.././.\\.\//.///\...//>

Zandra doesn't recognize the manager. Something else about him catches her off guard.

You are way too good looking to be managing a shitty pizza place. What's the story here?

The manager hurries past Zandra and Bexley. He heads into the kitchen and says to the man with the pit-stained polo shirt wiping down a prep area, "What's wrong with the oven?"

More like, what's wrong with you? The sign in the window is flipped and the front door was locked during normal hours. None of that tripped any alarm bells for you, Mr. Manager? I thought you were a control freak.

"Oven's fine," the man says.

"Then why'd you call me down here?" the manager says. "And why was the door locked?"

Ah, so he did notice.

The oven is how this place makes money. No oven means no pizza. He zeroed in on the problem. Makes sense now.

"These two, uh, customers, they wanted me to call you. They want to talk to you," the man says and finishes with the prep area.

The manager doesn't bother with Zandra and Bexley. He pulls out a phone from his pocket. Zandra can't stop him this time.

"I'm calling the police," the manager says.

I don't think so.

"You really don't want to do that, child," Zandra says, unfazed.

Someone outside approaches the front door.

Customer. Shit.

The "Closed" sign does its job. The customer turns around. A moment later, a landline phone on the wall in the kitchen rings.

An irritated customer. Double shit.

"Is this a robbery?" the manager says. "We don't carry a lot of cash."

The landline phone keeps ringing.

"No. Not a robbery," Zandra says.

"Good, because I'm losing business," the manager says. He nods to the man at the prep counter to pick up the ringing landline phone.

"Let it ring," Zandra says.

"Pick it up," the manager says.

Zandra draws the gun from her pocket. It's not loaded, but it doesn't need to be.

"I thought you said this wasn't a robbery," the manager says.

The landline phone keeps ringing.

"The mag's still in her pocket. She ain't gonna shoot ya," the man at the prep counter says as he takes three long steps to the landline phone. He picks it up. "Omino's. Yeah, we're open. Uh huh. Uh huh. Yeah, just a little mix up. I've got your order ready."

Bexley looks nervously at Zandra.

The manager taps the phone in his hand. "I don't know what's going on here, but the police can sort it out."

The door opens behind Zandra. The customer who turned away before steps inside Omino's.

Triple shit.

Zandra drops the gun back into her pocket. Before the new customer can take another step, Zandra says to the manager, "Pixie."

The manager, halfway through a template Omino's greeting to the customer, nearly chokes at the sound of Pixie's name. He stutters at Zandra, "Let's take this to the office."

The office is a mess of papers, pizza boxes, and two computers on a desk. It's just large enough for the three of them—Zandra, Bexley, and the manager—to squeeze in. Framed photos on the wall display the perennial staff members. Zandra matches the manager to a photo with the name "Luis" under it. Luis sinks cautiously into an office chair upholstered with cloth and dark stains.

"Someone want to tell me what the hell is going on?" Luis says.

Zandra coughs into her sleeve. Luis recoils.

"Pixie's life is in danger, and so is yours, child," Zandra says. "My apologies for the way you were contacted, but I didn't have any choice."

Luis scowls. "He sent you here, didn't he?"

Ah, so he's aware that he's the other man. Good. Cuts down on the catching up I need to do.

"No," Zandra says.

"Then who sent you?"

"I sent myself, child. Sort of."

The sounds of more customers entering through the front door carry into the office. Bexley helps herself to a pen from the desk. She clicks it over and over.

Luis's scowl remains firmly in place. "Sort of? What's that supposed to mean?"

No sense in being mysterious. I need his trust. Frankly, I need a lot of things from him.

Zandra fights the itch to light a cigarette. She coughs into her sleeve and says, "He hired me to find you."

"Hired you?" Luis says. His scowl melts into a frown.

"I'm a detective of sorts," Zandra says.

Bexley interjects. "A psychic detective."

"Well, yes," Zandra says. "An interested party acquired my services on suspicion Pixie was cheating. It turns out this was correct."

Luis folds into himself. He cradles his head in his head. Somewhere beneath the sorrow, he mutters, "I was so careful."

You were. I'll give you full credit there. Most people wouldn't have half the sense you did in your situation, Luis. Cheaters confuse their bodies. They get into affairs because their blood goes from their brains to their dicks. Somehow, you managed to keep both organs full—at least for a little while.

Luis looks up at Zandra. "So you're here to take me to him."

You mind using a name next time? It'd be great to know exactly who is fucking with me in that van.

"Not exactly, child. The situation has become more complicated since I was brought in," Zandra says. "Were you aware that Pixie is pregnant?"

"What!?" Luis says. Customers announce themselves at the counter. He lowers his voice. "What?"

"I'm sorry. I thought you knew," Zandra says.

Based on your reaction, there's no way you knew, Luis, but I need to appear sympathetic.

"She never told me," Luis says.

"She didn't tell her other sexual partner, either," Zandra says, purposefully skirting the name of the man in the van, despite how clunky the substitution sounds. "Should we even say his name? Is that allowed?"

To Zandra's disappointment, Luis doesn't bother answering those questions.

"So now he's going to kill her?" Luis says.

"Apparently, the situation has become untenable, and he isn't one to tolerate liabilities. I'm sorry, child, but it's quite likely you'll be dead soon. Pixie, too," Zandra says.

Bexley stops clicking the pen.

Luis squeezes his fist. "Not if I kill him first."

Zandra rubs her palms together. "Might I make a suggestion, child? I have some experience with revenge."

