“Stay back,” I said to the others, as they moved to come at me.
Since I didn’t want to escalate the situation by dislocating Jorge’s elbow, I let his forearm slip out from under my armpit and captured his hand for an Omote Gyaku wrist lock: I flipped him onto his back, between me and his buddies, then manipulated his wrist from one structural lock to another to create a moving human shield.
“Like I said, boys, I’m sorry about before. What do you say we call it a day and let this one go?”
Johnny tipped his head like a bull and launched off his good leg for a tackle. I reversed Jorge’s wrist to move him between me and his buddy, face down, wrist up, armed locked from shoulder to hand. Bones cracked when Johnny slammed into him.
Jorge howled, Johnny cursed, and Smashed Testicles—whose real name I had yet to learn—attacked.
I launched a stomping side kick—ninja style with my toes up and my hips open—into his sternum. The sneaky yet powerful kick allowed me to continue facing the threat in front of me while effectively dealing with an attack from the side. And since I didn’t have to step, turn, or rotate my hip before launching the kick, Smashed Testicles never saw it coming. He rammed into my stomping heel and landed several feet away on his baggy ass.
I didn’t wait to see who would recover first. I retrieved my bike, bolted past the groaning men, and didn’t stop until I was a good ten miles away.
Chapter Four
Aleisha’s Refuge was a shelter for abused women run by Aleisha and Stan Reiner—my closest friends, my employers, and two of the rare people in this world who knew what I really did with my time. After the mess I had made of my day, I could use a dose of their cheery optimism.
I coasted to a stop in front of the tandem houses, one in front and a second in back. A wall of white painted metal secured the properties. One gate barred the driveway that lead to the rear structure and the other barred to the pathway that lead to the front door. Aleisha and Stan owned them both. Stan had money left over from his career on Wall Street. Since Aleisha had always dreamed of opening a women’s refuge near—but not in—Compton, the twin houses on Alsace Avenue had fit the bill: affordable, secure, and accessible to women in need.
I opened the pathway gate and rolled the Merida toward the house. Today, as on all days before 10 p.m., the gate was unlocked. Women escaping domestic violence already faced innumerable obstacles—some internal, some external—a locked gate this close to freedom could send them home for good. The front door, on the other hand, was triple bolted around the clock.
Since I had encouraged the Reiners to install a sensor on the gate, I wasn’t surprised to see the front door open before I reached the steps. Nor was I surprised to see Stan—a pear-shaped man with a bald dome fringed with white-brown wisps—open his arms for a hug. “Give it here, Lily.”
I balanced the bike against my hip and reached around Stan’s ample belly.
He gave me a squeeze and snorted his disapproval. “You’re as skinny as a twig. You should eat.”
I laughed. “Could you at least let me in the house first?”
Stan’s customary greeting always included some observation about my wellbeing and a firm suggestion to eat. Next, he’d start offering whatever Aleisha had cooked or baked in the last few hours. My stomach grumbled. I had forgotten to retrieve my lunch from Paco. Soul food and TLC would be welcome.
“Is that Lily Wong I hear?” Aleisha asked, her alto voice sang the words like a line in a hymn. Then she chuckled and shoved her husband out of the way. “Stop hogging all the hugs, Stan. There won’t be any left for me.”
I parked the Merida in its usual spot against the entryway wall, and prepared to be overwhelmed.
Aleisha pulled me into her embrace, smothered me with her bosom, and shook me side-to-side like a dog with a favorite toy. “I’ve missed you, girl. Why you stay away so long?”
Her skin was as dark as Stan’s was pale, and her face had huge close-set eyes, a wide down-turned nose, and cupid-bow lips that formed the same long, narrow curve as her chin when she smiled. Her purple-tinged braids, swept slightly to the side, had been gathered into a spiraling bun. But her most remarkable feature were her cheeks, which stood out like a pair of golf balls, high and cheerful on her angular face. No one could be on the receiving end of Aleisha’s smile and not return it.
