”

“I made them.”

“No kidding?”

“All it takes is a color scanner, some DTP software, and a little time.”

“Amazing. I—” And then a couple of words on the itinerary caught his eye and he straightened in the seat.

“Hey, Mac. Does this say Holy Family Elementary School? Elementary School?”

Mac was still looking straight ahead. “You got it.”

“You mean I’m snatching a kid?”

“You are.”

“Oh, shit! Oh, fuck! Not a kid!” And now Mac turned to him, letting those stone-flat dirt-brown eyes bore into him.

“You got something against kids, Paulie?” he said in a voice smooth as satin… and just as cold.

“No. I got nothing against kids. That’s why I don’t want to snatch one.”

“You don’t look at it as a kid. You look at it as a package. Just another package.”

“Yeah, but a young package. People get upset about an old geezer getting snatched, but, man, they go off the fucking wall about a kid.”

“It’s not like we’re going to molest her or anything.”

“Her? Oh, shit! A little girl? Just great. Poppy don’t like kids.”

“She’d better like this one.”

“She’s gonna go ballistic.”

“Poppy will do what she’s told.” Paulie wished there’d been more heat behind those words. But Mac said them with the same soft flat tones he’d use ordering a cup of coffee… black, two lumps.

Truth was. Poppy would do what she was told… up to a point…

“You’re the one who brought her in,” Mac said. “I went along. Poppy’s had a free ride so far. Now it’s time for her to earn her keep. She can be a nanny for a week or so.” He smiled… a cold flash of teeth. “We’ve called it baby-sitting all along. Now it really is.”

“Yeah,” Paulie said, slumping back in the seat. He didn’t like this… didn’t like it at all. “How old is this baby?”

“Six. Don’t let her age spook you. This is going to be a walk. I’ve called the school. They’re expecting you. You drive up, belt her into the back seat like a good, safety-conscious driver, then you cruise away and bring her back here. What could be simpler?”

“How about you doing it? That would be a whole lot simpler.”