by Layla Wolfe
“No one from Bihari would ever harm me. I am a special advisor to Swami Shakti.”
“You’re saying you don’t remember any semiautomatic bullets being sprayed in your general direction? Do you remember the van with all the street bums being dumped back into the desert?”
Of course I did. But my mind couldn’t reconcile what had happened yesterday with what I knew of Bihari and Swami Shakti. Loving, gentle, concerned. Above all, interested in enlightenment, not in dumping bums—or me—in the desert. So I merely said, “What happened to the others—the other, ah, disciples?” They weren’t disciples. I knew they’d been bussed in to swell the voter rolls. I just couldn’t admit to what seemed like a slightly shady tactic on Shakti’s part. It must not have been his idea.
Knox snorted. “The disciples are at our clubhouse under our protection from the people who fucking tried to kill them, Asanga or whatever your name is.” He sighed heavily. “What’s your real name? I’m not calling you some hippie-dippy made-up name.”
“Asanga is my true, inner name, the manifestation of—”
He waved an arm at me and turned away. “Okay, whatever. I don’t know what kind of fantasy land you like to live in, but you were dumped out there alongside ordinary street bums, like you were taken out with the garbage. You have no idea why?”
“Of course not. It was obviously a mistake of some kind. I can see why he might want to rid the ashram of people whose inner lives didn’t coincide with the reality of our outer world. Some of these people might have thought they could get a free ride or free beer, and some of them did turn out to be addicts we weren’t prepared to handle. We don’t have rehab facilities, Mr. Hammett. Some of them did lie to us they were clean of limb and only accustomed to two beers—”
“So it was some colossal mistake that you were shoved into a van with these street people?”
“Yes. That’s all I can figure.”
“And shot at? Did you know any of the armed guards?”
“Well, yes. I knew all of them. Bulsara was just carrying out orders. He wouldn’t be a very good daimyo if he didn’t carry out orders without questioning them now, would he? I hold nothing against him.”
“You hold nothing against him even though he sprayed you with weapons fire? My, my. That ashram must be teaching you some highly evolved skills, ‘cause I sure as shit would be tearing old Bulsara a few new orifices if he tried that with me.”
I giggled. I believed him. The guy was incredibly manly. He exuded a virility I hadn’t witnessed in a long time—if ever. At the time, I probably wrote it off to him having some very good electromagnetic chi going on. “Well, I don’t think there’s anything suspicious. In fact, I’d like to get back up there. Where’s my skirt?” I set down my coffee mug.
“Hang on. I’ll give you back your skirt, because unlike some people, I don’t need brainwashing or muscle to keep people hostage.” I bristled at that, but Knox ploughed on. “Where were you from before you wound up taking underwater basket weaving classes up at Merry-go-round Canyon? They only moved in up there about seven years ago.”
I shrugged. “I am a local, somewhat. I grew up in Cottonwood, about half an hour from here.”
When he crossed his arms in front of his chest, his pecs and biceps sure bulged. I had to move back a few inches, his sexuality was so overwhelming. We weren’t trained to respond to this sort of allure, so I was highly uncomfortable. We looked for inner beauty, not tattoos and muscles. “Do you know anyone from Cottonwood, anyone you’d like to visit? I’m trying to get the 411 on exactly what happened on that mesa. You can understand where I’m coming from, Miss…Asanga. I don’t feel like returning a girl I saved back to some psychotic slave owner. I’d never be able to sleep at night if he was keeping you in a box under the bed or measuring you for a skin suit.”
I had just been thinking of Maddy, so I said, “Yeah. I went to high school with a girl, Maddy Shellmound. I wouldn’t mind seeing her, if she’s still around. If she’s alive. She was a senior when I was a freshman, and I thought she left to go to nursing school in Flagstaff.”
Knox’s face was slack with recognition. “Maddy? Sure, I know Maddy. She’s around. In fact, she’s married to the President of the club that runs the hangar I just mentioned where your bum buddies are. She did good for herself, became a nurse, married Ford.”
I frowned. “What’s this ‘club’ you keep referring to? Like, a Lion’s Club? Kiwanis?”