She pushed me back for inspection. A pursed frown replaced her smile. “Stan’s right, you look scrawnier than usual. How’s that even possible with all your papa’s cooking?” She shook her finger at me. “Worry. That’s what’s put you off your food.”
“What am I, a horse?” I asked.
“More like a bull,” said Stan.
“You should talk.”
Aleisha laughed. “True enough. But why are we standing here? Get your scrawny butt inside and tell us what’s been keeping you too busy to visit.” She called back to the kitchen, “Emma, dear, can you bring out a tray? Just fill it with what we had for lunch. Oh, and a pitcher of iced tea. Thank you.”
I plopped myself on the couch opposite Stan’s recliner and Aleisha’s favorite love seat. They had arranged their living area to give their guests a clear view of the front door. Aleisha said it relaxed the women to see the bolts on the door and know that no one could see them through the bushes covering the windows. I would have positioned myself with a view of the front door no matter how they had decorated. Like anyone trained in combat, I preferred to see trouble coming.
Aleisha leaned in. “You heard from Kateryna?”
I shook my head. “And I don’t expect to.”
She nodded. “I read about the killings. You never told me about that other man.”
“What man?”
“Don’t be coy with me. I read it in the paper—Kateryna’s husband and another man killed on the same night, both of them immigrants from Ukraine. Who was the other man? I assumed he was connected to Dmitry?”
I shrugged. Although Aleisha and Stan hired me to extract abused women from dangerous situations, I didn’t usually share the details of how I got them out or how I discouraged their tormentors from pursuit. As for the Ukrainians, I’d take that secret to the grave.
Aleisha took my silence for an answer and dropped the subject. “So, who are you helping now?”
“No one. I think that’s the problem. My mind is so full of me I can barely function.”
Stan tightened his lips and hummed his disapproval. “Mm-hmm. Well that explains the weight loss and the tired eyes.”
“Geez, Stan. Do I really look that bad?”
Aleisha patted my foot. “Not bad, honey. Just not…great. But that’s to be expected after what you went through. Honestly, after that trauma, I’d be surprised if you weren’t suffering any PTSD effects.”
“Whoa. Let’s not get carried away. I do not have PTSD.”
“Really? What would you call it?”
Aleisha might not know all the details, but she had known about the gang killings, and now she apparently knew about the Ukrainian assassinations. But what she didn’t know—and what I could never tell her—is about the innocent woman I could have—and should have—saved.
“I don’t know what’s up with me,” I lied. “But it’s definitely affecting my judgment. I beat the crap out of three guys who were chasing a couple of teenage thieves. And no,” I said, holding up my hand before either of them could interrupt, “I didn’t know the kids were thieves at the time.”
“Then why?” Aleisha asked.
“They reminded me of Katerina and Ilya.”
Aleisha nodded. “Any flashbacks?”
“One or two”
“Since the incident or every day?”
“Ha. More like every hour.”
“What else?”
I frowned. Bad enough Aleisha monitored my health and appearance, did I really want her analyzing my mental stability? Too late now: If I didn’t want the inquisition, I should have ridden straight
home.
“The guys I beat up were Mexican-American. They called me a racist.”
Aleisha stared at me in surprise, thought about it a moment, then nodded. “You assumed they were guilty because of how they looked.”
“Yeah.”
“Because they were Chicano? Or because they looked like members of that gang you told me about?”
I closed my eyes to better recall the men. Cropped hair, striped tees, low-crotch baggy shorts, crew socks, fancy kicks—just like the Varrios who had imprisoned Ilya and Kateryna. I opened my eyes. “They reminded me of the gang.”
Aleisha nodded. “And the kids they were chasing reminded you of Ilya.” She patted my foot again.
