Michael Prescott - Mortal Faults

The three men she was looking at weren’t old enough to have been in the gang when Reynolds was a district attorney, let alone when he was a kid. Most likely, his personal allegiance was to one or more of the older members, the ones in leadership positions now. In a sensitive matter it would be smart to limit the people who knew the details. Reynolds probably approached one of the leaders in the bike shop, and that man in turn arranged the hit with a phone call.

She nursed her vodka for long time, brushing off occasional come-ons from other patrons and ignoring the bartender’s perpetual scowl. She was patient. The man with the tattoo was drinking a lot of beer, and as her dad used to say, you don’t buy beer, you only rent it.

Not long past midnight the guy finally left the table to use the can. Abby vacated her barstool and followed him into the alcove where the restrooms were located. She pretended to use the pay phone while keeping an eye on the door to the men’s room.

After only a minute, he emerged. She doubted he’d had time to wash his hands. Drunk, homicidal-and unhygienic. This guy had it all.

She stepped away from the phone, timing the move so he collided with her from behind.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Didn’t see you there.”

“Should watch where you’re going,” he growled.

He started to walk on.

“I wasn’t thinking,” Abby said. “Guess I’ve had too much to drink.”

This piqued his interest. An intoxicated woman was an easy lay, or so all males assumed. He turned to look at her. His glance rested only briefly on her face before checking her more important assets.

“My name’s Sandi,” she said. “Sandi with an i.”

She’d made up the name on the spot. It wasn’t one of her aliases, and she had no fake ID in her purse to back it up, but she didn’t expect to be showing anyone her creds tonight.

He burped. A real charmer. “Dylan,” he said.

“That’s a cool tattoo.”

His hand went to his neck, tracing the insectile shape. “More’n a tattoo,” he said. “It’s a…” He searched for the word. “You know, insignia.”

“You mean, like a sign?”

“Sign, yeah. It’s a logo. Our trademark.”

“Whose trademark?”

He shook his head, pissed off at her ignorance. “Shit, you live around here, you’ve gotta know.”

“I live in Mission Viejo.” A safe suburban town to the south.

“Mission fucking Viejo?” He hawked up a gob and spat in the general direction of a potted plant. “What the fuck you doing here?”

She showed him a provocative smile. “Looking for adventure.”

He considered this, his narrowed eyes coldly thoughtful. “You might find more’n you bargained for.”

“That so?”

“Yeah, it’s so.” He seemed to reach a decision, and the decision was that he wasn’t horny tonight. “Best skitter on home, Li’l Bo Peep. Ain’t none of your sheep around here. You’re way out of your element.”

He took a step away.

“It’s not the first time,” she said.

The words stopped him. He gave her a grudging glance. “You been here before?”

“Not in this place. But I’ve been… around.”

“Have you, now?” He found this amusing. “Like, where?”

“Like, all over. Up and down this part of the coast. Venice, Long Beach, Oceanside. I’ve hit some hot spots in San Diego, too.”

He shrugged. “So you’re some rich bitch who goes slumming.”

“I’m not rich.”

“You ain’t poor, neither. College?”

She was hardly going to admit to having a psych degree. “Two years.”

“That’s two years more’n I got.”

“You didn’t miss anything. It was boring.” She let a tone of seductive languor steal into her voice. “Of course, I’m easily bored.”

“No, you ain’t.”

“Aren’t I?”

“Nah. If you was, you would’ve offed yourself by now. ’Cause you’re the most boring goddamned cunt I ever met.” He snorted laughter. “Mission Viejo. Fuck.”

He swaggered off, and she was left alone and frustrated. She’d sent out every sexual signal in her repertoire, and he’d blown her off. She had to assume he had other things on his mind. The alternative was that she was losing her allure, a hypothesis too far-fetched too entertain.

She returned to the bar and ordered another vodka. In the mirror she saw Dylan rejoin his buddies, his expression more sour than before.

Her best bet now was to tail him when he left the bar, which would probably be around closing time. She would leave shortly before two and watch the parking lot from her car.

Tailing a motorcycle would be tough. The chopper could cut through traffic in ways no car could match. There was a good chance she would lose him.

Damn. She was so close, but she hadn’t gotten him to bite.

But maybe there was still a chance. She saw Dylan’s nervous-looking friend pointing at her and nudging. Apparently he’d seen them talking in the alcove, and he was prodding Dylan to go for it. Dylan brushed off the advice, but the other guy was persistent. Abby silently encouraged him. Peer pressure could be a potent force.

She watched the pantomime show in the mirror. From Dylan’s body language, she could tell that his resistance was breaking down. He had gone from arms crossed-a defensive posture-to arms open.

The friend’s voice rose above the general din. “Fuck it, man, she’s hot!” Abby almost smiled, even if the compliment did emanate from a sociopathic scumbag. Then she remembered that if Dylan and his crew had been better shots, she wouldn’t be so hot right now. She would be cold, morgue-cold.

She felt another twist in her gut and found herself taking a bigger swallow of vodka.

In the mirror, Dylan rose from his seat. His friend’s final line of argument seemed to have closed the deal. The biker came toward the bar, carrying his beer.

She looked away from the mirror and nursed her drink until he sat down on the barstool beside her. Then she glanced at him.

“That wasn’t very nice,” she said coolly. “What you said about me back there.”

“Yeah. Well-I’m feeling kinda snarky tonight.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Bad day at the office.”

“What sort of work do you do?”

“The sort I don’t like to talk about.” He gulped a swig of beer. “You ain’t Mex, are you?”

“What?”

“Dark hair, brown eyes. You a Latin?”

“Anglo.”

“Good thing.”

Yeah, Dylan was a real catch. “So, that matters?”

“Fuck, yeah, it matters. Goddamn taco benders are taking over this town. Before you know it, they’ll be all over Mission Viejo, too. You just wait.”

“What have you got against Mexicans?” she asked, her voice neutral.

He regarded her as if she were mentally defective. “What do I got against ’em? Well, they’re fucking scum, to start with. And illegal. Not one of ’em has a green card. They take work away from Americans, too.”

“Most of those jobs aren’t so great.”

“You wait. Before long, goddamn border jumpers’ll be taking everybody’s job. Like yours, maybe. What do you do?”

“Secretarial work.”

“One of them strawberry pickers could do that job, at least one that can read and write and speak English. And he’d do it cheaper than you. Then you’re out on your butt with not so much as a thank-you for your years of loyal service.”

“Something like that happen to you?”

“Not me. I got a skill, see. I’m a mechanic. I know my way around an engine. Those campesino assholes-half of ’em ain’t never even driven a damn car.”

“You’re safe, then.”

“Not hardly. I can’t charge what I used to. Wetbacks come in and lower the pay scale for everybody. You got an American who was trimming trees for fifteen bucks an hour. Speedy Gonzales shows up and says he’ll do it for half that much. American is either out of work or he has to cut his pay to compete. Then he can’t spend so much on getting his car fixed when it breaks down, so I gotta charge less if I want to get his business.”