by Debra Dunbar
Sadie was asleep with some chocolate smeared across the corner of her mouth when I checked on her, so I headed outside to work on my bike and think. Next door, a woman in a flowered dress sat in her driveway on a plastic chair, a shotgun across her lap. She nodded at me then picked up a plastic tumbler of iced tea and took a sip. I nodded back.
The late evening sun was warm on my shoulders as I got the toolbox, a tarp, and a couple of rags from the tiny garage that served to hold a mower and miscellaneous outdoor equipment rather than a vehicle. By the time I’d wheeled my bike to the front left side of our driveway our neighbor had company. Javier stood beside her. They fell silent, the boy watching as I tried to start my bike, because sometimes the motorcycle repair fairies swoop in while you’re eating dinner.
The motorcycle repair fairies obviously hated me because the bike still wouldn’t start.
Javier wandered across the neighbor’s weed-choked, dirt lawn and stood over me as I pulled off the seat and stared down at the battery. Connections looked good, but just in case I tightened them and tried it once more.
Nada. It just wasn’t turning over, which in my very inexpert opinion meant fuel or air intake. Although all the battery juice in the world wouldn’t do shit if the spark plugs were fouled.
“Won’t start?”
The kid had brilliant deductive powers. He also had a fairly large pistol jammed deep through the waistband of his pants. I thought about asking him if he was happy to see me, but the kid was fourteen.
“Don’t shoot your dick off,” I said instead as I rummaged in the toolbox for a twelve-millimeter socket.
“Safety’s on.”
Maybe so, but he still shifted the gun to the side. Great. Now he’d just shoot his leg off and bleed out. For a teenage boy, that was probably preferable to losing his love sausage.
“Hopefully it didn’t flick to off when you moved it around in your pants. Get a damned holster, Javier.” I fiddled with the idle screw as a sort of Hail Mary. When that didn’t work, I started taking shit off, setting parts aside in neat rows on the tarp I’d laid down. Had the throttle cable disconnected or broke? Because that would be an easy fix. I followed the line, then watched the lever wiggle as I engaged the throttle.
Javier snorted, but did a quick check of the pistol safety before squatting down to stare at the side of the bike with the expert gaze every teenager had when it came to anything in the world.
“Give me a hand here, would you?” I was going to have to pull the gas tank, and while I’d done it before, it was really a two-person job—especially since I’d just filled the bike up yesterday.
Javier stood, eyed the tank, then put a hand on the top as if he were blessing it. I rolled my eyes. “Let me get the bracket off first and lift the tank, then you can hold it while I unhook shit. Don’t drop it. It’s full and heavy, and I don’t want to crack the tank or ding my paint.”
He nodded, his eyes riveted on my hands as I pulled the bracket, setting the nuts and bolts carefully aside on the tarp. Grabbing one of the rags, I balled it up and slid it under the tank so the hose from the fuel filter could drain on it, then I eased the tank up. Javier reached out and supported it while I removed the rubber bumpers that had long ago come unstuck from the frame, and set them aside.
The boy seemed to be having no problem at all balancing the tank, so I went ahead and removed the hoses and tach cable, turning the fuel cock to off before pulling the hose from the fuel filter. A trickle of gas spilled from it down onto the rag, filling the air with the sharp odor of flammable liquid. Javier’s nose wrinkled, but his hands remained steady.
“Go ahead and lift the tank off and set it gently on the tarp away from the other parts.”
He hesitated. “Isn’t the gas going to spill everywhere?”
I pointed to the fuel cock. “No, because I turned that off. Otherwise we’d have about four gallons of gas all over our pants, the driveway, the yard…”
He grinned at me. “I’ve never worked on a bike before. This is a-fucking-mazing.”
I pointed to the tarp with my screwdriver. “Well, put the a-fucking-mazing gas tank over there, so I can try to fix this thing.”
