As Original Cindy had predicted, the bike messenger gig allowed Max to learn the city at a far faster rate than if she’d just been bouncing around on the Ninja, hoping to get lucky in her search for Seth. Living with Kendra in the off-the books apartment was working out just fine, too, though the rent was a bitch, thanks to that greedy bent cop.
But living in a squatter’s hotel was perfect: no sign of Max would appear anywhere in the city records, and amiable airhead Kendra was easy to live with and was turning into a good friend.
At the same time, Max’s friendship had grown with Original Cindy, cemented by Max staking Cindy for the cost of the bike you needed to even apply at Jam Pony. The two women were spending almost every leisure moment together, with Kendra frequently in the mix.
Original Cindy had found her own pad, after only a week at Jam Pony. Not only was she more independent, her crib was closer to Max’s apartment than the friend’s place she’d initially crashed at. Every morning Max would hook up with Theo, then bounce over on their bicycles to pick up Original Cindy, and the three of them would ride together. They would get coffee and bagels, stop in a park on the way and eat, then wheel on in to work.
It was during these light, chatty breakfasts that Original Cindy, Max, and Theo started getting to know more about each other. Max knew she was learning a lot more about her friends than they were finding out about her, and sometimes she could feel Cindy’s hurt vibe that Max was remaining overly secretive.
But since O. C. and Theo didn’t seem to be genetically enhanced killing machines, developed in a supersecret government lab, they had a tad fewer secrets than she did.
A month had glided by since Max had left Moody and the Chinese Clan, and the only thing she had to complain about (to herself, that is) was that she hadn’t found Seth... hadn’t even turned up a lead. Even the news had been devoid of any mention of the “young rebel” in league with “Eyes Only.”
Of course, as good as Max was at looking, Seth would be better at hiding. He’d had the same training as her, and — like Max — had been on the run a long time, knew how to cover his tracks far better than she knew how to uncover them. After years of running and hiding, Max found it difficult to turn the process around, to look through the hunter’s end of the telescope.
One thing was for sure: she would never give up. A relentlessness was bred into her — whether by Manticore or her own human genes, she could not say. She just knew she would find Seth.
The only doubt that managed to creep in, from time to time, was the notion that she might be wasting her time, chasing someone who — though a remarkable specimen, and similar to her — wasn’t really an X5.
Even worse was the possibility that this might be one of Lydecker’s X5s, the star of some later Manticore graduating class, doing covert work the media was playing up as the work of a “rebel.”...
In the meantime, Max found herself in the midst of a new life, and even a new family — some of these other Jam Pony riders were all right.
The nominal boss, however, Normal — whose work moniker was an improvement over his real name, Reagan Ronald — had turned out to be just as uptight as Theo had claimed. Conservative to the bone, a fan of both Bush presidencies, the oblong-faced, perpetually distracted Normal — with his long straight nose, thin lips, and headset that seemed as much a part of him as his hands or ears — wore his brownish blond hair short and combed back, his black-frame glasses and constant frown making him look like a sad librarian.
Normal considered Max and his other employees a bunch of slacker losers, which hardly inspired the best in them. Constantly saying, “Bip, bip, bip,” his secret code for “hurry up,” hadn’t gained him any new friends either; neither had his favorite, painful pseudo-expletive — “Where the fire truck is...?” Fill in your favorite Jam Pony rider, like for example...
... Herbal Thought, a Rastafarian with a shaved head, short beard, and ready smile, a generous and philosophical instant friend. Frustratingly cheerful, he was always ready to share anything he had — even his ganja, which Max took a pass on — as well as to proselytize for Jah and the theory, “It’s all good, all de time.”
The other messenger who befriended Max and Original Cindy, from day one, was a scarecrow with long, lank, black hair, greasy strands of which trailed down over his dark eyes. Sketchy, they all called him — a nickname that applied more to his thought processes than any artistic ability.
More than a little weird (“He the lost Three Stooge,” Original Cindy opined), Sketchy had sold himself out for experiments in a psych lab before he’d signed on at Jam Pony, and many of his friends thought that might explain his somewhat odd... sketchy... behavior.
Today, like most days, the four of them — Max, Original Cindy, Sketchy, and Herbal — were taking their lunch break at The Wall up the street from Jam Pony, a cement slab where the gang hung out, doing bike tricks and generally chilling. Here they sat and wolfed sub sandwiches from a nearby shop. Herbal passed on having a sandwich, however; his main course was a spliff he lit up — not much bigger than Max’s thumb — and inhaled deeply.
“Ah, ’tis a gift from God,” Herbal said, as he leaned blissfully back against the table.
“I should become a Rasta,” Sketchy piped in, admiringly. “That’s my kinda sacrament.”
Herbal shook his head and made a tsk tsk at the front of his mouth. “Ah, but worshiping Jah is not about the ganja, man. Worshiping Jah is about faith... faith and growth.”
“Growin’ ganja,” Original Cindy said, and they all laughed, including the Rastafarian.
The strong scent tickled Max’s nose. “No wonder you think it’s ‘all good,’ ” she said.
“Hey,” Sketchy said brightly, as if the idea he was about to express weren’t something he suggested every day, “who’s up for Crash after work?”
“Original Cindy could be up — how ’bout you, Boo?”
Max shrugged. “Guess I could hang for a while.”
The nature of the job — each rider out doing his or her own deliveries — prevented them from tiring of one another’s company by the end of a long day; they enjoyed gathering to tell war stories, share anecdotes about Normal, and swap tales of tricky deliveries and asshole clients.
“Cool!” Sketchy turned to Herbal. “You?”
“If my brother and sisters need me to be there, you know Herbal will indeed be there.”
“Don’t refer to yourself in the third person, my brother,” Original Cindy said, frowning. “Original Cindy don’t dig that affected shit.”
Everybody looked at her, not sure whether she was kidding; and they never found out.
“Okay,” Sketchy said, eyes glittering, proud of himself for organizing something that happened almost every day. “We all meet at Crash!”
“Sounds like a plan,” Max said, rising, only half her sandwich eaten. “Gotta bounce — Normal’s loaded me up with every shit delivery that came in today.”
Original Cindy shrugged, smirked. “He jus’ knows you can go into any nasty part of town, and come out with your ass in one piece.”
Sketchy frowned in fragmented thought. “Wouldn’t that be... two pieces?”
Max left them to argue that one out.
Over the course of the afternoon, she made four deliveries. The first was to a place way the hell up on Hamlin Street, by Portage Bay; the next on the way back on East Aloha Street, just off Twenty-third Avenue East; the third on Boylston near Broadway; and the last turned out to be the Sublime Laundry, downtown.