by Jackson Ford
Later, she and the pedestrian would split the cash.
A good con involved seeing the angles – adjusting a plan on the fly, always looking for the next mark. Amber’s problem was that her ability to see the angles only went so far. There never seemed to be enough money, and it never seemed to last as long as it should. The big plans she’d had and the larger cons she wanted to run never quite came together.
It wasn’t like she didn’t try. She’d known she’d have to get out of the game sooner or later – you couldn’t work the same cons in the same city for your entire life. She tried to read as many self-help books as she could, getting them from the only library that was near her little shithole apartment in Barelas. She’d read them all: The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. Awaken the Giant Within. As A Man Thinketh (Almost hadn’t picked up that one – what most men think didn’t amount to much – but it was pretty good). And of course, Think and Grow Rich!
It all seemed so smart when it was written down on paper. But she could never quite work out how to apply it to her life, how to break out of the endless cycle of tiny, piss-bucket cons.
And then she got pregnant.
She’d always dreamed about having a baby. But it had been something for later, not when she was running around in Albuquerque trying to make a buck. She’d forgotten her pills, or run out, she can’t remember, and that had been that. The guy she was seeing at the time, Wade, had taken the news like a hammer blow. He was gone the next day, and she wasn’t the least bit surprised. She didn’t even bother looking for him.
Well, fuck Wade, and fuck everyone else. She could find an angle in a con, and she can find an angle now, no matter how bad her hands are shaking. All she has to do is think.
It isn’t Matthew’s fault, what happened with the quake. It isn’t. You can’t blame a little kid for wanting to explore the world. And even if he really did mean to hurt people – she acknowledges this grudgingly, as if it’s an unwelcome visitor asking for food and a spot to crash – so what? Just because he’s super smart or whatever doesn’t mean he understands what he’s doing. He’s four, for God’s sake. She can’t just yell at him, or turn him into the cops – like they’d even believe her! Anyway this is on her as much as it’s on him.
She may not have given Matthew his powers – the people at the School did that, even if they didn’t know exactly what those powers were going to be. She wasn’t the one who killed the highway patrolman, or the ones before him, and she didn’t set off the San Andreas fault line. And yet, she’s done nothing to stop it. She’s responsible. If she’d been a better mother… if she’d just gotten food for the car, or… Well, she couldn’t have done anything about the patrolman and Matthew sitting in the front seat, but…
And that’s the angle. Right there. That’s how she controls the situation. She doesn’t give up on her boy. She’ll never abandon him, no matter what he’s done. He won’t stay four for ever. The tantrums, and the times when he hurts her… they’ll stop. Whatever he is now, he can change. She can do what a mom is supposed to do: steer him, teach him. Protect him. Be better.
Her hands have finally stopped shaking. She takes a drag, turns – and Matthew is standing right behind her.
Amber yelps, taking a step backward. “Sweetie, you scared me.”
“What are you doing?” he says. He’s barefoot, wearing pyjama pants and the same balloon T-shirt from earlier. His eyes are as blank as deep space. “You weren’t there when I woke up.”
The old terror grows in her chest, familiar as breathing. She reminds herself that he’s her son, and she’s his mom, and she shouldn’t be scared of him. Even in her head, the words sound very small.
Suddenly he yawns. A huge, python stretch. He actually shivers after it ends. His shoulders relax, and he gazes out into the rain.
“You need to drive me somewhere tomorrow,” he says.
“OK?”
“The Meitzen Museum. 803 Exposition Park Drive, Los Angeles, California 90037. 10 a.m. to 5 p.m.”
“What’s…?” She clears her throat. “What’s there, sweetie?”
He rubs his nose. “The burger’s cold. I want another one.”
“… It’s late. I don’t know if they’re open, so—”
“They are. I looked.” He pads past her, still barefoot, then looks back at her quizzically. “Come on.”
EIGHT
Teagan
As I reach our office in Venice Beach, the morning after the quake, I take the time to ponder a potent metaphysical question: how bad would it be if I just turned around and went home and pulled the blankets over my head and kept them there until the heat death of the universe?
