“Oh, good sweet God.” Jimmy Moore shuddered, causing the recliner to wobble. Underneath the chair, he’d tucked away his badge clipped to his belt holster with his gun in it.
She took him deeper in her mouth, building a rhythm matching the new song’s bass beats as Biggie rapped, “Dress up like ladies and burn them with dirty three-eighties” on “Niggas Bleed” on the CD. There was also a cassette tape in the machine. It was not engaged. Later today she would turn it on once she got him coked up and bragging like he liked to do. Then she would have the recording function turned on, but of course only she would be aware of this.
Present
“No, haven’t seen him around, Pebbles. Fact, haven’t seen Scotty for months, really.”
“Well, okay, thanks, Carlos.”
“I thought you two were quits anyway.”
“We are. But something’s come up.” She realized that made it sound like she just found out she had an STD or was pregnant but whatever. Through a gap of the rear sliding door, she could see part of the tarp covering Carlos’s classic customized Honda Civic. He was a gearhead, a tuner, who street-raced his whip for money and prestige. She turned and started walking out of Furutani and Sons body shop on Marine in Gardena, a city in what was called the South Bay of LA County. She’d leaned her bike against the wall near the archway leading inside. She put on her helmet, checked her watch, and biked over to El Camino College, where she was a part-time tech in the environmental biology lab on campus. Today was grunt-work day, which included cleaning the lizard habitat and recalibrating instruments such as the atomic absorption spectrometer. This suited her just fine as she could do this work from muscle memory and ponder where to find Scott Waid. She’d gleefully pictured beating him with the aluminum bat she used on her softball team until he told her why he’d stolen her ride.
“Where’s that sweet sled of yours, Pebbles?” Dr. Renku Murakama asked her at work. He was a fit surfing biologist in his midfifties who ran the lab and taught at the school.
Hastings was cleaning the glass terrarium of an iguana named Butch who was currently resting on the back of her neck and shoulders. She told Murakama what happened.
“Why didn’t you call the cops?”
“What are they gonna do, Ren? Finding my wagon isn’t going to be a priority with them.” Too, she wanted the satisfaction of solving this matter herself.
“He put a gat on you, homey.”
“Yeah, an old-school revolver out of one of those ancient cop shows you like to watch.” She stared off into space. Butch flicked his forked tongue, watching a fly buzz around.
“What?” Murakama said.
“The gun,” she answered. “I’ve seen it before. Better, I’ve got an idea where that mufa took my car.”
“Yeah, where?”
The house was on a narrow street less than three miles from the Hollywood Park Casino, which had nothing to do with Tinseltown. Its official address was on Century Boulevard in Inglewood, a working-to middle-class municipality of changing demographics, as the urban expression went. The area had been majority black and was now majority Latino, though black folks were still most of the local electeds. Scott Waid’s Uncle Ro had a modest but well-cared-for home with an old maple tree out front. The tree offered shade under its boughs, rich with gold and green leaves spread like large petrified butterflies. Roland Weathers used to frequent the racetrack where now only the casino was left. He was something of a sporting man who had made money as a boxing promoter, nightclub owner, and gambler, among other ways. He’d even gotten into the top one hundred of the World Series of Poker twice.
“It’s got to be in here, nephew,” Weathers said as he loosened the rocker panel on the passenger side of the Falcon. “She’d put money out on the street for information as to where this short was.” The two men and the car they were disassembling were in the backyard on the driveway where it ended at a detached garage. Two good-size toolboxes were open and tools were strewn about on the cracked, oil-stained concrete.
Waid had his hands on his hips, looking at the rear bench seat they’d removed from the car. The neoprene covering had been carefully pulled back and the stuffing was exposed. “Maybe I shouldn’t have let you talk me into this. Pebbles is gonna kill me.”
Weathers made a sound in his throat as he used a penlight to look into the cavity he’d exposed. “The payday we’re gonna see on this, you can buy her two of these wagons tricked out however she wants ’em.”
“Oh, these motherfuckers,” a female voice groused.
“Shit,” Weathers cursed.
Pebbles Hastings stood inside the back gate, which they’d left open. Her aunt Debra Hastings was with her. The two women were unarmed but they had little fear of being shot by the men. Both had been here before and the niece recalled seeing the snub-nose that belonged to Uncle Ro. He’d once been married to a second cousin of her aunt.