Knox grinned crookedly. “Nope. MC.” I must’ve looked mystified, for he clarified, “Motorcycle club. Listen, I’ve got to take this. Hey, Lytton. You find out anything from the juicers?”
Knox talked on his cell. I allowed what he’d said to sink in as I looked out the window at people and traffic. A motorcycle club, seriously? That had the potential for some real fun, and for the first time in a long time, I was truly interested in and excited by something. It would be even better if they rode Harleys and not rice rockets. I specialized in Harleys, although up at Bihari I repaired all kinds. It went against the grain of some mellow, green, organic disciples to straddle a big piece of iron. They liked to ride electric scooters, little pasta rockets. I was actually one of the few with a Harley. But I repaired them all.
I idly listened to him talk to his friend. “Granola? What makes you think there’s anything nefarious about organic breakfast cereal? Uh-huh. Yeah. Okay, I’ll ask her.”
I saw a few teens emerge from The Hip Quiver holding large rectangular cases. Nope, not a bar. A guy in a powder blue suit with a bad comb-over also emerged, holding the door politely for more teens. Then he headed across the street to our building, raising his hand against traffic as though he were a politician.
Punching his cell with his thumb, Knox turned to me. “Hey, Aswani.”
“Asanga.”
“Aswani. Were you often forced to eat granola over at that la-la-land place of yours?”
“Eat granola? No, why?” But I had the feeling this mysterious tough guy wouldn’t answer me, so I said, “There’s always a lot of talk about shipments of granola. I guess it’s a special kind, maybe gluten-free or whatever.”
Knox was overly interested in this granola. “Really? What else can you remember about these shipments?”
“Well, let’s see. My mind’s kind of muddy on a lot of issues, maybe due to the yogurt drinks.” But I always tried to please, so I strove to recall. “Well, just that it’s coming from Riker’s Island, which is strange. Isn’t that a prison in New York? It’s going to be coming up Highway 17 tomorrow, coming through the Agua Fria Monument area at five o’clock in the afternoon.”
“Good,” said Knox. “This is good to know. Can you call anyone up there in Disneyland to find out what sort of truck the granola is coming in?”
“Oh, I already know. I hear everything the Master says. Except when I’m working in my shop. Besides, no one up there has a phone. I don’t.”
Knox grinned. “Yeah, about that shop. I’d like to know more. You probably know Maddy’s brother, Speed. He’s the chief wrench for The Bare Bones.”
“I knew her brother, Bobby. We were in the same class.”
“That’s him, I think. Big explosion of blond curly hair?” Knox made a gesture as though squeezing a grapefruit on top of his head.
It made me laugh. “Yes, that’s him. He’s a mechanic now, too? Well. I’d like to see them again.”
“I’ll take you over to Maddy’s this morning, as soon as we have breakfast. What sort of truck is the granola coming in?”
“A Safeway truck. We do a lot of our ordering from Safeway. You know, things we can’t manufacture or grow ourselves, like shampoo or kiwis.”
“And granola, eh? Good, good. Let’s go down to the grill and grab breakfast.”
But someone was knocking on Knox’s door. It was the thin-haired guy I’d seen coming out of the Hip Quiver. He walked in rubbing his hands professionally, saying,
“Hey, hot stuff. I got a tip from a little bird that you
were transporting, ah, shall we say, a precious cargo?” He held out his hand for me to shake. He was slick, all right, but in a good way. He was the sort of guy who would wear a suit even when he wasn’t seeing any clients all day long. His yellow tie was just loud and busy enough to make him stand out from the crowd, as though he couldn’t tolerate being normal or usual. “Slushy McGill at your service, my lovely.”
I had been taught to be polite. “Nice meeting you.”
Knox said, “We were just going downstairs to grab a bite, Slushy. Want to join us?”
Slushy thumped his chest with his fist. “Indeed I would, although I’d better not order that Bobo’s Special again. That lunch kept repeating itself like a sinful past life.” Shaping his arm into a crescent, he ushered me out Knox’s door. Since I didn’t remember entering the apartment in the first place, and I didn’t get to leave the ashram often, even the dirty Victorian stairwell was fascinating to me.
