* * * * *
“You don’t belong here!”
That voice was rough and insistent, and Mickey reversed course out of the cardboard box she’d been inspecting. She’d found herself beneath the overpass, drawn by a hazy memory of stumbling over the pedestrian path above the nearby river.
The man she currently faced could have been another of their victims. Confused, angry, his demeanor set to “belligerent.”
“Sorry,” she said. “Is this your box?”
“No,” he said, and brushed away a bug that wasn’t there. “But it’s not yours!” Bad hair, bad teeth, bad breath, bad manners.
“You’re right,” she said. “But I was thinking of hanging out over there.” She nodded at an area near the riverbank. “Nice culvert there, doesn’t look like it’s being used.”
He snorted. “‘Cause it floods in the wet.”
“It’s the dry,” she told him. “And I’ll only be there a few days.” At most. If that. She just wanted a bolt hole …
His laugh was true amusement, something of his original personality peeking out. “That’s what they all say, darlin’. That’s what they all say.”
* * * * *
Mickey earned the good will of her neighbors by sharing the bounty from her raid on Steve’s fruit, cheerfully explaining her source.
“Oh, Steve,” said a worn woman whom Mickey suspected was less than ten years older than her own thirty-two but looked about sixty. Meth had ravaged her features and her teeth. “He’s something, Steve is. His brother used to be one of us, you know. Mosquito really used to hang with him.”
“I had the feeling.” But Mickey didn’t ask for details, because it felt strangely like prying … and because she thought she probably knew the important parts already. Except … “He’s dead, right?”
“You done took this food from a dead man?” Her first contact, the man called Mosquito, spoke around a giant bite of pear.
For an unpleasant moment she thought he would spit the masticated fruit at her feet. “No, no, no,” she said quickly. “Steve’s brother. He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Long time,” said the meth woman. “Looong time. Steve used to haunt our places. Mooning around with those calf eyes of his, trying to drag Zander back home. Finally gave up. Some of us belong out here.”
“It’s our own choice,” a man muttered from behind the battered, flattened cardboard box he’d brought with him, always keeping it as a shield between Mickey and himself—though one hand had appeared to receive the half-apple she’d pressed into it.
“Zander got himself stabbed.” The meth woman waved in a vague, unidentifiable direction. “Went out to Mugsville. There’s always someone at bat there.” She laughed, pleased with her chance to use what was obviously a tried and true line.
“Damn bugs,” Mosquito snapped, and stomped away, waving his hands at his face.
“He got a bug thing,” meth woman said, as if it needed explanation. “Not so bad, otherwise.”
“Mugsville?” Mickey asked, though she had a good idea.
“Well, hell, honey, you know.” The woman tucked her hands into her belt, which happened to be a couple of plastic grocery bags twisted and tied around her waist. “Muggers. They don’t care how little we got, they want it. And it’s kind of uptown, so we don’t belong there anyway. I think Zander was hunting out his folks—they liked the little theaters. But there’s this line—the rich folk stay on their side, we stay on ours. Problem is …we know that line a lot better than some of them do. There’s always fresh meat for them as wants it.”
Mickey affected a shudder. “I don’t want anything to do with it, then. Where did you say? By the little theaters?”
“Not too far from that fancy museum of theirs.” Meth woman gave her brief directions, her expression showing increasing anxiety. Mickey thought it was the conversation, but no. “You got any money?” The woman offered up a smile that was so fake as to be scary. Not to mention it showed her heavily damaged teeth to their full advantage. “Just a few bucks, that’s all I need.”
“Just the food …and that’s gone.” The truth, but Mickey wouldn’t give the woman money if she’d had a fistful. A nice burger, on the other hand …
Thing was, she needed the money herself. She needed enough so she could do whatever she had to, not worrying about where she would stay, what she would eat, what she would wear. …
A forming thought tickled at her mind. It even scared her, because it came so easily, renewing concerns about who and what she was. But the thought followed her right back to her culvert, where she stashed her remaining things—one grocery bag, handle stretched and deformed, now containing only the old clothes, a toothbrush, and a travel tube of paste, the latter both from the freebies barrel and thank goodness for them. Then she pulled the flannel shirt and worn sweat pants on over what she already wore—God, she wanted some underwear—and the thought followed her back out again.
She had the knives; she had the slingshot and plenty of ammo—all for mugger mugging, the latest city sport. But who was to say she had to stop at filling her immediate needs? Who was to say she couldn’t even the score a little, and then spread the wealth?
Start by getting there. Hoofing it in flip-flops from the gym, little raw spots worn between her big toe and the next. Not exactly stealth footwear … but she never intended to get close.
* * * * *
He’d been foolish to think he could find her.
Just because he’d always been able to find his brother … always knew where to look, according to the weather. Not because inclement weather drove Zander to find shelter, or bright weather lured him out to the parks, but because to Zander, the weather assigned his position in the city.
Which is how Steve, having checked all the other obvious places, found himself gravitating toward the border areas. Those places his parents and his brother used to intersect on clear summer nights when the occasional offshore flow warmed San Jose and kept the city awake late into the night. Just like tonight.