He moved the tank as if he were handling a nuclear bomb, but I noticed no strain at all in the ropy muscles of his arms. Strong kid. Sassy, smartass kid, but strong and skilled. He’d done a good job on the door, the windows, and the cabinets. Carpentry knowledge would serve him well in life, as would mechanical knowledge.
Drew had taught me the basics of working on a motorcycle, and the rest I’d learned on my own through trial and error and YouTube videos when we’d had a computer and internet.
“What now?” Javier asked as I unscrewed the cap on the air box.
“We replace the air filter, just because. Then I’m going to replace the fuel filter. I ran it pretty low, and with these old bikes, there’s crud floating around in the bottom of the tank. If the filter’s clogged, it won’t get enough gas to start.”
“And if that’s not the problem?” He leaned forward, looking at the air filter as I pulled it out.
The real question here was diagnostics. The engine on this bike was a-fucking-mazing, as Javier would say. The carburetor system? Not so much. Do I replace the fuel filter, button it all up, and see if it starts? Or do I go ahead and rebuild the shitty carburetor that had been giving me fits? I’d put it off because I’d needed my bike, but I also needed it to be reliable. Stranding me in Silver Lake wasn’t reliable.
“Run in the garage. Grab an air filter and a fuel filter for me. They’re on the shelf toward the back,” I told Javier.
He’d figure it out.
I always grabbed parts for my bike as well as Bea’s car whenever I could.
Air filter. Fuel filter. Spark plugs, although I’d replaced them and the wires early last year. I’d already checked the throttle cable, but I needed to check the fuel line to the carburetor and see if it was pinched or blocked. If it was a switch or a sensor, then I was pretty much screwed since I had no idea how to do anything other than just replace those, and it was kinda late to run to an auto parts store. My gut was telling me the problem was a stuck carburetor float. I really needed to pull and rebuild the carburetors. I had a set of gaskets. I had a manual to walk me through it. It was just a matter of time. I couldn’t be hitching rides all over LA right now, and spreading the guts of my bike across the dining room table to clean and reassemble would take me an entire day.
I didn’t have an entire day.
Javier brought back the correct items, although he could hardly screw it up since they were neatly labeled in boxes. Then he sat and watched as I cleaned contacts, checked cables and hoses, and replaced filters.
“Sadie…she gonna be okay?” Javier asked as he handed me a six-millimeter socket.
“Yes.” I felt more confident saying that now than I had in the last two days. Sadie would live. She’d be okay. She might have a long painful recovery learning to walk again, and I had no idea if she’d regain full mobility, but she’d be okay.
“How about Nevarra?” Javier yanked a blade of grass from our barren lawn and began to twist it into a knot. “They took her, didn’t they? That’s what Mom said.”
Nevarra. My stomach knotted into a hard ball at the thought of what she might be going through right now, what she’d go through if I couldn’t find her.
“They did take her. I’ll find her. I won’t give up until I find her, no matter how long it takes.”
That panic that had been simmering below the surface since the studio flared to the surface once more. Didn’t those cop shows always say the first forty-eight hours was the critical window in finding someone or solving a crime? That first forty-eight had come and gone. Just realizing that made my stomach churn. I was getting desperate.
The time for subtlety and care was over. I needed to go back to my guns-a-blazing approach. I’d hit every Disciple location, kill every one of their gang members until I found one who knew somethi
ng. I’d slaughter my way through the county until I brought Nevarra home again.
Neither of us said anything as I put the bike back together. The neighbor went inside then resumed her watch with a fresh glass of iced tea. A man carrying a rifle walked down the middle of the street, his eyes vigilant as he scanned his surroundings. I recognized him as one of the locals and figured that he’d drawn the short straw for neighborhood patrol this evening.
Javier helped me attach the gas tank. I made sure everything was connected and that the fuel cock was in the on position, then I sent up a quick prayer and tried to start the bike. It took a few tries and ran a bit rough even after I’d adjusted the idle screw, but it would have to do for now.