Luis doesn't respond. He squeezes both hands into fists tighter and tighter.

"Leave as fast as you can. Both of you," Zandra says. "Don't fight. Don't engage. Just leave. Fighting him is giving him what he wants, because you can't win. You'll still be just as dead, and so will Pixie."

Bexley resumes clicking the pen.

"But you're working for him. How can I know I can trust you?" Luis says. He relaxes his fists, but only a bit.

Exactly the question I wanted you to ask me. We're right on track.

"Because I went through all this trouble to reach you, and because I'm risking my own life to tell you this," Zandra says.

"Me, too," Bexley says before Zandra can stop her.

Luis looks over at Bexley. "Are you a psychic detective, too?"

"Almost," Bexley says.

"Couldn't he have just hired normal detectives?" Luis says.

A reasonable question. Perfectly reasonable. But it's my turn to ignore a question.

"You need to get to safety, Luis. You're already running out of time, and he knows Pixie is pregnant," Zandra says.

Luis bolts up from the chair and pulls out his car keys.

"I've already arranged transportation, child," Zandra says.

"You did?" Bexley says.

Let me do the talking. Please.

Luis shakes his head. "I'm taking my car, and I'm going to Pixie myself."

Zandra holds her arm out to block the way out of the small office. "Bad idea."

Bexley tosses the pen back onto the desk.

"You ride with us, and it won't seem half as suspicious when you pull into Pixie's driveway," Zandra says.

"But he doesn't know what car I drive. That was the whole point of the deliveries," Luis says. "I'm sure you know all about those."

This isn't going to work if you don't come with me, but I don't blame him for refusing my offer. In times of crisis, people lean toward the familiar. It's like a reflex. That's why people in the military train and train and train. The training exploits that part of the brain.

I'm not going to convince Luis otherwise unless I can get around that natural wiring. The only way to do that is to offer something easier—more familiar—to choose. It's like water running down a hill. It always takes the path of least resistance. If you want to re-route the water, you have to offer even less resistance.

This is where most people in my position would get stuck. They'd lose the argument. Good thing I'm not most people.

Let's walk through the door Luis opened for me with that question about hiring "regular" detectives. It's still on the table.

"You want to know why he hired a psychic instead of a regular detective? Because that's how good you covered your tracks. He needed a psychic detective," Zandra says to Luis, arm still blocking the exit to the office. "Your average private investigator isn't going to figure your shit out. I did. You want to know what else I know, child?"

Assert subject matter authority. Flatter the target's intelligence. Throw in casual profanity to show trust. Yes, this should work.

"What?" Luis says.

"What?" Bexley says at the same time.

Seriously, Bexley. Stop.

"I know that if you get in your car, you're dead. So is Pixie," Zandra says. "You come with us, and things look a lot better for the two of you."

Luis hesitates.

Almost there.

"Look, child, I'm not asking you to believe in psychics. I'm only asking you to believe in me—the person who figured you out and went through all this trouble to track you down," Zandra says.

A tear runs down Luis's cheek.

Got him.

Luis throws his hands in the air. "OK, OK, you...OK, let's just go."

The three wait to leave Omino's until the customers clear out. Luis stops in shock at Ray's car.

"This? This is a piece of shit," Luis says.

"This piece of shit is going to save your life. Get in," Zandra says as she hobbles into the backseat.

Bexley slides into the driver's seat. Chad wakes up, looks around, and goes back to sleep. Luis waits until the car successfully fires up to climb in next to Zandra.

I need you to follow directions for this next part, Bexley. Maybe you can hear me. Maybe you can't. I don't know why I'm even bothering with this telepathy bullshit. But if it works, hear this: it's very important that you don't push back on what I'm about to ask you.

"The gyro restaurant, the one downtown. Go," Zandra says to Bexley with a pat on the shoulder.

Bexley doesn't say anything. She hits the gas, and away they go.

It worked.

Well, maybe it worked. There's no way to know.

Actually, you know what? Fuck telepathy. I need brain space to think, not fool around. The next 18 hours are going to be critical. We've got tonight and tomorrow morning to figure this shit out before Glenn goes dipping for dope.

"Downtown? I thought you were taking me to Pixie," Luis says.

"You'll get there, child. We just need one more stop," Zandra says.

Luis sinks back into the seat until the car stops outside the gyro restaurant.

"Come with me," Zandra says to Luis. They step out onto the sidewalk. "You're not armed, are you?"

"No. Why?" Luis says.

"Just checking," Zandra says. She drags her bad ankle down the sidewalk. "Come down a little farther, away from the car."

Luis wipes sweat from his forehead. "Are we getting gyros or something?"

"No. We're waiting. This shouldn't take long," Zandra says.

And it doesn't. Zandra spots the van before Luis does. It's a block away.

"By the way, child, I think you should know something," Zandra says to distract Luis.

"What's that?" Luis says, facing Zandra with his back to the direction of the van.

"It's about Pixie," Zandra says.

The van is almost to them. Luis still doesn't see it.

"Or rather, the pregnancy. The father," Zandra says.

"And?" Luis says.

Almost. Almost.

The van slows as it approaches them.

"You can't get mad at me for this," Zandra says.

"For what?"

OK. Now.

"For telling you you're not the father," Zandra says.

Luis holds his stomach as if he just got punched. He wheezes, "Who is?"

The sliding door on the van opens.

"He is," Zandra says.

Luis disappears into the van. The sliding door slams shut.