So we all sound like a choir of kazoos, except more melodious, and even the cage grill seems to be thrumming.
I fear imminent avalanche from the overhanging turquoise recliner.
What an ignominious end! MASHed to death. Mashed by not even real leather.
And then, in the darkness that surrounds us, black as the pit from hidey-hole to hidey-hole … I see light.
One eye has opened in the inky ruin of Ma Barker’s face. It is green and slitty and looking pretty pissed.
As we hold our conjoined breaths we hear a faint purring. Can it be from her?
No.
Oh, it is from her, all right, but it is not purring.
The sound escalates into an audible growl.
‘What is that bee-buzzing, mind-numbing racket?” she mutters. “It is interrupting my beauty sleep.” Then the eye narrows even farther, aiming at me.
“Is that you, Grasshopper?”
“Er, yes ‘um.” I hope to hell that Midnight Louise is too busy playing registered nurse to register this abominable nickname. Louise’s head lifts from her licking duty. Her eyes narrow.
I quickly change the subject. “Do you want anything?” I ask dutifully. “Do you want me to fetch Three O’Clock from
Temple Bar on Lake Mead?”
“That old sea-dog of a sorry excuse for a tomcat? I do not think so,” Ma Barker growls. Even louder. “Why would I want to see that no-good?” She rises up on her front paws, like a black, sand-blasted Sphinx.
Apparently me and dear old dad are excellent stimulants to the circulatory system.
I back off, ears flattened.
“Besides,” she adds in even stronger tones of disgust. “My hair is a mess.”
And that is when I know that Ma Barker will live to fight another day, and probably another racoon.
We are all hunkered down near the MASH unit.
Ma Barker is sleeping peacefully, her attentive maybe-granddaughter beside her.
I understand that her gang is much enjoying the subsequent respite.
“She is a tough old crow,” Tiger notes.
“Hey! That is my mother you are comparing to a bird,” I say. “It was a compliment, okay?”
Our hackle hairs settle down.
“Okay.” I rise, shake out my buzz cut, and look in every gathered eye. “I need to know what you guys were doing in the lot across from Maylords and what you heard and saw that night.”
“Ma had us scouting a new territory,” Gimpy puts in. “The whole gang?”
“The whole gang. What is it to you?” Tiger growls.
“What it is to me is that the whole gang was witness to a bushwhacking. Who had the nerve to blast away at Maylords when it was
full of people and press? You guys cannot pull triggers. It had to be someone human.” “Barely,” Snow Off-white mews under her breath. “You saw them?”
She nods.
“More than one then?”
“More than human,” she answers, bitterly. “They had us outgunned. Leather from neck to toe, so we couldn’t rip a gut. Hiding behind
glossy helmets.”
“Revving their machines,” Gimpy puts in. “We did not have a chance.”
“Hmmm,” I mews thoughtfully. “Miss Midnight Louise managed to bring down an easy rider all by her lonesome only a couple of weeks ago.”
“She is a domesticated twit,” Miss Snow Off-white sniffs.
“She is a domesticated terror, believe you me.” I look around at the unhappy gang members. Their leader is down and they do not
like having to answer to outlanders.
“So who were these motorized nightmares?” I ask. “Usually biker gangs broadcast their affiliations in a hundred little ways.
Any insignia on these dudes’ jackets or helmets?” The gang exchanges looks.
“‘Little Drummer Boy,’” Tom spits out.
“Audrey Jr.”
“Killer Tomato.““Psycho Punk.”
“Hot Femalie.”
“Marilyn Manson-Dixon Line.”
“Peter Rabid.”
I am beginning to get the picture, and it is not early Mar-Ion Brando. It is not even late James Dean. Or Peter Fonda. “You are saying you were outclassed by a gay biker gang?”
“With assault rifles.”
Hmmm. I do love an enigma. Unless it is female. Speaking of which, Miss Louise has managed to get Ma Barker up on her shaky
pins.
They emerge from the MASH unit, and Ma Barker sits down snarling.
“All right, Grasshopper,” she says. “Are you telling us we were ambushed by the same gang you are after?” In a sense, yes.
I nod sagaciously. I learned this from Three O’Clock. There is nothing more powerful from a middle-aged male than a sagacious nod.
Not that I am middle-aged. I am just post-young-bloodstage.
I sniff pretentiously and chew my cheeks. Marlon would be proud of me. What is needed here is not a fairy godmother, like Ma Barker, but cat-fairy godfather.
“All right,” I rumble. “I eventually need youse guys back down there in decor-town. I need eyes and ears around Maylords. We are
going to take over our Bast-given territory. But first we gotta scout the turf before we can roust those yippie-kai-yai-ai dudes in the Powder Puff Motorcycle Derby.
“As soon as Ma Barker is fit to travel, she and I will do a little executive relocation search. Then we will get the whole gang together
to kick a little people-butt.”
The roar is deafening. And gratifying.
Now all I wish I knew is what I am doing.
Chapter 24
An Officer and a Lady
Carmen Molina sat on the breakfast barstool in her kitchen.
Lieutenant C. R. Molina’s paddle holster, 9-mm semiautomatic, ankle holster, and .38 were locked in the gun safe in her bedroom closet.
That locked Lieutenant Molina in the closet too.
Sunday afternoon. Carmen could lounge around in jeans and flip-flops over a mug of gourmet coffee. Sunday afternoon, and she was actually at home, only the cell phone on the laminated countertop a link to the job that never died.
The heel of her right flip-flop hung half off her foot. Something furry tickled her sole. One of the cats, also at play on a lazy Sunday afternoon. No early mass today, thanks to attending Saturday evening. No hot homicides at work. No mas. No more. For now.
She sipped the black brew, as full-bodied as dark ale. Just the right temperature: barely cool enough to drink.
Mariah came charging from the hallway, through the living room, into the kitchen and almost out the back door. “Goin’ over to Merrrodee,” she mumbled in passing.
“Whoa! Chica.” The long arm of the law-and Carmen stood almost six feet tall in her flip-flops-reached out to corral her
daughter’s shoulder. “I didn’t recognize that name. It’s not Miguelita?”
“No. She’s-”
“She’s what?”
“We’re not tight anymore.”
Tight?
“Well, that happens,” Carmen said. “So who’s the new best friend this week?”
“Oh, mo-ther! Melody. I’m going over to Melody’s.” Carmen frowned. “What’s the last name?”
“Honestly, you have to know everything! I might as well live in the city jail.”
Carmen examined her daughter as if she were someone else’s.
Mariah had shot up three inches in the last year and two inches in front. She was pushing thirteen now. She wore cotton flowered capri pants that were a bit too tight and showed the baby fat still on her stomach, and a midriff-baring top that Carmen’s own mother would have made her burn. But that was close to thirty years ago in east L.A., and little girls today grew up a lot faster, even the ones in Catholic schools designed to retard the onset of that ol’ devil puberty.
Puberty still played by the old rules. In the last few months Carmen had gotten used to sullen glances sliding away, long silences, rolled eyes, and the favorite expletive of the preteen set: “Oh, mo-ther!”
In Mariah’s case, the Put-upon Almost-teen could add “Oh, mo-ther the cop!”
“I just want to know the girl’s name and family, chica.”