“You ready?”
“No. But let’s go anyway.”
It wasn’t a long ride to the office. The beachfront had gone curiously empty—few of the stores were open, several looked abandoned. There were still people here but not the usual slurry of ambling shoppers and tourists. They saw a few speed skaters with backpacks, several people puffing and pulling oversized wheeled luggage, a scramble of surfers running for their van, and more bicyclists than usual. Most had backpacks and other luggage strapped to their bikes and handlebars. But everyone was moving with purpose. Most were walking fast, trotting, a few were even running. It wasn’t a panic—not yet, but the clock was running.
James’ company, their company now—Liddle Things—was set in a small white building, three blocks up from the beach. James didn’t rent to casual tourists, too much risk, so there was little need to be on the beachfront where rents were noticeably higher. He unlocked the heavy front door; they wheeled their bikes inside and locked the door behind them. James went behind the desk and unlocked the back room where he kept the tanks and masks, the diving rigs, tool belts, and assorted other paraphernalia.
“Shit!” he said, looking around, taking stock, realizing how little he could save. He blew out his cheeks. “We’re gonna lose it all, Squeak. More than fifty thousand dollars invested in this stuff—all gone.”
Hu wasn’t sure if he should say anything. He recognized the mood—the same growling darkness that always came over James when dealing with money, especially a shortage of it. “The insurance—?”
“Won’t cover the half of it—” James shook his head. “No—there’s just no way to save it, no fucking way.” He sighed in resignation. “All right, let’s get the bike trailers. You take the new one, it’s lighter. You attach, I’ll do triage.” He began pulling things off the wall and out of lockers.
Hu knew the drill. The bike trailers were convenient ways for cyclists to carry surfboards, SCUBA gear, camping gear, or even a few bags of groceries. They attached easily. He and James used them a lot, for almost any trip less than three miles. Hu didn’t mind driving, he could listen to his music, but James hated getting behind the wheel, because he found urban traffic frustrating—the poor behavior of other drivers made even the shortest outing feel like a death-defying exercise.
James talked as he worked, annotating every decision with a justification. “I’m gonna want my wet suit and my new dive computer—that thing cost fifteen hundred dollars. It does everything but make coffee, and I still haven’t had a chance to use it. I’m gonna need it if there’s rescue work. You grab those spare tanks and put them on your trailer. And the camping bag. I’m afraid we’re gonna need it. I’ll take the main tanks and the portable compressor. I might have to wear the rig. Hmm, harness, backplate, maybe I should wear a couple of tanks, too? What else? A pro-grade mask—the new one with the dual lamps, fins, tool belt—I can hang the belt on the handlebars, anything that isn’t waterproof goes into the dry bags, we can put those in our knapsacks, everything else in the travel case, that’ll go on the trailer. Oh, and grab those new headlamps too—”
Hu laughed. “We’re gonna look like a couple of underwater bag ladies—and you with the SCUBA gear on your back—”
“Not gonna leave it—”
“Jimmy—? Isn’t it all too much to carry? All this weight?”
“If it is, then we’ve both wasted a fortune at the gym. And all that damn healthy eating.” James paused, got serious. “Squeak, this is my career. Just like your new expensive laptop. I need this.”
“You don’t have to convince me, Bubble. Give me whatever you need me to carry. We’ll do it.”
They finished quickly. Less than fifteen minutes.
“Is that it?”
“It’s gonna have to be.” James looked to his partner, his tone abruptly thoughtful. “We’ll take the bikeway—that’ll be the fastest. The only traffic will be other cyclists. But only to Twenty-sixth Street, or Bundy if we can, then we’ll turn north. I think if we can get to Sunset, we can go up one of the canyons to Mulholland, maybe take it to Topanga, get down into the valley that way—”
“And from there?”
“I dunno. Who do we know in the valley with a guesthouse? Or a backyard big enough for the tent?”
“Whatsisname—that writer who’s always calling you?”
“Mr. Source Material? Maybe. What about your cousin?”
“Maybe. If you’re willing to put up with my uncle—”
“Yeah, there’s that.”
“Maybe if we can get to Pasadena, there’s Chris and Mark—”
“Melinda has a guest house—”
“So does—never mind. We have options. First thing, let’s get out of here.” James pointed to the bikes. “Okay, safety check on the bikes. Is everything secure?”
Three minutes to double-check all the tie-downs and bungee cords, and they were ready to leave, but at the door, they paused. James put his hand on Hu’s arm. “Okay, Squeak, we’ve got two and a half hours. We can do this. Ten miles an hour, easy-peasy. We could get all the way to Union Station if we had to. All we have to do is pace ourselves. The idiots are going to ride like crazy and exhaust themselves before they even get to the 405. Just keep thinking of Mike Sloan’s teddy bear—”
“Huh?”
“Don’t you remember? Sloan’s teddy wins the race—”
“Oof. Remind me again why I agreed to marry you?”
“Because I’m the daddy, that’s why.” James grinned.
“Except when it’s my turn.”
They pushed the bikes outside, first Hu, then James behind him. Hu started to plug in his headphones, but James stopped him. “You don’t want to do that—”
“Shouldn’t we listen to the news—?”
“Aren’t you scared enough already?”
“Oh.” Hu shoved the earphones back into his knapsack, glanced at his wristband, looked west toward the beach. Beyond a lonely palm tree, the horizon looked peaceful and bright. Hard to believe a disaster was rising somewhere beyond. “It’s gonna be hot today,” he said. “Especially inland.”
“Yeah,” James agreed, behind him. “Gonna need the extra water.”
Hu turned back to him. “All right. I’m ready.”
With the trailer attached, his bike was loaded heavier than he expected. He had to take a running start to catch up to James, but they were on their way, heading east.
It wasn’t far to the bikeway, less than a mile, but they weren’t the only ones who’d had this idea. The bikeway wasn’t crowded, not at first, but the farther they rode, the more cyclists joined them—a steady stream of riders pedaling inland with a grim determination. Every few minutes, a light-rail train passed them, howling east on elevated tracks that paralleled the bikeway. Despite himself, Hu looked up—the railcars were already crowded. James had guessed right.
“Sloan’s teddy,” called James. “Just like one of your marathons.”
“Ha ha,” said Hu. He focused on his pace, using the same steady counting exercise he used when he ran in the morning. Occasionally, other cyclists passed them at a furious pace, almost panicky. Not wise—but their choice.
Two miles in, and the bikeway was filled. Most of the traffic was other cyclists in professional gear, helmets and backpacks, but sometimes just ordinary people on bicycles—sometimes whole families pedaling in a group. Most were wearing knapsacks, or had cases strapped to the backs of their bikes or hanging from their handlebars. A few, like James and Hu, had well-loaded bike trailers.
Occasionally people passed them, a few speed-skaters, and motorized skateboards as well. Once a couple of assholes on motorcycles came roaring past. Hu stood up on his pedals to look ahead. If the bikeway kept filling up, kept getting more and more crowded, those motorcyclists weren’t going to have much of an advantage.