But of course, I know what would happen. Paul and Reggie would send Annie to get me, which would make Annie even more pissed than usual.
I take a sip of my coffee – a takeaway one, my third today. At least LA looked OK this morning. Mostly. Reggie was right: biz as usual. Freeways still upright, most buildings still standing, fires mostly contained. It’s not what you’d call a regular day, and I definitely saw plenty of damage on the way over here – cracked roads, fallen signs and billboards, the odd downed power line. But people were still going to work. Most of the buildings in LA, it seems, have been brought up to code. It’s a relief, I guess. Knowing we can take a hit, and keep on trucking.
Can’t say the same for San Bernardino.
I’m still trying to process it. It should be a gut punch. It’s part of Greater Los Angeles, and having it fall should be… awful. But I’ve only been to the place a few times. I don’t know anyone there. I feel the same way about it as I would about a disaster in Djibouti, or the Ukraine. Which makes me feel like kind of a class-A douche-nozzle, because this is my city. But it’s not as if there’s someone to blame. Earthquakes aren’t anybody’s fault. You can’t swear revenge on a tectonic plate.
I must have sent Nic a dozen texts. I’m still mad at him for what he said, but I also want to make sure he’s OK, after he headed out to SB. In some way, I was hoping he’d call me, and we could talk. I’ve gotten exactly one text from him: We’re fine. Helping at emergency shelter. That made me feel even worse. I told myself I should go out there, fuck what Tanner said. But of course, I didn’t.
It’s not raining any more, but it was when I woke up, and the air is sharp and chilly. I take another slug of coffee, promise to exact bloody revenge on the people who decided 9 a.m. was an acceptable time to start work and push open the door to Paul’s Boutique.
It’s a small wood-frame house in Venice Beach, a few blocks from the ocean. On a clear day, you can sit on the roof and drink a beer and watch the sun sink into the Pacific, the scent of surf wax and weed on the breeze. We work out of the ground floor. I named the office Paul’s Boutique after I went on a month-long Beastie Boys jag. Of course, our own Paul accused me of being immature and not taking the operation seriously, but then, he can be a genuine class-A douche-nozzle.
“Look at this mess,” he’s saying when I walk inside. The ground floor of the Boutique is a big open-plan living area, and Paul is on his knees in the middle of the floor, sorting through a pile of paper and stationery and thumbtacks and overturned coffee mugs.
Paul is in his forties, balding, with a paunch and horn-rimmed glasses. His desk is still upright, but it’s been knocked out of position, and the whiteboard he uses to plan our jobs lies flat on the floor. The L-shaped leather couch has been jolted away from the wall.
“Teagan,” he says, waving me over. “Great. You can help me clean this up.”
Before I can answer him, a thought whacks me upside the head – one I should have had a long time ago. “Reggie! Is she—?”
“She’s fine,” Paul says. “Monitors and towers were bolted to the wall.” He nods towards Reggie’s door. “She’s in there.”
“Hoo boy. OK. Cool.”
“Now come on.” He gestures to the mess. “Time’s a-wasting.”
He is way too chipper for this early in the a.m
. Then again, he’s a former Navy quartermaster. They’re used to getting up at sparrow’s fart.
My foot crunches down on glass. “Back up,” says Annie Cruz, leading with a broom, hustling me backwards. Jesus, I didn’t even see her there.
The kitchen is trashed, cabinet doors yawning, plates scattered across the floor. The ridiculous ornamental mirror that hangs above the couch lies in pieces. The fridge has danced away from the wall, and Annie has to squeeze past it to get at the glass I stepped on. Fortunately, she’s thin enough. Annie is tall and willowy, built like a gymnast, if a gymnast could kill a person at ten paces with a single raised eyebrow.
“Don’t just stand there,” Annie says, stabbing at the floor with her broom. “Grab a sweeper. Help out.”
“Sweeper?”
“You know what I mean. Come on, man, let’s go.”
I raise an eyebrow, then pull all the debris towards me with my PK. Annie steps backwards, startled, as I collect the glass and crockery in a large ball. I float it over to the giant trash can they hauled in from the garage, and drop it inside.
