Money was Eta’s word for a customer. The developer was on the phone screaming at her.
“I’m in the elevator,” Jace answered. He keyed the radio on and off, on and off. “You’re breaking up, Base.”
A nasty-looking snot-green Chrysler nosed its way up out of the garage. The security jerk was behind the wheel. Jace gave him the finger as he turned into the drive and shot the bike down the ramp.
The Korean guy in the ticket booth barely looked at him as Jace darted around the lowered arm that prevented cars from simply rolling in. He rode the bike straight to the elevator and jumped off as the doors opened and an assortment of well-dressed professional people stepped out, freed from their cubicles for the day. A woman with a helmet of blond hair and a leopard-print raincoat gave him a look like he was dog shit and clutched her designer bag to her as she stepped around him.
Jace forced a grin. “How’s it going?”
She sniffed and hurried away. People in suits and offices tended to look at bike messengers with wary suspicion. They were rebels, road warriors, fringe citizens in strange costumes invading the orderly, respectable world of business. Most of the messengers Jace knew had tattoos all over their bodies and more piercings than a colander. They were walking billboards for life on the edge, their individuality screaming from their very pores.
Jace made no such statements. He wore what he could get for little or nothing at Goodwill—baggy shorts and sweatshirts with the sleeves cut off, worn over bike shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt. His hair stuck up in spikes through the openings in his helmet. The swim goggles made him look like an alien.
He pulled the goggles down and rubbed at the grit in his eyes as he rolled the bike into the elevator and punched 17. He could smell himself—stale sweat and exhaust fumes. He had run twenty-three packages that day and could feel the filth of the city clinging to him like a film. He had skinned his knee on the sidewalk out front. Blood was running in a slow, thick trickle down his dirty bare shin to soak into the top of his baggy gray sock.
When he finally got home and could take a shower, the day would come off him like a mud slide and he would become a blond white kid again. He would spend a couple of hours with his little brother, Tyler, then hit the books until he fell asleep on them. Too soon it would be five-thirty and another day would begin with him shoveling ice into the coolers at the fish market they lived over in Chinatown.
My life sucks.
He allowed himself to acknowledge that fact only once in a while. What was the point in dwelling on it? He didn’t plan on staying where he was in the grand scheme of things. That was the thought to focus on: change, improvement, the future.
He had a future. Tyler had a future—Jace had made sure of that, and would continue to make sure of it. And their futures would be a thousand times better than anything life had given them so far. It was only a matter of time and focus and will.
The elevator dinged and the doors pulled open. The developer’s office was down the hall on the left. Suite 1701. Major Development. Lori the cute receptionist was gone, along with the chance for a free Snickers. Mr. Major Development was standing at her desk, shouting into the phone. He stopped abruptly and slammed the receiver down as Jace walked in with the blueprint tubes.
“Well, it’s about fucking time!” Major shouted. “My eighty-year-old mother could have gotten here faster with her walker!”
“Sorry,” Jace said, handing over the manifest. He offered no excuse or explanation. He knew from experience it wouldn’t matter. What mattered to Mr. Major Development was that he now had his blueprints and could get on with his life.
Major snatched the manifest away from him, scribbled a signature, and shoved it back at him. No thanks, no tip, no nothing. Lori the receptionist might have noticed the scrape on his knee and given him a Band-Aid and sympathy along with the Snickers bar. All he got was the fantasy. At least in his imaginary social life he could afford to take a girl out someplace decent.
Back out on the street, he radioed Base to confirm the delivery. He would make it back to the base office in fifteen and spend half an hour matching his delivery receipts with Eta’s floaters—the notes she made assigning jobs to messengers. By seven-fifteen he could be standing in the shower.
“Sixteen to Base. Jace to Base. Got POD on Major Pain In The Ass.”
“Ten-four, angel. You’ll go to heaven yet.”
“I don’t believe in heaven.”
“Darlin’, you got to believe in a better world than this.”
“Sure. It’s called Malibu. I’m gonna get a house there when I’m rich and famous.”
“And I’ll come be your kept woman. Give you a big ol’ dose a brown sugar, baby boy.”
Eta weighed more than two hundred pounds, had three-inch purple fingernails and a Medusa’s head of braids.
“You’ll have to get in line behind Claire Danes and Liv Tyler.”
“Honey, I’ll eat them skinny white girls for lunch and pick my teeth with their bones.”
“Eta, you’re scaring me.”
“That’s good. How else can I boss you around and tell you you got one more run?”
The groan came from the deepest part of his soul. “No way. Not tonight. Call someone else.”
“Ain’t no one else left. You’re it, Lone Ranger, and baby, you’re the best.”
She gave him the address for both the pickup and delivery and told him he could use the tip he would get to buy her a diamond ring.
Jace sat on his bike under the security light beside the garage entrance and stared at the note he’d written with the names and addresses, and he thought of the only tip anyone had ever given him that was of any real value: It’s better to be lucky than good.
As he folded the note, it began to rain.
2
The television was playing in the overflowing bookcase across the room as Lenny Lowell prepared the packet for pickup. His office was an oasis of amber light in an otherwise dark strip of low-end storefronts—a yoga place, a psychic, a nail salon frequented by hookers. Across the street and down the block, the bail-bonds/check-cashing place was open, and farther down a 76 station lit up the night with more lights than a prison yard.
The gas-station attendant would already be locked in his booth like a veal calf behind a couple of inches of bulletproof Plexiglas. But there wouldn’t be much crime tonight for either the station attendant or the bail bondsman to worry about. It was raining. In LA even the criminals don’t do rain.
On the TV, a hot brunette was reporting on the latest crime of the century. Jury selection continued for the upcoming trial of actor Rob Cole, accused in the brutal murder of his wife, Tricia.
Lenny watched with one eye, listened with one ear. Only his jealousy was fully committed. Cole had retained the services of Martin Gorman, whose client list read like a Who’s Who of Hollywood’s most famous screwups. Lenny’s client list read like a Who’s Who of LAPD’s best-known dirtbags.
Not that he hadn’t done well for himself. The world was full of recidivists too flush for a public defender and too stupid to keep from getting caught. Lenny had a thriving practice. And his extracurricular activities of late had netted him a new Cadillac and a ticket to Tahiti. Still, he had always coveted the spotlight claimed by lawyers like Martin Gorman and Johnnie Cochran and Robert Shapiro. He had just never found a way to get there that didn’t involve talent and social connections.
A photograph of Tricia Crowne-Cole filled the television screen. She wasn’t especially attractive, kind of pudgy and mousy with brown hair too long for a woman her age. (She had to be fifty-something—significantly older than Cole, provided he was the forty-something he claimed to be.) She wore glasses that made her look like a spinster librarian.