Junkyard Bargain

by Faith Hunter

  Cupcake was wearing pajamas, her blonde hair up in a sprout tail atop her head. Her face was set in a mulish expression. “We need him. We need him to find an earthmover and help get the Simba out of the mud. He survived the Battle of Mobile. The Simbas were the only weapons that survived the battle. Jagger survived, ergo he was in a Simba, so he probably knows how to drive one.”

  “Ergo?” I asked, my mind on her deeper meanings, things I had thought myself.

  “It’s a good word. Ask your Berger if you got no education,” she said, sounding a little mean.

  “I know what it means. And yes, we do need him.” I needed and wanted him in the worst ways possible. But not while sharing a room with Cupcake and the cats. No. Never. “Before he left the scrapyard, I put him to work,” I said, knowing the headache wasn’t going to be babied. “Just a few suggestions, things he might want to do. They took, even if getting away from me decreased their effectiveness. He’s halfway to becoming my new Harlan.”

  “He’d make a good Harlan. He’d make a better nest-mate.”

  I had planted memories of a meeting and discussion in Jagger’s brain, though the person I intended him to remember was my fake boss, a burly macho man, not the girly accountant named Heather. I’d given Harlan’s contact list to Jagger and told him there was a traitor to the OMW in it. That person likely had access to contacts in the Gov. and was making alliances with the MS Angels. Jagger had said it had to be a cell of people, not just one. Before he rode away, he’d said he’d be breaking bones and busting teeth to find the traitors. That was an enforcer’s job. But I hadn’t intended my suggestions to steal his sleep and make him less effective. Or to make him think about me twenty-four seven. Or link our sex dreams.

  “I’m right. You know it.” Cupcake said.

  I closed my eyes and didn’t respond to her comments, saying instead, “I’ll have to go after the MS Angels’ leadership eventually, as soon as Jagger gets intel on the traitor cell in the Gov. and in the OMW. But first we rescue the Simba. Then we rescue Evelyn and kill Clarisse.”

  I didn’t add, and in between, rescue women in the log cabin in the hills. Cupcake hadn’t seen the women, and she had bad memories she had never shared. No need to stimulate them. But . . . Yeah. I was going on a rescue mission of my own.

  A Simba would come in handy for that. Someone in the Gov. had made an alliance with the bloody bedamned MS Angels. And one cell of Angels was led by a queen, like me. Every time I thought about that I got cold chills. When Cupcake started to reply I said, “I have a headache. Wake me in half an hour. Then we’ll go for supper.”

  “We should ask Jagger.”

  “We’re not asking Jagger. We’re doing girl’s night out, remember?”

  “He’s hot. I’ll take him if you don’t want him. But I saw how you kissed Mr. Sex on a Stick. You want him.”

  “Half an hour,” I sighed and let myself ease into sleep.

  ∆∆∆

  We had reservations for Italian, or as Italian as anyone could get these days, at Marconi’s Famiglia, a famous addition to Charleston’s restaurant offerings, run by old man Marconi, his four sons, and three daughters. The restaurant had dim lighting, starched white tablecloths, cloth napkins, fancy plates and utensils. The waiters wore black pants and white shirts with red-checked aprons. Soft music played in the background. Wine bottles were everywhere. Old wood floors gleamed. Candles flickered. Yes. Prewar ambiance. It all set the mood for fabulous food. And a wine list that was outrageously expensive.

  I ordered chicken Marsala with real made-from-wheat-and-not-potato-flour pasta and a lettuce salad big enough to choke on, and a beer. Cupcake started out asking for the same thing but changed her mind when I said she could get what she wanted. She ordered a Caprese salad, bruschetta, and chicken Carbonara with pasta. And a big bottle of wine.

  I had now officially busted my entire personal budget for the year. A frisson of fear swept through me, followed by relief when I remembered again the sterling silver Cupcake had found in the scrapyard. I could buy all the ammo I needed and still afford a night out. I could call it employee bonuses and the Gov. might let me slide. I looked around Marconi’s with a less jaundiced eye. A girl could do worse for a business expense.

  For the fourth time, Cupcake asked, “Do I look okay?” She smoothed her dress down her thighs. “I never wore dresses when I was riding. Me and my old man, we rode with just a backpack between us.” She held out a foot, admiring her new, sparkly shoes. They were prewar, new in the box, scavenged from somewhere, and only a little too tight. “Do I look okay? Does it make me look fat?” She stroked the dress again.

