“No. Do not.”
“Okay, Lucinda. Not a problem, Lucinda.”
She got out and slammed the door and climbed the stairs two at a time, bags in hand.
“Lucinda?”
“What?”
“You forgot to pay me.”
She looked down on him from the patio and he saw her shoulders sag and heard her sigh. Her bags clunked to the deck. She unslung her purse and came back down the stairs.
* * *
Ted finished off his shift at five o’clock, drove his truck to Open Sights in Oceanside and picked up his new Glock. Kerry sold him a clip-on holster, cleaning kit, a locking transport box, and a padded cloth pistol bag. The range was busy and the sharp reports of the guns came muffled but forcefully through the walls and safety glass. He thought of Lucinda coming down her stairs. She had asked for him.
“We’ve got some terrific classes coming up next month,” said Kerry. “Self-defense, safety, all the laws you need to know. Plenty of those to learn and more on the way.”
Before leaving the store Ted made sure the gun was empty, then locked it in the hard case. He locked all of his purchases in the toolbox bolted to the bed of his truck. Driving back toward Fallbrook he felt different. He felt calm, capable, and equal. He felt that he had a powerful secret. He felt that he could protect himself and his family and Lucinda against criminals and government. He thought how different it would have been—the day that Edgar held him up and took his money—if only the Glock had been there with him.
She had asked for him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
He stopped and bought a twelve-pack of budget beer and drove to Pride Auto Repair. Cade’s Bel Air and Trevor’s Magnum were there, along with a gleaming red-on-black Harley-Davidson he recognized. It was dark enough by now for the neon sign to show up beautifully, the blue Model T throwing out red flames. Standing between his truck and the building, keeping a weather eye for cruising cops—especially the one who had given him the nystagmus test in broad daylight after he’d been six months sober—Ted holstered the unloaded gun and clipped the rig to his belt. His XXL aloha shirttail—hula girls in grass skirts playing ukuleles—covered the gun nicely.
Inside there was no one at the front desk but behind it, through the open double doors to the repair bay, Cade Magnus fiddled with the engine of a van and Trevor rolled a new tire toward a white pickup truck. A biker couple Ted had met—Screw Loose and Psycha—sat on the old paisley sofa with their legs splayed and beers resting on their thighs, watching the men work. Ted walked into the bay and opened one of the refrigerators, set the twelve-pack inside then broke one off for himself. He lifted a white resin chair off the stack and set it down by the sofa. Cade and Trevor were watching. Ted lifted his shirttail. Cade nodded and Trevor gave Ted a thumbs-up.
“New iron?” asked Screw Loose. He was a short and stocky, with long orange hair and a short orange beard. Ted had noticed that, contrary to most bikers, Screw’s leather was always clean and his gear always shiny, right down to the buttons on his vest.
“What’s it look like to you?”
“Don’t shoot yourself in the foot.”
“I could shoot you.”
“Funny,” said Psycha. She was thin with lank brown hair parted down the middle and a face brined by wind and sun.
“True, too,” said Ted, enjoying the familiar tightening of breath and vision that presaged anger.
“What’s got into you, Ted?” asked Screw.
“It’s the gun,” said Psycha. “He’s got stones now. He’s not the shuffling moron he was yesterday and the day before.”
Screw Loose laughed loudly. Ted shook his head and cracked his beer. The beauty of having power was you didn’t have to use it. You could just glide. Cade cursed at the Chrysler engine and Trevor started locking on a new tire with the half-inch impact gun. Ted considered the paisley couch and again remembered seeing Jed Magnus sitting on it, reading, with one hand on Mrs. Magnus’s knee. Through the raised back door he saw the street where he’d sat on his bike all those years ago, looking in.
* * *
Cade and Trevor finished up the work and everyone filed past the refrigerator for beers, then went into the lobby. Joan and Amber showed up a few minutes later in tight jeans and snug tops and heady perfumes. They brought a friend named Icey who was slight and fair-skinned and had tattoos running up the backs of both legs—serpentine plaits like an old-fashioned silk stocking—disappearing under her shorts. Her hair was a bleached buzz cut and her face was studded and serious. The three women sauntered in and headed straight for beers, then the pool cues. Joan slung her purse onto the counter and dug in for some you-know-what. Trevor put on some hate rock, a new band called By the Neck Until Dead. To Ted they sounded even worse than Hate Matrix, although the lyrics were rousing.