“So I heard you’ve been living up in Fruit Land?”
“Fruit Land? We have fruit trees up there at Bihari, yes.”
“Excuse me, Bihari. I’m very interested in what goes on up there.”
“Oh? You’re interested in becoming a disciple?”
“Something like that, yes…”
CHAPTER FOUR
KNOXIE
The waif Knoxie had saved from certain death was a banging hot babe.
Sitting across from her at the greasy Bum Steer table, Knoxie found himself drifting off into fantasyland while she spoke with Slushy. He knew Slushy was trying to draw her out, get her to talk, and he was actually grateful for that. They’d need all the ammo in their clip to fight this fucking ashram or whatever the loony place was called. Know thy enemy was a truism from his SEAL days, and it completely applied now. He was glad that the oily, slick club lawyer had come knocking, even if it meant Knoxie didn’t get to be alone with the delicious devotee.
At the same time, Knoxie felt guilty. He felt they were using the poor ignorant trusting waif. She didn’t seem to have a clue that Slushy was pumping her for intel. She seemed to think he genuinely wanted to learn about their inner spiritual life or what have you. Slushy could talk the good talk, and while he was pumping Asanga for the lowdown on kundalini and primal screams, Knoxie stepped away from his pancakes to make a call to Ford Illuminati, President of The Bare Bones MC.
Ford was at a construction site—Knoxie could tell by all the backup alarms and yelling. Ford had to yell to be heard, too, over the din. “Knoxie? Yeah, what went down over on by Slide Rock? I’ve been talking to some of those burnouts Lytton and Wild Man brought back. Man, oh Manischewitz, did you rope up every clown in the car on that one. There’s a dude who seriously thinks he’s George Costanza. You know, from Seinfeld. Like he couldn’t have been Jerry? He had to be George? He keeps telling us not to double-dip.”
Knoxie had to chuckle. “That must’ve been one of the ones who came from the Bronx. Anyway, the girl refugee told me when and where to expect the shipment of granola.” One of the sterno bums had told Lytton that “granola” was actually the term for their “knockout drops,” and The Bare Bones wanted to cut off their source—whatever “knockout drops” were. They wanted to get to the bottom of what was going on, find anything to use as leverage against the kooks. Knoxie passed on the intel to Ford, then added, “Another thing. She knows Maddy. They went to high school together. She was in Speed’s class.”
“You’re shitting me. Well, bring her by. Maddy should be at the house all morning with Fidelia. Fact, it’s probably smarter if we keep the loony tunes with us, anyway. I’ll be needing you on that job tomorrow. I’ll have Lytton and Turk ride sweep, but I want you riding point. You game for it?”
Knoxie had been expecting this. With the club in the ATF’s crosshairs, it would be smart to use civilians as point men in case things went south. It was implied that he’d be rewarded. The club never failed to reward men for good service.
The more Knoxie got to know Asanga, the more protective of her he became. Last night, watching her sleep the sleep of the damned in his bed, great paternal feelings had washed over him. Maybe it was missing his own kids. But he had vowed never to let her return to that wasteland where everyone seemed to be a few trucks short of a convoy. Since plucking her from that sandy mesa, Knoxie’s fresh point of view on life had opened up new doors of perception. Her pleading face had triggered off something emotional in him.
Now, knowing she had ties to Cottonwood and knew Madison Illuminati only strengthened this vow. He would triumph against these nutjobs. He’d been an incredible idiot for much of his life, had loved and lost, and he’d put himself into some fucking dangerous places. He knew he could overcome these massive odds. “Sure, I’m in.”
“You’re not needed at the cum factory?”
For the first time, Knoxie actually felt ashamed of his employment at The Triple Exposure. Even though it was one of Ford’s dummy companies, it did make good clean green. The world had been coming to Triple Exposure films for several years now. Knoxie had just been acting to supplement his inking income. There wasn’t a line out the door of his Missing Ink private studio. Pure and Easy was still a relatively small city, not an urban jungle that would have supported a fulltime tattoo artist. So he’d turned to acting, not just for the money, but partially out of boredom, out of missing Nicole.
