Unknown - 16_Cat_In_An_Orange_Twist

I understand that her gang is much enjoying the subsequent respite.

“She is a tough old crow,” Tiger notes.

“Hey! That is my mother you are comparing to a bird,” I say. “It was a compliment, okay?”

Our hackle hairs settle down.

“Okay.” I rise, shake out my buzz cut, and look in every gathered eye. “I need to know what you guys were doing in the lot across from Maylords and what you heard and saw that night.”

“Ma had us scouting a new territory,” Gimpy puts in. “The whole gang?”

“The whole gang. What is it to you?” Tiger growls.

“What it is to me is that the whole gang was witness to a bushwhacking. Who had the nerve to blast away at Maylords when it was

full of people and press? You guys cannot pull triggers. It had to be someone human.” “Barely,” Snow Off-white mews under her breath. “You saw them?”

She nods.

“More than one then?”

“More than human,” she answers, bitterly. “They had us outgunned. Leather from neck to toe, so we couldn’t rip a gut. Hiding behind

glossy helmets.”

“Revving their machines,” Gimpy puts in. “We did not have a chance.”

“Hmmm,” I mews thoughtfully. “Miss Midnight Louise managed to bring down an easy rider all by her lonesome only a couple of weeks ago.”

“She is a domesticated twit,” Miss Snow Off-white sniffs.

“She is a domesticated terror, believe you me.” I look around at the unhappy gang members. Their leader is down and they do not

like having to answer to outlanders.

“So who were these motorized nightmares?” I ask. “Usually biker gangs broadcast their affiliations in a hundred little ways.

Any insignia on these dudes’ jackets or helmets?” The gang exchanges looks.

“‘Little Drummer Boy,’” Tom spits out.

“Audrey Jr.”

“Killer Tomato.““Psycho Punk.”

“Hot Femalie.”

“Marilyn Manson-Dixon Line.”

“Peter Rabid.”

I am beginning to get the picture, and it is not early Mar-Ion Brando. It is not even late James Dean. Or Peter Fonda. “You are saying you were outclassed by a gay biker gang?”

“With assault rifles.”

Hmmm. I do love an enigma. Unless it is female. Speaking of which, Miss Louise has managed to get Ma Barker up on her shaky

pins.

They emerge from the MASH unit, and Ma Barker sits down snarling.

“All right, Grasshopper,” she says. “Are you telling us we were ambushed by the same gang you are after?” In a sense, yes.

I nod sagaciously. I learned this from Three O’Clock. There is nothing more powerful from a middle-aged male than a sagacious nod.

Not that I am middle-aged. I am just post-young-bloodstage.

I sniff pretentiously and chew my cheeks. Marlon would be proud of me. What is needed here is not a fairy godmother, like Ma Barker, but cat-fairy godfather.

“All right,” I rumble. “I eventually need youse guys back down there in decor-town. I need eyes and ears around Maylords. We are

going to take over our Bast-given territory. But first we gotta scout the turf before we can roust those yippie-kai-yai-ai dudes in the Powder Puff Motorcycle Derby.

“As soon as Ma Barker is fit to travel, she and I will do a little executive relocation search. Then we will get the whole gang together

to kick a little people-butt.”

The roar is deafening. And gratifying.

Now all I wish I knew is what I am doing.

Chapter 24

An Officer and a Lady

Carmen Molina sat on the breakfast barstool in her kitchen.

Lieutenant C. R. Molina’s paddle holster, 9-mm semiautomatic, ankle holster, and .38 were locked in the gun safe in her bedroom closet.

That locked Lieutenant Molina in the closet too.

Sunday afternoon. Carmen could lounge around in jeans and flip-flops over a mug of gourmet coffee. Sunday afternoon, and she was actually at home, only the cell phone on the laminated countertop a link to the job that never died.

The heel of her right flip-flop hung half off her foot. Something furry tickled her sole. One of the cats, also at play on a lazy Sunday afternoon. No early mass today, thanks to attending Saturday evening. No hot homicides at work. No mas. No more. For now.

She sipped the black brew, as full-bodied as dark ale. Just the right temperature: barely cool enough to drink.

Mariah came charging from the hallway, through the living room, into the kitchen and almost out the back door. “Goin’ over to Merrrodee,” she mumbled in passing.

“Whoa! Chica.” The long arm of the law-and Carmen stood almost six feet tall in her flip-flops-reached out to corral her

daughter’s shoulder. “I didn’t recognize that name. It’s not Miguelita?”

“No. She’s-”

“She’s what?”

“We’re not tight anymore.”

Tight?

“Well, that happens,” Carmen said. “So who’s the new best friend this week?”

“Oh, mo-ther! Melody. I’m going over to Melody’s.” Carmen frowned. “What’s the last name?”

“Honestly, you have to know everything! I might as well live in the city jail.”

Carmen examined her daughter as if she were someone else’s.

Mariah had shot up three inches in the last year and two inches in front. She was pushing thirteen now. She wore cotton flowered capri pants that were a bit too tight and showed the baby fat still on her stomach, and a midriff-baring top that Carmen’s own mother would have made her burn. But that was close to thirty years ago in east L.A., and little girls today grew up a lot faster, even the ones in Catholic schools designed to retard the onset of that ol’ devil puberty.

Puberty still played by the old rules. In the last few months Carmen had gotten used to sullen glances sliding away, long silences, rolled eyes, and the favorite expletive of the preteen set: “Oh, mo-ther!”

In Mariah’s case, the Put-upon Almost-teen could add “Oh, mo-ther the cop!”

“I just want to know the girl’s name and family, chica.”

“Melody Crowell.”

‘I’ve never heard you mention her before.”

“Because she’s new at school.”

“Her family moved into the neighborhood?” The core of the community was Our Lady of Guadalupe Church and school and the residents were mainly Hispanic-American.

“She was transferred,” Mariah said, looking down. “From Robison Middle.”

Robison. Molina saw numbers. The highest in the middle school system. Almost forty arrests, knife incidents, two gun incidents. Assaults on students and even a couple teachers. Controlled substances. The worst public middle school. Juvenile Delinquent Central. Not quite fair. Lots of kids got through there just fine. And lots didn’t and so parents tried to straighten them up by sending them to “stricter” Catholic schools. Ai-yi-yi-yi, as Ricky Ricardo used to say about his own live-in juvenile delinquent, his wife, Lucy. Back in the Stone Age before digital everything.

“So what’re you two doing?”

“Our nails, all right?” Mariah fanned out her stubby fingers, the nails alternating metallic purple and teal polish. Both chipped. Being a girly girl involved a lot of maintenance.

“Looks like you need it.”

Mariah relaxed a bit. “Melody’s cool. She’s got this, like, white-white hair. Straight to her shoulders.”

“Natural?”

“Mo-ther.”

Eight-year-olds were into painted finger and toenails nowadays and carrying purses and cell phones. Ten-year-olds were spray-painting their hair. Eleven-year-old chicas were going blond and chicos were bleaching their buzz cuts platinum.

Who was she to stop the preening of America?

“You in too much of a hurry to wait a minute?”

“What for?” Said suspiciously.