Ted whiffed a .45 casing of powerful methamphetamine and chugged a beer. As the crank blistered his brain Ted danced awkwardly in place and clapped his hands to the music. I can do anything! He and Icey, the tattooed woman, won their game against Cade and Joan, though Ted wondered if Cade threw the game by missing an easy put away of the eight ball.
When Ted knocked it in Cade nodded approvingly and said something to Trevor, who checked his watch. The music was too loud for Ted to hear what was said but everyone else seemed to understand. The women gathered their purses and jackets and headed out to the parking lot. Cade and Screw Loose followed and a moment later Ted heard the Bel Air and the Harley roar to life. The headlight beams cut across the Pride Auto windows and the car and motorcycle rumbled away leaving Ted and Trevor in the wake of noise.
“Where’d everybody go?” asked Ted.
“It’s time to go see your friend.”
A visceral, muscle-rippling thrill shot through Ted, almost as strong as another whiff of crank. “The next level? Yeah, let’s do it.”
“Come here.”
Ted followed Trevor back into the repair bay. In one corner, leaning upright near the old-fashioned soft-drink machine, were a half-dozen baseball bats. Ted saw that some had been cut short. Trevor lifted one of these and gave it a discerning half-swing, more of a chop, then handed it to Ted. “Use this aluminum one.”
“What if he has his gun?”
“I’ve got it all figured.”
“I have the Glock just in case.”
“You won’t need it.”
“But just in case.”
Back in the lobby Trevor closed the front-door blinds, then the men stepped into the evening. Trevor locked up. Ted drove his truck down Old Stage. It was just after seven, and the street was quiet tonight. He swung into the shopping center and parked by Robertito’s Taco Shop where Trevor told him to. He cut the engine and looked out at the busy little restaurant. “Have you had their burrito fries?” Ted asked. “They’re so big I can’t even finish one.”
“I eat healthy, not Mexican.”
“You got all those muscles to take care of.”
Trevor looked at his watch again. “Edgar comes here most weeknights, about right now, according to a friend of a friend of his slut girlfriend, Jessica. He gets food for himself and her. She lives in that trailer slum in the middle of town and they eat at a picnic bench by the creek. They eat, then breed in his car, then Edgar drives home.”
“They’re gonna recognize me,” said Ted.
“That’s the whole point. You’re you and you’re white, and brown doesn’t mess with white. That’s your gospel. You’re going to beat this truth into his ignorant head.”
“You’re not going to be with me?”
“I can’t fight your battles for you. This greaser stuck you up at gunpoint, friend. Don’t forget it.”
“This was going to be you and me.”
“This was never going to be you and me. Don’t worry.”
“I want a mask. Like in the movies.”
“Then next time get yourself a mask, Ted! Do we have to feed and clothe you, change your diapers? Are you a Rogue Wol
f or a baby? This is a simple thing we’re trying to accomplish here. Are you going to fail us?”
“I’m not going to fail.”
“Good, Ted. Because Edgar just pulled up. That’s his old Malibu. Here, take this—then switch seats with me.”
Trevor lifted a snort of crystal to Ted’s nose but didn’t take one himself. The top of Ted’s skull lifted off cartoon-style then slammed down and Ted pictured brain dust puffing out his ears. He came around the truck and Trevor slid over to drive. Trevor leaned across and put a small baggie in the glove box and told Ted not to forget it was there. Trevor steered them through the parking lot to Mission and drove the short half mile to the Meadowlark trailer park. Ted’s mind was racing toward doubt all of a sudden, so he touched the Glock at his hip and looked at the baseball bat leaning against the seat, and, in the company of a friend, felt a riptide of confidence.
“Okay, Ted. Let’s do this.”