  “No. Cupcake, you look . . . radiant,” I said, trying for a new word that would satisfy her more than pretty, beautiful, and fancy had. “That dress makes you look like a princess. All the sequins, the pearls, and the gauzy . . .” My hand flapped in the air, waiting for the Berger chip to help me think of a word. It didn’t. “. . . dress parts. And I like your hair curled like that.” It was loose, a curly bouncy blonde that swayed when she turned her head. “Marconi’s sons are practically drooling over you.”

  “Not me. You. You look beautiful,” she gushed.

  Unlike Cupcake, I had worn dresses all the time, up until the start of the war, when my mother died riding bitch seat behind Pops, shooting at the invading PRC. I had outgrown all my own dresses, but Little Mama’s clothes fit perfectly, and our coloration was similar enough that I could wear her entire wardrobe. My mixed-race heritage gave me golden brown skin that looked like a very, very dark tan, and my hair was dark with sun-bronzed streaks.

  At Cupcake’s insistence, I was wearing one of Little Mama’s cocktail dresses in a lustrous black that picked up a dark, old-gold sheen in the right light. The skirt was loose enough that I wore a wicked six-inch blade strapped to my left thigh and a small-cal semi-automatic on the right. And because Little Mama had been no fool, the dress had bottomless pockets on both sides so I could retrieve both weapons easily. I was also wearing a pair of Little Mama’s fancy earrings and a necklace. And lace gloves to protect anyone from being transitioned accidently by my touch. The ensemble looked a little odd with the pale-blue sunglasses, but I hadn’t known what the lighting would be like in Marconi’s. It was dim enough that I put the glasses in my tiny bag, which I placed on the floor beside my strappy black heels. I’d be in trouble if I had to run, but with our bodyguard, that was unlikely.

  The big bearded fellow was waiting outside with the other bodyguards, and the cats, who were patrolling the neighborhood. I could feel them in the distance, like a faint itch in my brain, though that made no sense at all. They were having a wonderful time, chasing big roaches and house mice and shadowing humans they thought were suspicious. Which was so cute.

  The salads came, along with the bottle of wine, a Marconi son going through the entire cork-sniffing routine, even though the cork was plastic. It was a Carolina red, sold in black bottles to look as if they had been burned in a fire and rescued. Which sounded gross, but whatever. I didn’t drink much wine.

  The waiter poured wine into Cupcake’s stemmed glass and placed a beer in a cut-crystal stein at my elbow before departing. If he leered at us a little, I let it go. We were pretty cute.

  “Thank you. It’s been ages since I had wine.” Cupcake held her glass up to me, and I clinked my stein to it. “To friends,” she said, sipped, and made a little moan of delight.

  Friends. That word knotted up inside me. It was a lot more personal than thrall. And I had never had a friend. Except Harlan and Mateo. Harlan was dead because of me, and technically Mateo was still a thrall.

  Friends. I lowered my stein and sipped. It was good beer. It tasted of . . . friendship.

  For some stupid reason tears burned my eyes. I blinked them away.

  I knew nothing about small talk, but for Cupcake and her dreams about being a high-class lady on a girls’ night out, I’d try. “Tell me about the gorgeous shoes and that dress. Where did you find
them?”

  She made a little squeak of pleasure and launched into the details of her shopping spree, which had taken place while I napped. I listened with half an ear, keeping an eye on the restaurant patrons, the Marconis, and catching sight of a cat on the outside windowsill, looking in. Staring at me.

  The world spun and vertigo hit me with a green-and-silver vision of motorcycles with black and blue and green-flame paint jobs. Spy blinked at me and dropped away. I tried to ask her, What? What’s with the bikes? But she was gone. And I had no idea what she was showing me, except some really cool motorcycles. I didn’t get the sense of danger or attack, just bikes.

  My balance restored itself as Cupcake nattered on. And on. She told me details about every single store she had visited. About a lending library where she sat reading old magazines. About a movie theater showing the latest Ms. Robo-Marple thriller.

  Everything seemed fine, though the cats disagreed with that assessment. I ate my salad. Drank my beer. And then the main course came.