“Yeah. Well, that’s not all. I saw these girls at a taco shack. They didn’t belong together. One was older—maybe a senior in high school—streetwise, black. The other was a young, naive, Guatemalan. They didn’t fit. But after what happened earlier, I don’t know if I can trust my judgment.”
Aleisha raised her brows. “What school?”
“Jefferson.”
“That high school’s got a rich history in the black community.”
“I know.”
“But when the neighborhood changed do you know how much of that school’s culture was lost? Blacks moved out. Latinos moved in. The color of the whole community lightened, and everything was different.”
I thought about what Dolla had said to Ana Lucía. “The students revolted.”
“Uh-huh. Hundreds of black and Latino teens, cops in riot gear. It nearly ripped that school apart.”
I thought back to the news reports I had seen as a child. “It all started with payback, right? For how the parents of the Mexican-American kids were treated when they moved into the community?”
“True enough, which is why I’m actually glad to hear about a black girl befriending a girl from Guatemala. We need more of that in this city, no matter what happened before.”
I frowned. “So you think my intuition’s off? That I jumped to the wrong conclusion just like I did with the guys in Exposition Park?”
Aleisha shrugged. “It’s not uncommon to mistrust people after a traumatic event.”
“It’s not PTSD.” I stood up and walked around the couch, putting a barrier between Aleisha and me. “And I’m not having a breakdown. I’m just…distracted. Ma’s turning fifty tomorrow. She’s driving me crazy.”
Aleisha and Stan exchanged glances, no doubt noting my sudden change of direction. Let them. I didn’t come here to get picked on. I came for support.
A tall girl, who I assumed was Emma, approached from the kitchen carrying a serving tray loaded with enough food to feed all four of us, and which I suspected was only meant for me.
“Thanks, Em. Just set it on the table.” Aleisha said.
As Emma complied, I made a quick assessment.
She looked about my age, twenty-five or a little younger, and had one of those Hollywood mean girl faces with neatly arched brows and a straight-edged nose. Her eyes were blue, complexion creamy, and her long, straight hair was the color of polished copper. Her tall, slim figure spoke of good genes rather than hard work and made the gray tee and sweatpants she wore look like couture grunge.
Who was this girl? A drug addicted model? The daughter of an abusive billionaire? An escort who wanted out? Whatever her story, Emma’s wary eyes suggested hard times.
Aleisha gestured to a spot on the couch beside me. “Come sit with us. This is Lily, a dear friend of ours and a champion of women.”
I scoffed and reached for an empanada, not at all comfortable with Aleisha’s description. Champion? These days, I felt more like a thug.
Aleisha kept her attention on Emma. “You can trust her. So can your friends.”
Emma shifted on the cushion, clearly as uncomfortable about the situation as me.
I nodded at the plate of food. “Have an empanada.”
The simple act of eating calmed us both. “How long have you been here?”
She shrugged. “Couple of weeks.”
“Good food, right?”
She laughed. “Very.”
I poured us both a glass of iced tea and drank.
“Are you a lawyer?” she asked.
I coughed and sprayed out the tea.
Stan answered on my behalf: “Lily steps in a bit earlier in the process.”
“A cop? No way.” She glanced at my racer tank and spandex shorts. “Unless you’re undercover.”
Stan smirked. “She’s more of an…independent contractor.”
I raised my glass in toast. “Good one.” Then I turned to Emma. “I deal in rescue and recovery.”
“Recovery? What, like therapy?”
“No. Like recovering your life.” I chuckled at the irony: Who would help me recover mine?
“I don’t see how that’s possible,” Emma said, dropping her empanada on the plate and glaring at me in challenge. “When your life’s gone, it’s gone.”
I’d come here to reconnect with Aleisha and Stan, not to argue with their latest rescue about the impermanence of life. That said, I didn’t want to minimize Emma’s concern. I decided to stick with a practical description of the work I did for the refuge.
“There are a lot of situations a woman can get into, for whatever reason, that she can’t escape. Physical extraction doesn’t always solve the problem, but it’s a start.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“It can be.”