They pulled into the trailer park. Ted hadn’t been in Meadowlark since he was a boy on a bike. He remembered the many colors of trailers and the butterflies that were drawn to the lantana that grew down by the creek, and the purple spikes of pride of Madeira limned by sunlight. There were plenty of tree frogs back then, too. He knew his mind was wandering off again, deliberately trying to avoid duty. He took a deep breath and felt the oxygen and the chemicals speeding through his blood. It was like having God loose inside. Trevor guided the truck down the narrow, barely paved road. Ted looked at the big funnels of the trumpet vine blossoms dangling over a yellow trailer. Up ahead he saw the pond and a bench.
“Get your hood up, Ted. That’ll keep them from recognizing you until it’s too late. Go sit on the bench like you’re just enjoying the night. Keep the bat out of sight under the table.”
“What if he has the gun?”
“Bash him as soon as he gets close enough, man. Do I have to explain every damned thing to you?”
Ted lifted the hood over his head. He slid from the truck and carried the bat with the cut-off end cupped in one hand and the handle tucked up along his arm. He sat on the far end of the bench where he could keep at eye on the pond and on the road down which Edgar and Jessica would come. The bat lay across his lap, hidden by the tabletop.
It was dark here, away from the lights of Mission Road. He looked back to his pickup truck, parked inconspicuously along a chain-link fence between a battered old station wagon and a neat subcompact. Through the windshield Trevor’s face was a smudge in the dark. The traffic up on Mission hissed along and Ted smelled KFC and a hint of nightshade. His heart throbbed fast and hard but the deeper he breathed the faster it went. He stood, looked around, sat back down, watched the flicker of moonlight on the pool.
Then he heard footsteps and voices coming down the road in the darkness. Turning slightly he saw Edgar and Jessica. Edgar wore pale pants and something black on top. The girl wore dark clothing that wasn’t yet visible in the darkness. When they came closer Ted saw that they each carried a plastic bag and that Edgar had already noticed him. Ted tried to ignore the wild rush of blood so loudly coursing in his ears. Their voices came through the night. He turned his face toward the water.
“Who’s that?”
“Victor?”
“Victor’s in Elsinore tonight. Mike? Is that you, Esse?”
“It’s me, Edgar,” said Ted, his back still to them.
“Mike? What are you doing here, man?”
“You bring me burrito fries?”
Ted heard Edgar’s plastic bag hit the far end of the table top. “You shouldn’t have taken my money,” he said, turning.
“What? Taxi guy?”
Ted rose and swung the bat and the cut-off barrel whipped through the air. Edgar caught it inches from his face and held on. Ted wrenched hard but couldn’t break it loose. Edgar grunted, his face just inches from Ted’s, and Ted used all his strength but their wills were locked and their weights and strengths were equal. Jessica screamed and crashed into him and punched him hard in the ribs. Ted felt his strength surge and he slowly muscled Edgar away from the bench and toward the water. Jessica hit him again and it hurt, but neither man let go the bat.
Suddenly the world was two bright eye-rattling beams of light and Trevor advancing through them. Ted heard Jessica gasp and yelp and a moment later something heavy landed in the water. Then Edgar suddenly stiffened and let go of the bat. Ted fell away and Trevor took his place, pounding Edgar with short, practiced punches. Edgar dropped to his knees, then to his hands, too, head snapping and blood flying in answer to Trevor’s kicks. Jessica splashed noisily toward shore. Ted righted himself and tried to draw his gun but he couldn’t find the holster snap. Then Trevor was shoving him toward the idling truck. Ted stopped and closed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest and tried to unscrew from the world but Trevor slapped him sharply across the face and pushed him. Ted clambered up then Trevor came around and in, his leather gloves smeared with blood, yanking the truck into a tight U-turn. As the headlights raked them, Ted saw Jessica dripping over Edgar, who was still on his hands and knees, shaking his big head like a man in disbelief.
“I had no idea you were that fucking slow,” said Trevor. “Did you panic?”
“He was faster than me.”
“Shit, Ted. You had a club!”
