“You get hurt during the shitstorm?”
She folds her arms.
“Babetta got hit on one side of me and Lerajie on the other. I didn’t get a scratch. How does that happen? I don’t understand.”
I do my sodden best to look her in the eye.
“There’s nothing to understand. They died. You didn’t.”
She looks around.
“What if people think I ducked out? Let them die and Johnny and Billy get shot up.”
“You’re the last one anyone would think that about.”
“Still, man . . .”
“We’re just bugs on God’s windshield. Don’t expect anything to mean anything.”
“You know that for sure? How?”
“I’ll tell you a secret.”
“If you want me to be your valentine, no thanks.”
I crook a stoned finger at her. She gets closer.
“I met the Devil. He doesn’t have any more of a clue than we do. Neither does Mr. Muninn.”
“Who?’ she says.
“God.”
She gives me a look.
“An asshole like you met God?”
“I told you. None of this shit means anything.”
She breathes in and out slowly.
“People are talking about you.”
“No autographs, please.”
“Laugh it up. Half think you’re some kind of guardian angel here to look after the Magistrate. The other want to see you on the gallows truck.”
I lean over to pick up my shirt. Wanuri has to grab me to keep me from falling over.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“I’m fifty-fifty.”
She doesn’t bother letting me reach for my coat. She grabs it and throws it to me.
“You’re wrong,” I say. “I’m no one’s guardian and I’m not your rat. But I can’t prove either thing.”
Wanuri gives me a shove toward the motor home.