Hopefully the thing wouldn’t leave me stranded again. I just needed to get through the next week or so, and then I’d tear it apart and see if I could get it running at a hundred percent—well, as close to one hundred percent as a bike manufactured before I was even born could be.
I let the bike run, adjusting and tinkering until I figured it was as good as it was going to get. Javier finally got bored and wandered off. The sun slipped low on the horizon, at the edge of the barren stretch of fenced in land across the street that constituted the landfill transfer station. Just as I was putting the toolbox and tarp back in the garage, my phone rang. With grease and oil covered hands, I fished it out of my pants pocket and eyed the number. I didn’t recognize it but answered anyway. It could be for me. It could be for the former owner of this phone. Either way, I’d rather bullshit through a few awkward moments then let it go to voice mail and potentially miss important information.
“Yeah?” It wasn’t the politest greeting in the world, but I really didn’t give a shit.
“Andrea? Get your ass over to the airport. Century Boulevard and Postal Road—the old US Customs building where they used to store cargo awaiting inspection. Just pull in off Century, park out front, and walk on in. They want you there at nine. You’ve got one chance to impress the bitch. And you owe me a blow job.”
I recognized the deep snarly voice as Piers. Why the fuck did I kinda like this guy? He was a shot caller of a notoriously violent gang. And he worked out of a fucking In-N-Out.
Okay, the last wasn’t a deal breaker—not in the least. The other should have been, but for some reason I felt a moderate amount of respect for the guy. And I got that the blow job demand was meant to be funny. He’d absolutely take me up on it if I agreed, but he wouldn’t be pissed if I told him to fuck off.
“I’m not sucking your dick, Piers. If you’re lucky you might get a hand-shake—your actual hand, that is. That’s not slang for me jerking you off.”
He sighed, and I couldn’t help but smile at the disappointment the noise conveyed. “How about if I buy you dinner? Do I at least get a hand job then?”
What the hell was wrong with me? Earlier I was lusting after a scary guy with unknown and clearly dangerous abilities, and now I was considering a hit-and-quit with a gang member.
“Sure. Better be good food though. As much as I like In-N-Out burgers, that’s not gonna cut it.”
He laughed. “Princess. I’ll call you in a few days. Don’t screw up this interview.”
The call disconnected. I ran for the house, unbuttoning my shirt as I tore down the hallway.
“What is it?” Bea’s startled voice called from Sadie’s room.
I didn’t want to get her hopes up. For all I knew I was going to get myself killed in a shootout with a bunch of gang members and a woman who was probably a demon. Nevarra might not even be there. Nobody might be there except the “bitch” who was interviewing me for a job.
But if I wanted to keep a bunch of kids and possibly other people and supplies in a secure spot until they were sold, the old Customs and Border Protection warehouse would be the perfect spot to do so.
It seemed kind of silly to change out of greasy oil-stained clothes when I was probably going to get blood on them. It wasn’t like this was a real interview, and even if it had been I got the impression that looking a little on the scruffy side would be to my advantage. So instead of putting on clean clothes, I rebuttoned my shirt, loaded an extra magazine for my pistol, and strapped on the bracers with the thin set of knives. Just to be on the safe side I grabbed the anti-magic gun I’d salvaged from the Fixers. I hated using a gun I hadn’t had time to clean and inspect, but it was the only thing I had that would work against magic. If Desiree was truly a demon, I wanted to go in there prepared.
“Eden?” Bea poked her head into my bedroom, and I realized I been too preoccupied to answer her.
“I got a lead on Nevarra,” I told her, trying to decide if I should take a few throwing knives or not. I wasn’t all that accurate with them, but what the hell. Might as well go in with everything I had.
“That photographer?”
Bea eyed my weaponry. I didn’t look like I was going to meet a photographer. I looked like I was about to role-play a Call of Duty game.
“No. I managed to get a job interview either with the woman who runs the trafficking operation for the Disciples, or one of her flunkies.” I eyed my switchblade, then stuck it in a pocket of my cargo pants. “I’ve been beating the bushes for days now. This is as close as I’m going to be able to get to them, so I’m taking my chances and going in hot.”