They were down Mission and almost to Fallbrook Street when Ted felt the hot sharp pain in his side. He braced his feet on the floor and pushed himself back and lifted the hoodie and T-shirt. On his lower ribs were two swollen bumps about the size of cherry tomatoes, each with a neat slice in the top. Blood trickled steadily from both.
“Woah, Trevor. She stabbed me.”
“I saw the knife. The hospital’s close, Ted. You’ll be okay.”
Trevor sped up Elder then gunned the truck up the hospital entrance and pulled alongside emergency. “You’re on your own,” said Trevor. “No use dragging me into it. Whatever you say, don’t tell them you were at Pride tonight. I’ll leave this truck in the Wells Fargo lot, keys on the left rear tire. Think of your wolf pack, not of yourself. Gun and holster off, Ted. I’ll lock them in the toolbox behind us.”
The knife wounds burned hotter and Ted felt bad in his heart, too. “Okay. I’ll go alone.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
At four that morning Patrick wheeled Ted from the emergency room to his truck. Fallbrook slept in dark and fog. Patrick could smell the ocean and the burned land around them and the combination was rare and jarring.
“It hurts when the chair hits the sidewalk cracks,” said Ted.
“We’ll be home soon.”
“I don’t want to go home.”
Ted’s wounds had been treated and he’d made his statement to the sheriffs. His luck had been good: no veins or arteries cut; no organ or GI damage, although the knife had come close to doing both; nothing broken off inside; the antibiotics would help him fight off infection and he was given pills for pain. No strenuous physical activity for a week.
Ted told the deputies that he had parked at the bank last evening to go to the Irish pub across the street—all set for the roast beef on rye—when two young gangster types had jumped him and he’d fought them off. One of them pulled a switchblade and poked him twice and they’d taken cash from his wallet and left it on the ground. He’d walked up the hill to the hospital himself. No, he did not know them. But he could certainly identify them. He seemed disinterested and he rarely looked at the deputies. Patrick listened to him doubtfully but said nothing.
He helped his brother up into the front seat. Ted grunted dreamily. Pat rolled the wheelchair back to the lobby and climbed into the truck a moment later.
“Can we go fishing, Pat?”
“No.”
“Can we just drive out and look at the ocean? I’m hungry, too.”
“Let’s eat in Oceanside then we can go down to the water if you want.”
They ate at a twenty-four-hour place on Coast Highway, then walked, slowly, to a bluff overlooking
the beach and pier. They sat on a cold concrete bench. The waves slapped the shore below, hidden in a gauze of fog as the sun rose behind them imperceptibly. Ted asked for a war story and Patrick told him about patrolling at night, racing against sunrise, single column and single file, with the point man working a Minehound and the number two man backing him up because the sweeper couldn’t quickly return fire. And about how when they took contact everyone froze right in place, single file, lined up like ducks but not wanting to step off the path and get blown up. Which is what the skinnies wanted, because single-file Marines made easy targets. And he told Ted about the various IEDs the Talibs made—the pressure plates, the crush boxes, the saw blade IEDs. Ted listened without interruption but telling these things was a burden to Patrick and his heart was far from in it. He’d rather forget than provide entertainment.
“What the fuck really happened last night, Ted?”
“It was just like I said.”
“Two guys with a knife outside a bank with security cameras all over? At dinnertime? With the restaurants open? Two blocks from the sheriffs’ station?”
“Yup.”
“Bullshit, brother.” Patrick had taken a toothpick from the counter of the café. He picked at something, then let the pick dangle from his lips. Ted had taken one, too, and Patrick saw him do likewise.
“I want to confess,” said Ted.
Patrick just shook his head.
“I’ve been hanging around with Cade Magnus and those people at Pride Auto Repair. I’m a Rogue Wolf, pretty sure.”
“Why? Why do that, Ted?”
“We believe the same things.”
“Christ.”
“Christ was white, according to the Wolves. And to history. None of this olive-skinned stuff you hear.”
“Did the Wolves put you up to something last night?”
“Oh, no, Pat. This confession isn’t about last night.”
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