Jackson Ford - The Girl Who Could Move Sh*t with Her Mind

And I fucking adore the music. I’ll admit: there are a lot of gaps in my knowledge. Most of what I got growing up was what my parents listened to, and most of that was what happened to be on the radio. Country, bluegrass, 80s pop. Nothing that held my attention for more than a minute or two. But I knew what hip-hop was, and after I came to LA I got a huge dose of it, right into the mainline. It was everywhere, and hearing it was like having a light come on in a dark room.

At the same time I’m not here by choice. I’m here because of Tanner and the deal she offered me. What does that make LA? A prison? Is it still a prison if you never want to leave?

I don’t know. I don’t have any answers, and I’m too tired and hungry to think of any.

On the radio a commercial ends—car loans, cable rental, I don’t know—and there’s a split-second of silence before the station ident plays. It goes on for a little too long, as if the DJ was caught napping.

The traffic doesn’t let up as I dogleg south, heading for the late-night Thai spot. At the point where Fairview meets La Tijera there’s a house party going on, a bungalow blaring bass, dozens of people spilled out onto the sidewalk, swigging from red plastic cups. My gaze drifts to the other side of the street, where there’s a vacant lot bordered by a chain-link fence and overgrown with weeds. The fence is decorated with several ancient curling notices, cable-tied to the links.

Is that a good spot? Maybe… if I did it right…

It’s not a good spot. It’s a crappy piece of land in a not-too-awesome neighbourhood that would probably drain what little savings I had. All the same, I can’t help but see it there. See the building, the tables and chairs through the slightly frosted windows, the big wooden door with the discreet metal plaque.

My restaurant.

Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve popped the glove box and pulled out my little spiral notebook. I don’t have the energy to actually add anything more than the location details tonight, but it’s filled with notes on ingredients, scrawled ideas for specials, hastily scribbled phone numbers and website addresses for equipment auctions. The sketches I’ve done of the interior, wildly out of any possible budget I’d ever have, with a huge zinc bar and reclaimed wooden tables, a pinpoint-precise kitchen layout.

I haven’t settled on a concept yet, but I will. Right now the front-runners are Italian or a classic steakhouse. I’ve toyed with the idea of Vietnamese, dreaming of the pho and bahn mi I’d cook, but I know I’d never do it better than the little mom-and-pop spots I’ve visited in countless strip malls across the city. It doesn’t actually matter: I am still going to find a way to work in my own restaurant kitchen. Fuck knows how. I haven’t really got to that part yet. It hasn’t stopped me saving, squirrelling money away in the hope that one day…

Tanner will never let you .

There’s a break in the traffic, and I take it, the Batmobile’s engine grumbling as it takes me down 64th.

LA doesn’t do late-night eating. Unless, that is, you know where to look. I do. I barely register ordering the takeout, which is fine, because they barely register me. I’ve been coming there for a whole year, and I don’t think the girl behind the counter has said more than three words to me. Not that I care right now. In minutes, I have steaming bag of plastic containers stuffed with pad thai and a side order of mango salad, the gem-like segments slick with juice. Most of it is gone before I leave the parking lot.

Twenty minutes later I’m in Leimert Park. Home.

Roxton Avenue is deserted as I pull the Jeep to the kerb. As the thump of the Batmobile’s door echoes into the night, I stand for a second, my legs a little unsteady. The street lamps turn the gnarled jacaranda trees into fractal shadows on the pitted tarmac, and the Spanish-style bungalows with their tiled roofs are dark and silent. Somewhere, very distant, a dog barks, just audible over the hushed traffic.

There’s another sound too—the clinking of bottles. I look down towards the end of the block to see Harry pushing his bulging shopping cart. His belongings are wrapped in black plastic bags, hanging off the side of the cart like pontoons.

Anand, my landlord, pointed him out after I moved here. Said he wasn’t quite right in the head—that he went out of his way to avoid people even as he walked the streets and never asked anybody for food or change. I don’t even know if his name is actually Harry, or if that’s just what Anand decided to call him.

A lot of the neighbours don’t like him because they’re assholes. But he waters the jacarandas, and doesn’t make too much noise, and picks up any litter he sees. He comes and goes at odd hours, a gaunt figure with a huge scraggly black beard over a surprisingly pale face that could be thirty or fifty, his blue raincoat a common site on the street.

I try to remember to leave any empty bottles I have out on the kerb for him, so he can get the deposit back, and they’re always gone a few hours later. I kind of wish I could do more for him, but I don’t really know how to start. It’s one of those things I need to get better at.

My spot is actually a tiny construction at the back of the bungalow on my right, built by my landlord to rent out. As I turn towards it, my subconscious, which has been trying to get my attention for quite a while, grabs hold of me a little more forcefully.

There’s a car cruising down the block towards me, headlights splitting the night. One I’m pretty sure has been following me since I left the Thai place.

It’s one of those things you’re aware of but don’t think much about: the same car always in your rear-view, making the same turns you do. Maybe it’s because we spend so much time on freeways in this city, where cars can sit behind each other for an hour or two, or maybe it’s because I’m so damn tired, but I just didn’t spot it.

A drop of lead falls into my stomach. Yeah, it’s definitely been tailing me. I recognise those headlights, even if only at the back of my mind. I stand frozen, takeout bag clutched in one hand. Shit. Is it because of the Edmonds? Some other job we pulled? A loose end we didn’t tie up?

Unless it’s Tanner’s people .

Don’t be stupid. There’s no reason for Tanner to take me out, and if there was, she’d be a little more forceful than this detective-novel bullshit. But if whoever is in that car does make a move, what the hell am I going to do? I don’t dare use my ability in public. Not if I want to actually remain in public.

And at that moment, just behind me, there’s the sound of very soft footsteps.

At that point instinct grabs hold of my worry about not using my ability in public and knocks it the fuck out.

I spin round, the takeout bag swinging, already wrapping my mind around the first thing I see: an empty plant pot at the edge of a nearby driveway. And there is someone behind me, a figure looming out of the darkness.

I grab the pot, start to lift it—and stop cold.

“ Nic? ”

Nic Delacourt lifts both hands, a bemused expression on his face. “Whoa. Hey.”

I blink at him, utterly stunned. There’s the sound of an engine, and the approaching car accelerates past us. The driver is a thickset, bald, middle-aged dude. He doesn’t look in our direction, just coasts off into the night.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Nic says. He’s wearing a black button-down over dark jeans. His shaved head gleams under the street lights, as does the slim silver band on his left index finger.

“Wha…” I’m having trouble working my tongue. “Wh-what are you doing here? It’s like one in the morning.”