His parents had had some close calls in this area.
His brother had died here.
Being here wasn’t something Steve took for granted. He carried ID and a little cash, but no credit cards. He didn’t linger; he walked the pavement with authority. Without Zander, he really shouldn’t be here at all. Not at this time of night. Not when he’d taken what remained of daylight to search the shelters and clinics and hang-outs between his two private lessons of the afternoon.
The streetlights ahead were blackened, leaving a swath of darkness across the sidewalks and street, an area even the cars rushed through. Time to turn around. If Mickey had landed anywhere near here, she was either hunkered tightly in, or already on her way to an ER somewhere. His best hope … that he’d already passed by her hidey-hole, and she’d stayed tucked away. He’d check around again tomorrow—by then, the locals would know her.
But while he was thinking of turning around and before he actually did it, he saw something up ahead in those dark spots. A man on the sidewalk, moving along with casual confidence, hands jammed into the pockets of a light jacket in a way that made Steve think at least one of them was wrapped around a weapon. No surprise, not here and now. And at that Steve would have turned to walk back toward brighter, more welcoming streets, except for the sudden cry the man gave. He jumped in surprise, he batted at his rump, and he followed the moment with a string of boringly overused curses. He turned to glare at the street, but didn’t appear to know exactly where to target his wrath.
And then he did it all over again, except this time those curses had real feeling. Steve’s surprised amusement tripped over to concern as he heard another voice—only faintly, at this distance, but enough to know it was a woman. No doubt someone with impaired judgment, engaging this man’s anger—however she was doing it.
Except as the man took a step toward the street, he clutched his leg and howled in earnest, hopping briefly in a one-legged dance around one of th
ose darkened lampposts. When he finally straightened, his posture turned furtive. He’d had enough. Steve stood transfixed as the man took one lurching step of flight, then flinched wildly back; a crack of noise sounded off the brick building beside him. Bullet ricochets? But there had been no gunfire.
At this point, the man wisely froze. In the silence that remained, the woman’s voice called out an order—clearly an order, even if Steve was too far away to hear the words. Steve couldn’t stop his jaw from dropping ever so slightly as the man, his movements jerky and resistant, reached into his jacket and dropped something on the ground; it clattered. Knife or gun, no doubt.
Another verbal prodding and the man augured into his pockets, dropping the contents with a gestured flourish that was easy to interpret: there, happy now, bitch?
And apparently she was, for she said something dismissive and he didn’t waste any time. He ran down the street, limping distinctly, and if he considered turning back on her, the range of her mystery weapon thoroughly deterred him.
She waited until he was a full block away, and then Steve saw her run out from an alley on the other side of the street, staying fast and low, and gathering up her booty with swift efficiency.
What the hell had he just seen?
“Yo, mutha.” Amused and confident, the low voice behind Steve made him freeze with understanding.
He’d come to this part of town and he’d forgotten to watch his surroundings; he hadn’t kept moving. He had, in fact, just stood there like an idiot, completely entranced with the darkened scene before him. First mistake.
And then he realized his second mistake.
Taken unaware, he’d forgotten everything he knew about remaining submissive, about giving the man what he wanted—about throwing the wallet to the ground and taking off, pride in tatters but body whole. Instead, he’d dropped into a balanced stance, an immediately recognizable postural shout of resistance.
He had only that instant to realize it before everything about his world exploded, literal bursts of light inside his head and then just as suddenly the cracked sidewalk slammed up against his face. Hands patted his pockets, digging in after the small fold of bills, and the words, “Bad move, asshole. You swipe at me, you—sheeit!”
The thwack of sound made no sense, even as Steve struggled to pull his thoughts back together. Something had smacked his mugger, but—
Thwack! Harder, this time. The man left Steve’s pockets alone and kicked him instead. Kicked him hard and did it again, both blows somehow bouncing off the same spot on his hip. He tried to curl up into a protective ball, and realized to his annoyance that he only clawed ineffectively at the concrete, one arm going so far as to flop. Mind and body, not speaking.
The woman’s voice spoke. “Leave him alone, you fool.”
“You crazy bitch!” The man snarled with menace. “You better run.”
Thwack! Even harder, and it got a yelp of pain; the mugger stumbled over Steve as he recovered from the blow, not the least bit careful where he placed his feet. Steve swiped at his ankle, a clumsy move. The man kicked his hand away and gave him another in the ribs just for good measure.
“Who’d better run?” That voice was low and full of menace. “You think you can bring that gun up before I can take your eye out? Or your nose? Are you especially fond of your nose?”
“You’re damned crazy—!”
“Then there’s no telling what I might do, is there?” Familiar, and yet … still not. “And you know what? While you’re at it, you just empty your pockets on the sidewalk. Drop the gun first. Then I want to see something come out of every pocket. You got dope? You keep it. Everything else is mine. All your take.” Thwack! and this time it sounded different, a softer impact—a louder protest. “You want I should call my target first next time? I can damned well put a stone up your left nostril if that’s what I want.” A drop of something fell on Steve’s hand.
Blood.