But suddenly, since meeting Asanga, he wanted to wash his hands clean of the cum factory. “I only did that to amuse myself, Ford. If I decide to patch in with you guys I’m going to give that up. It’s just not compatible with the club lifestyle.”
“Really?” Knoxie knew Ford would be delighted that he was finally kowtowing to throw in his lot with them. “About fucking time, Knox. You know I’ve been dying to use the road name Flip for you for years now.”
One fucking time he’d eaten asphalt on his Softail. One fucking time he had parked it horizontally while canyon carving, and they’d never let him live it down. Hell, he had inked Ford and Madison when they were goofy teens. He thought they might let one tiny crash go. Besides, he still walked with a slight limp from that high side. It had been no laughing matter. Irritably, he said, “You can call me Flip when I’m fully patched. Right now I’m concentrating on this job. Slushy’s questioning Asanga right now.”
“Don’t let him spook her. You know how oily he can be. Scares women off. And listen! Don’t go rogueing. Don’t think you can keep her in your little apartment without her running off back to her flower power friends. They might’ve tried to shoot her, but in her mind they’re probably setting up a surprise party for her, you know?”
Ford could be incredibly bright. “Right. Waiting dinner on her because they miss her so much. Turning down the sheets.” Knoxie knew that no matter how much she might think these people were her friends, they weren’t. That whole community was riding for a rough fall, from what he’d heard. They were strange, twisted, brainwashed zombies who just needed some deprogramming.
“Well, there might be some that miss her. I’m sure she had true friends among the purples. So you’ll have to tread lightly.”
“Oh, and something else. Evidently she’s a fucking bike mechanic, Ford. I guess they get around on their little crotch rockets up there.”
Ford made a lip fart. “Doesn’t surprise me. I can just see them zipping around their little purple campground going to their meditation retreats. What’s her real name, so I can tell Maddy.”
Ford had a good point, so Knoxie told him to hold while he walked back to the girl’s table. Slushy was leaning forward with his tie in his fries saying, “Seriously? There are a hundred and eight different kinds of meditation?”
Asanga touched her stupid necklace with the round wooden beads. “Yes, each bead is a different sort of meditation. This isn’t really a picture of my Master—it’s a picture of nothingness, because he can’t be photographed.”
Slushy pretended to be floored. “Well, I can’t say as I can wrap my head around all of
this just yet. Maybe give me a few of those bhang lassis and I’ll start to get there.”
Knoxie couldn’t wait to get that damned necklace off her. To him, it represented the worst of religious repression. He had been indoctrinated into Catholicism by his Sicilian mother. He’d been an altar boy down in Hondo, Texas, he’d done his time. He’d seen the dark side of organized religion, and it wasn’t pretty. It was the worst sort of brainwashing—just one giant excuse for a few in power to run amok, abusing their authority. Every time he looked at this young woman, he steeled his heart to fight for her salvation. He had seen the damage done by regimental spiritual practices. That sort of thing, in his opinion, was best done on a personal level, in the privacy of one’s own home.
And it should not suck up every waking moment of anyone’s life, like it had done to this poor thing.
“Excuse me,” said Knoxie. “What’s your real name?”
Predictably, she sat erect and said prissily, “Asanga is my real name. It’s my true, inner—”
“Cut the crap.” Knoxie was getting tweaked. His fourteen-year-old daughter Sage often tried to run games on him like this. He shook his cell phone. “I’m talking to Madison Shellmound’s husband, Ford. How’s she going to remember you if you say Asanga? Now, why don’t you just cut to the chase and tell me the name on your driver’s license.”
She recited like a fucking automaton. “We don’t need driver’s licenses. We are known by our spiritual—”
Slushy cut her off. He had her by the wooden necklace, gently tugging on it. “What hot stuff here is trying to say, my dear, is what name is on your birth certificate? What name did your mother give you, so she had something to call you by before you became enlightened? Oh, sorry, before you became a chosen one.”
“Oh. That.” She actually had to think about it. The question seemed to confuse her. Knitting her brows, she looked at her paper placemat.