“I keep forgetting you can do that,” Annie says.
“You’re welcome.” I take another sip of coffee. “Any major damage? Beyond a few plates and shit?”
“Trash cans round back are all over the place. Hey, what’s with the get-up?”
“What get-up?”
“Your get-up.” She waves a hand at me. “You look different.”
Right. The get-up she’s referring to is an actual collared shirt – a white one, the only one I actually own, and which I’ve only worn about once before. I don’t even remember where it came from. I’ve paired it with the second-smartest thing I own, a pair of khaki slacks. I even made sure to put on a little more make-up than usual. If I was the kind of person who owned a pencil skirt, I’d probably be rocking that too.
I give a twirl, showing off. Maybe if I pretend I’m in a good mood, it’ll trick my brain into actually doing it. “You like?” I look at Annie over my shoulder, pull a duck face.
I’m expecting her to make a crack. Instead, she tilts her head, looking me up and down. “Eh. Suits you.”
I blink, surprised. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“Also, I see what you did there.”
“What?”
“Suits you? As in a suit? Cos… never mind.”
Normally, I’d take a huge swerve around an outfit like this. But today is Good Impressions Day. It’s all part of the plan, for when I ask Reggie to ask Tanner if I could do some pro-cooking school. I certainly wasn’t planning on getting a compliment from Annie, but fuck it. You take ’em when you get ’em.
“Hey, can you help me with these papers?” Paul says.
“Can’t. They’re organic.”
“I meant by using your hands, Teagan. Like the rest of us mere mortals.”
“Nah. I don’t know what order you want them in. I might mess up your system.”
Paul frowns. “It’s messed up anyway. If you—”
“She’s just fucking with you, babe,” Annie says, giving me a meaningful look.
“That’s OK,” Paul grumbles. “I think I got it.”
“Hold on, white boy, I’m coming.” She props the broom against the counter.
“Are you sure? I don’t want you to hurt the baby.”
I’m halfway through swallowing, and nearly choke to death on hot coffee. “I’m sorry, what?”
Then I see the look on Paul’s face. “Oh. Ha ha. Hysterical.”
He turns back to his papers, grinning. “You’re not the only one who can mess with people.”
“You really need to work on your jokes.”
“For once, she’s right.” Annie cuffs Paul on the back of the head. “You joke about that again, we gonna have a problem.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right. I don’t want to have a baby with you.”
Annie rolls her eyes, dropping to her knees to help. She slowly brushes her hand across his shoulders as she does so – a gesture I’m not even sure she’s aware of. When she gets to his level, he plants a quick kiss on her forehead, murmurs something in her ear.
I will never understand how Annie and Paul got together. Not in a billion years. The tight-ass, white-bread Navy quartermaster and the former gangster from Watts. Then again, maybe Paul’s tight ass did have something to do with it – I wouldn’t know, I haven’t ever seen him naked, thank God, but…
I shudder. There are things that one should never have to imagine, and our logistics man’s naked butt is one of them.
Anyway, they’ve been together for a few months now, and if anything they are more disgusting than they were when they started. They’ve also relaxed a little. Paul has gotten less uptight – not a lot, but some – and I may or may not have been unfair when I said that Annie’s default setting is angry. Mildly irked, maybe.
She’s definitely loosened up around me. We’ve been through a lot together in the last few months. What can I say – police chases and murder plots and stand-offs with black ops teams have a way of bringing coworkers together. And she is probably just as essential to China Shop as I am, with her ridiculous network of connections across LA. Annie’s Army, we call them. If you need a security pass, a camera tilted out of whack a little or info on how the mayor likes his coffee, you ask Annie. She’ll ask a few people, and have an answer in about twenty minutes.
I bring myself back. “Tell me the coffee machine made it through the—”
“Teggan!”
In the next instant, I’m swept off the ground, squeezed from behind by two enormous arms. My coffee cup goes flying, the contents spattering across the counter.