“Illegal?”
“Not usually.”
“Then, you know how to fight?”
I smiled. “Little bit.”
She brushed the crumbs from her hands and looked away. “Well, I’m past that now.”
Was she? The tendons around her jaw tightened as she fixed her gaze on the coffee table.
“How about your friends?” Aleisha asked. “Couldn’t they use someone to fight for them? Someone to help them get out—start a new life or get back to the old? I’m sure their moms and dads are plenty worried about them.”
Moms and dads? How old was this girl?
Emma shrugged, picking off bits of turnover and letting them fall in her lap. I doubt she had spoken to her folks in a while. But hey, who was I to talk? I’d been avoiding my mother for days.
“Just because parents worry doesn’t mean they’ll understand.” Was I talking about my mother or hers? I wasn’t sure, but it seemed to do the trick because Emma stopped crumbling her pastry and turned her attention on me.
“What if they don’t forgive me?” Emma asked.
“What if you don’t forgive them?”
That made her pause.
“Believe me, Emma, everyone’s got their own demons. And everyone, at some time or another, needs forgiving. But does it matter? This is your life not theirs. What’s important is that you are able to forgive—yourself and others—and get on with rebuilding your life.”
I took another bite before I could say any more. My words had returned like a boomerang to smack me in the head.
Demons? Check.
Forgiveness? Not so much.
Rebuilding my life? Working on that.
Aleisha smiled at me, all puffed up with pride. “Didn’t I tell you? Our Lily’s a champion.”
I stared down at the mountain of empanadas on my plate. Champions didn’t drown their sorrows in meat pies. And they didn’t avoid their own families while lecturing wayward teens to face theirs.
Chapter Five
My father’s restaurant sat on the northwest edge of Culver City. To get there, I pedaled past a host of restaurants that charged too much, served too little, and never came close to the authenticity of neighborhood spots like Paco’s Tacos or my father’s own Wong’s Hong Kong Inn.
Sony Picture Studios loomed on the left, occupying a mammoth triangular lot with its top chopped off by Madison Avenue. The movie folk and the families who lived in the area kept Baba a
nd his kitchen staff busy from morning until night, which was exactly why he had chosen this spot—a mile from two major freeways on a boulevard that ran straight to the beach. Vern Knudsen might have been raised on a farm in North Dakota, but he had the business acumen of the savviest Angeleno. He was also humble enough to realize that a non-Asian Chinese-cuisine chef would have a tough time opening a restaurant in an Asian-centric city like Arcadia, where he lived with Ma.
I sped through the intersection, turning left before the light changed, and dodged into the alley behind our building. Up ahead, DeAndre Jones, Baba’s youngest employee, unloaded empty thermal totes from the back of our delivery car.
I coasted up behind him. “Sony run?”
He yelped in surprise. “Damn, girl. You gotta stop doing that.”
I gave his arm a playful punch. “But it’s so much fun.”
I liked DeAndre. He bubbled with enthusiasm and had the deepest set of dimples I had ever seen. Seriously. When he smiled, which was constantly, his cheeks resembled balls of clay stabbed with chopsticks.
“Where you been all day?” he asked. “Your dad’s been acting twitchy.”
“Twitchy? I doubt that.”
“Okay, maybe not twitchy but checking the back door every time someone clanks a pot. The last time I came in, he turned so fast he damn near sloshed hot grease onto Lee’s arm—and I don’t need to tell you how unhappy Lee was about that. Not at your dad, at me. So I’m thinking, you lead.”
“First in, first to die?
“Somethin’ like that.”
“And when has Uncle ever hit you with anything?”
“Never,” DeAndre said, shaking his head and bouncing his dreads. “And he’s not going to as long as you’re standing in front of me.”
I laughed. DeAndre was right: I was the only recipient of Uncle’s swinging pans or flying cooking utensils.
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