The crazy woman meant business, bless her heart. He twitched that hand; withdrew it a little. Might be something to that brain-body connection after all. But he let her carry the show. Especially as something heavy fell on him, gouging into sore ribs. He couldn’t help but grunt, and then again when leather and chain—wallet—smacked down on him, followed by coins and …
She’d done it. The man was giving up the goods, dumping them down on Steve in one last act of defiance. Muttering along with it. “You ain’t safe here after tonight. Not anywhere in this town.”
Her voice was deceptively low. “Gonna tell your friends a soft little white chick took you down? Gonna tell them it was a crazy little white chick, shirt on her head? Gonna tell them what I look like under all this, or you just gonna guess?”
Steve realized he was, somehow, laughing. Silently, eyes closed, head ringing, body aching … silent, helpless laughter. The mugger realized it, too, and dealt him a swift kick. Steve grunted at the impact, and barely heard the woman say, “Run, now. Run away. Go tell your friends. See what happens if you do find me.”
With one final spit of a curse, the mugger did just that. Steve got only a glimpse of him, enough to know he was young, still coming up on the streets. Very much the age of his boys at the gym.
“Hey,” said the crazy woman, and she crouched down next to him, wrapping her fingers around his upper arm. “You got anything left? We really can’t stay here.” And then she gasped. “Steve. What are you doing here?” Just a hint of a pause before more words tumbled out, the voice no longer low, no longer menacing. “You’re looking for me, aren’t you? I can’t believe it. C’mon, get up—that kid’s gonna wipe the blood off his face and start looking for ways to get tough at me.”
The tug on his arm grew more insistent, but not enough to override his shock of recognition. “Mickey?” He did get up, then, at least halfway—enough to look at her. That, too, was a shock. She had no shape; her mid-section had turned lumpy and bulgy beneath the single tank top above her shorts, and on her head—
Yes. It was a tank top, the straps tied in a bow at the top of her head and two eye-holes cut out for those bright eyes, a gaze even this poor light fought to diminish.
Coins slid off his shirt to hit the ground in a brief tympany; she ignored them to scoop up the gun, stuffing it under her shirt. She scooped up the wallet, the scattered cash, and left everything else where it was.
He couldn’t hide his disbelief. “You … you’re mugging muggers?”
“Why, yes,” she said, gave it a moment’s thought, and added a brusque nod. “Why, yes, I am. And an entertaining and lucrative evening it’s been.” The goods disappeared into the nebulous stuffing under her shirt. “But it’s not over yet, and it’s going to end with a bang if we don’t get out of here. So pull your scrambled egg brains together and let’s go.”
This made a certain amount of sense, and he lurched to his feet, swaying into her hard enough to make her stagger away; she caught herself and came back to sweep his arm across her shoulders, steadying him. “Are you crazy?” he asked, finding his tongue remarkably loosened by circumstances and probably concussion.
Her response was dry, and she didn’t hesitate in steering them a course across the street and toward the overpass. “That’s what they say.”
He’d have to think about that one. It didn’t seem like an answer at all, not when he’d finally come to blurt the question outright.
Of course, he probably wouldn’t remember it anyway.
* * * * *
Mickey was more than relieved to learn just how much she could count on her own wiry strength. Enough to drag Steve back to the underpass, although it would be fair to say he needed little more than the stabilizing effect of his arm over her shoulder.
It would also be fair to say she was as much relieved that he wasn’t the Schwartzenegger-type of gym owner. His compact body-by-Michelangelo suited her just fine … and didn’t knock her down when he stumbled.
“You know,” she said, easing him down beside her drain pipe, fin
ally able to wipe the sweat from her forehead with something other than a furtive rub against an upraised shoulder, “I left for a reason. I left so no one at the gym would get hurt. That included you, for the record.” She pulled her second tank top—the one with the eye holes, and which she’d removed after they’d fled a block away from her final encounter of the night—out from beneath her shirt where she’d stuffed it and untied the straps so she could shrug it back on, working it beneath the first one.
It really wouldn’t do to walk around with the eye-hole shirt as the second layer, not when she’d just worn it to take down a handful of muggers.
Steve muttered, “You didn’t ask me.”
“I didn’t have to. I happen to think your concerns were valid.” She pulled the flannel shirt from where it had been tied beneath her clothes. Not only had it completely obscured the nature of her breasts, it had served as a fine pouch for her night’s work.
Work she had, in fact, found tremendously enjoyable. Both the slinking in the shadows, targeting muggers in action … and relieving them of their own belongings afterward, when they were—for the moment—all cocky and pleased. In a perfect world, she’d have interrupted the muggings as she did with Steve, but there were too many variables to that plan. Too many opportunities for things to go wrong, and for the victim to be hurt or killed instead of just robbed. Her way, she’d stayed entirely unseen—at least until she’d pulled that young punk off Steve.
She’d turn her credit card booty in to the cops. The cash …
That was another story. She had plenty of use for the cash. Just call me Robbin’ in the ‘Hood … Or not, because having one assumed name seemed like enough. But Robin Hood in spirit she’d be—and at least half the cash would go for food and supplies for those who lived here. The underpass people.
Hidden Steel Page 7