Bea’s eyes widened. “Not alone?”
Who the heck would I take with me? I did everything alone. That’s how I ran. That’s how I’d always run, even when I’d been with Drew. Still, my mind immediately detoured to Bishop. If everything went to hell, that’s the guy I wanted at my back.
But Bishop cost money, and I’d already run myself way into debt with him.
“Eden, you’re not immortal. I don’t want someone dumping your body on my lawn because you thought you could run into a den of gangsters with guns blazing like a Wild West shootout. You take backup, you hear me? I don’t care if it’s a friend of yours, a neighbor, or that good-looking man with the big dog, you take backup.”
“I think Bob is a shifter,” I told her. “Bishop might be one too.”
She shrugged. “I don’t care what that man is. He looks like he’d be handy in a fight, and I think you should take all the help you can get.”
Bishop wasn’t handy in a fight. He stood around and let Bob and me do all the work. Although, I got the feeling he’d jump into action if either of us looked like we couldn’t handle something.
I shoved a couple more knives into various pockets on my cargo pants, thinking that Bea was right. I did need backup. The goal here was to bring Nevarra home, and I couldn’t do that if I got killed.
“I’ll ask Bishop,” I told her, wincing at how quickly I was racking up an astronomical debt to this man. I’d pay it off eventually. Hopefully, he’d be patient about it. That or take giant cans of chili in trade.
Chapter 22
For some reason Suerte seemed less intimidating tonight than it had the first time I’d been there. As soon as I went through the door I noticed a smaller but more multicultural group of customers were at the bar. A Black guy brooded into his beer. Two Filipino women were drinking wine and laughing over something on the one’s cell phone. A Latino guy dozed against the wall, a half-eaten burger on a plate in front of him. The only white guy in the place was that head on a pike by the bathroom door.
There was a head on a pike. I took back my earlier thoughts about Suerte being less scary.
HB came out of the back room and followed my gaze. “I told Bishop to take that thing down before it starts to stink. But nooooo, he suddenly needs to make a statement or something.”
I took a few steps closer, and realized that in spite of the battered and bloody condition of the head, I recognized this guy. King, the racist asshole who’d attacked me the first time I was here.
“Where’s the bearded guy’s head?”
HB grinned. “Cody? He got smart, and shut his yap. This one? Not so smart. I’ve got no idea what got into Bishop the
other night, but it’s about time. I couldn’t stand having those assholes in the place. Half our customers wouldn’t come in when they were here.”
Had what I’d said given Bishop the incentive to finally act? I’d been hoping he’d just kick them out and ban them from the place, not decapitate one and stick his head on a spike.
“His eyes are gone.” And noticing that nearly made me upchuck my dinner.
HB shrugged. “Bishop was in a mood. I think he was trying to bowl with the guy’s head. Didn’t work since it wasn’t exactly round.”
Okay. Now I was even more scared of the guy. Who better to have as backup when I was going to possibly have to fight a bunch of armed Disciples and a demon?
I tore my gaze from the head and went over to sit at the bar. “Is he here?”
“Nope.” HB shoveled some ice in a glass, filled it with tea, then slid it over to me. “He had a job. Haven’t seen him since early this morning.”
He was still out looking for Jimmie. For some reason I’d assumed he’d make Bob or other people do that while he came back to the bar. He must have decided to track down the photographer himself, and I didn’t have any way of reaching him.
“Can you get a message to him?”
HB’s eyes narrowed and she leaned over the bar. “Another job? When you most likely haven’t paid him for that tracking he and Bob did a few days back?”
Or what he’d done for me this afternoon, which she clearly didn’t know about. At least she hadn’t implied I’d paid him with sex.
“It’s part of the same job. Can you ask him to meet me at nine tonight? Here’s the address. It’s the old US Customs warehouse by the airport.”