I manage to force words out. “Can’t… breathe…”
From behind me, Africa lets loose a gust of laughter, gives one squeeze for luck and releases. Then he spins me around, huge hands gripping my shoulders, looking me up and down. Like he’s checking for damage. I’m surprised when he doesn’t find any.
“You dëma,” he says. “You made it out the shaking! I thought maybe something fall on you. You so small, they never find you.”
Africa is Senegalese, seven feet tall, with a voice that can travel for miles on a clear day, and I was kind of hoping he’d decide to stay home. He’s wearing orange sweatpants so vivid they should be banned under international law. On top, he has a purple-and-gold Lakers starter jacket that looks like it last saw action when Magic Johnson was playing. On his feet, pristine Timberlands, the suede clean and crisp.
He smashes a fist into an open palm, the sound like a thunder clap. “I was at Home Depot with Jeannette. I was buying jars for my kitchen, and everything started falling everywhere. We have to hide in the checkout.”
“Yo,” I say. “You spilled my coffee.”
“Oh!” His eyebrows shoot up, and he thunders past me, grabbing a wad of paper towels, slamming them down on the counter. “OK, I fix. No problems.”
Here’s another fun story. A few months ago, I was on the run after being framed for murder. Africa – real name Idriss Kouamé – was a homeless dude who hung around the area the poor bastard died in.
Actually, calling Africa a homeless dude was selling him short. Less homeless, more dude. He was a guy who knew a guy, a man with a million stories, a hardened survivor of downtown LA and a thousand other places across the world.
No joke: if he hadn’t helped me out, I’d be strapped to a table at a government black site right now. I managed to clear my name, but not before Carlos betrayed me.
After the shit-show that led to Carlos’s death, I thought Tanner would fill his spot with someone safe. A spec ops guy, a CIA agent, another bureaucrat to keep us in line. I jokingly suggested we should hire Africa, and was – how can I put this? – a little surprised when Reggie and Annie actually took me seriously.
Their argument? That he was unconventional, and that our job required unconventional thinking. He knew a shit-ton of people in LA – not as many as Annie, it
’s true, but he still has plenty of useful contacts that she doesn’t. He can drive – amazingly, the big lunk has a current licence. He’s also huge, and good at looking scary when he has to.
For once, I was the voice of reason. Africa was cool, and I owed him big time, but I did not think he’d be a good fit. I was worried he was going to do something stupid – try and sell us out, or tell someone about my ability. And when I am worried about a person doing something stupid, that’s when the red flags start going up.
I told the guys they didn’t know him like I did; I loved him to pieces and I had his back, but I also wasn’t going to put him in a position where he could hurt us. It would be like making Lil Wayne the US ambassador to Germany.
I was overruled. Tanner and Reggie bought him dinner, and the next thing I knew, I had a new teammate.
I’d forgotten how our boss operates, of course. I should have seen it coming. Tanner could, in fact, get Lil Wayne to be an upstanding and respected diplomat – if she actually knew who Lil Wayne was. It’s not just unconventional thinking she likes. She likes leverage. She likes getting people to act against their own self-interest, usually by holding something over them.
In my case, it’s her protection against those in the government who want to cut me open and take out the important parts. Paul has a ton of debt he can’t get out from under, and Annie has a criminal record that would make her unemployed for the rest of her life. I don’t know what secrets Africa has, but they’re ones he wants kept that way. He emerged from the meeting with Tanner ashen-faced, shaking his enormous head, muttering Senegalese swear words.
Tanner had briefed him on my ability, and when I showed him – dancing a coffee cup through the air – he didn’t even flinch. Just grinned, and called me a dëma. A witch. Only he could turn a word like that into a term of endearment. Then he told us a long story about how he once knew a woman in Mali who could make plants grow just by touching them. I’ll admit: I sort of lost track of the plot halfway through, but the key takeaway here is that my freaky-deaky abilities didn’t stress him out.
He also seems to genuinely like the job. It’s helped him get off the streets, move into an actual apartment with his girlfriend Jeannette. She used to be homeless too, and she doesn’t like me very much. I smashed her tent to pieces by accident when we first met. It’s a long story.