  The smallest Marconi son brought out a pretty folding stand and a big tray containing four plates—our order and two others. The dishes that weren’t ours were a platter of triple-cheese-stuffed manicotti and another holding a small whole roasted chicken with fresh herbs (heavy on the rosemary) and sautéed green beans, enough to feed two starving adults. But instead of taking the extra food to another table, he arranged the plates at our table, poured a single glass of wine, and brought up one more chair. He left.

  I looked at Cupcake. She went scarlet and made an honest-to-God titter.

  “Cupcake?” I said, the word laden with suspicion.

  “I. Well.” She twirled a pale curl around her finger. “It just seemed . . . I mean, I thought . . . I ran into—Here he is!” She jumped to her feet and waved at the door. Where Jagger stood, wearing a black suit and a perfectly starched white shirt, open at the neck.

  “Bloo-dy damn,” I whispered.

  Jagger, top enforcer to the vice president of the Outlaw Militia Warriors, had been bad-boy dangerous in riding gear. Gorgeous in black jeans. But standing in the inner door, wearing a black suit . . . he was devastating. A shiver shuddered through me.

  Built like a brick shithouse: small waist, broad shoulders. Oh. My.

  His brown hair was slicked to his skull, blacker in the dim light. His eyes were heated, his mouth in a dangerous scowl as he took in the restaurant and every person in it. He flexed his hands into fists, the rings on every finger moving like the disjointed knucks they were, glinting in the low light. He met my eyes, his containing a warning.

  Liquid heat stroked through my middle and spread out as if someone had lit a flame inside me. My bio-mech nanos hadn’t forgotten the kiss—oh God, that kiss. They wanted him almost as much as I did.

  In that black suit, in the rarefied glow of Marconi’s candlelight, he looked even bigger than before. Fast-looking and rangy, if rangy was also big enough to play offensive tackle in the NFL, except leaner now. Meaner.

  Bugger.

  Suddenly, a black cat raced in the door, whirled past Jagger, and sprang onto my table, his feet missing the platters, his feral green eyes like emeralds. He hissed at the kitchen, fangs bared. He hissed again, a much louder noise than his small body should be able to make. He was staring at the concierge, one of Marconi’s sons. The man was racing from the kitchen toward Jagger. Pulling something from his apron.

  The black cat hunched back, gathering himself. He hurtled at the concierge. Landed with legs straight out on the man’s crotch and dug in with his claws. Bit. Hard. The man screeched. Backed up fast. Beating at the cat. The cat screamed a war cry and bit again. More cats dashed in from the night.

  Marconi siblings raced in, all behind the man, knocked into him, tripped over him, spreading out into a wedge. Falling. Rolling. Banging into tables. Cats and humans screeching.

  My weapons were already in my hands. Without thinking, I had moved, crouching behind the low wall at my side.

  Our bodyguard appeared from the darkness, kneeling, taking cover behind the wall at the door, holding it open, his weapon sweeping for a target. More armed protectors gathered there.

  Cupcake ducked behind me.

  Dishes clattered. People screamed. Diners raced into the night followed by their bodyguards.

  The Marconi boys rolled on the floor, drawing knives and guns. Scooting into firing positions.

  Jagger had drawn two weapons from God-knew-where. Aimed one at the brothers. The other through the open window into the kitchen, at the chef, Old Marconi. My bodyguard stood up behind him, one weapon aimed at the brothers, one at Jagger. “He’s ours,” I shouted to the bodyguard.

  Cupcake had whipped out a tiny pistol from her cleavage and another from her hip.

  Marconi’s injured son screamed so high it hurt my ears. The black cat screeched again and tore for the door like a flying shadow.

  The cat was gone, but the man covered his privates. There were long bloody scratches on his arms and hands. Thank goodness the black cat wasn’t a queen. Unlike Tuffs, back at the scrapyard, he couldn’t transmit nanos.

  I dropped low, scooting on my toes into a better firing angle. I glanced back to see Cupcake in my peripheral vision. Returned my eyes to the doorway and Jagger. Remembered Spy’s vision of the motorcycles.

  MS Angels? Maybe tracking Jagger? He would be an enemy the Angels would know. But why did the Marconis—

  The injured son curled into a ball, his screams going silent in agonized gasping.

  “He’s the top OMW enforcer,” one of the Marconi daughters yelled from behind me.

  “I’ll put a pretty little hole in your pretty little eye, bitch,” Cupcake said, her tiny pistol aimed in steady hands. “You take care of the others. I got the chick,” she said, I assumed to Jagger and me.

  Where had Cupcake’s panicked tears from the morning gone to?

  Old Marconi shouted from the kitchen, “My friends. My friends. No violence in my establishment.”

  Into the odd silence after Marconi’s words, Jagger spoke. “I just wanted some nice Italian,” he said, sounding reasonable and calm, despite the weapons, one of which was still centered on Old Marconi, as the man wandered from the kitchen, deceptively calm. “Maybe have a nice conversation with you, the Charleston chapter president of the Hells Angels, over a nice bottle of wine. I thought we could talk about the Mara Salvatrucha, working their way into the area, taking out the competition, see if there was any interest in working together for a little while. The enemy of my enemy and all that shit.” Jagger grinned at Marconi. “In my jacket pocket I have four Montecristo cigars. The real thing. From Cuba. A peace offering.”

  Old Marconi looked around at his empty restaurant. “You could have asked,” he said. “Call me. Send a little a note. You didn’t have to ruin my night’s business or castrate my heir. He’s a good a boy.” He flapped his hands at his family. “Put it away. I don’t want to clean up blood tonight. Gunfights make such a mess.”

  “Papa,” the girl behind me warned.

  Marconi sent her a look. Then back to Jagger. “These women are yours?”

  “No. I don’t own women. Think of it like two birds, one stone. I get a nice meal as well as a nice chat with the Chapter prez. An important man. And maybe I get lucky after.”

  I narrowed my eyes at Jagger. Who was now officially back to being called Asshole.

  “Four Montecristos?” Marconi asked.

  “Limited editions. Two for us to enjoy after the meal, and two to leave with you as a gift.”

  “And my patrons?”

  “Marconi’s is too delightful for anyone to stay away,” Jagger said, “though I do offer my sympathies for tonight’s lost business. It’s my hope our discussion will make up for it in some small way.”

  “We shall see.” Marconi waved at his children again. “Seat our guest. Clean up the mess. Bring a decent bottle of wine and a nice salad for me. We will share a meal with your lovely ladies. We will talk.
And we will decide what to do about the Mara Salvatrucha.”

  “Forgive me for saying, but if we discuss the MSA, we need to discuss the men your son Enrico met with this afternoon.”

  Old Marconi leveled his dark eyes at one of the men on the floor. He was a very pretty boy, the prettiness marred by anger and discontent. Slowly, Marconi said, “Enrico. What have you done?”

  “The only thing I could, Papa.” The boy climbed to his feet. He looked earnest and fearful at once, a handgun in each hand, street-thug style.

  I tensed again and eased into a better firing position, my weapons on the boy, point-and-shoot style. Behind me, Cupcake said, “Uh-uh-uh. Weapon down, bitch. Or we’ll bloody up your daddy’s clean floors, starting with you.”

  “The world is changing,” Enrico said. “We have to change with it.”

  The girl behind me shifted into view, her weapon—a lovely prewar H&K nine-millimeter—aimed at her brother. That was a surprise. She said, “The Mara Salvatrucha treat their women as slaves. I won’t be some man’s play toy.” She was beautiful, and for reasons I didn’t understand, I was reminded of the naked woman in the log mansion. And then it hit me. Was it possible that I had come into contact with MS Angels already? Bloody damn. I needed a private word with Asshole, but I wasn’t going to get it.

  “Lorenzo,” Marconi said, “take Enrico’s weapons. Secure his hands. Mina, remove and explore his Morphon. Download his contacts and locations to mine. There will be no slavery in my city. Children, put away your weapons. You too, lovely ladies who are my guests. You are under my protection. You others, serve the nice gentleman and the pretty ladies. And bring me a glass of the Elijah Craig, small batch. Get your brother to a med-bay, and call your mother. She will want to be here for this.”

  Jagger’s weapons had already disappeared. I nodded to our bodyguard. The man shook his head, his expression saying it was part of his job to endure crazy stuff. He disappeared and the door swept closed, two cats racing out at the last moment. The others disappeared under tables; one hopped into the rafters as if an eight-foot jump were nothing. Spy. I got a whirlwind view of the restaurant and caught the low wall for balance before working my weapons back through my pockets. Cupcake’s disappeared into her cleavage and elsewhere. I feared she would shoot herself, but when she plopped back into her chair, she smiled happily.