《Capo: Rise of a Gang Lord》 1.01 - Death and Rebirth Death and Rebirth The last day of my life was a Dungeons & Dragons day. That was just what we called it. We didn''t always play D&D, and that night we were running a homebrew system that our DM had cooked up. He''d convinced us all to try it, guilting us hard. He was our Forever DM and almost never got to play. At least, not for long. The rest of our group¡ªme included¡ªtook a shot at running a game every once in a while, but it never turned out well. None of us had the gift. So, when Jeremy¡ªour DM¡ªtold us that he''d been spending the last six months working on a new tabletop role-playing game, one that centered around mundane things like drug dealers, car thieves, and crime of all sorts the group was skeptical. Then, the guilting commenced. It didn''t take long before we all agreed to give his new game a shot. It was just after sunset and my friend Joe and I were on the way to the game when it happened. We entered a convenience store, a family-run one with a name none of us ever remembered. It was just the corner shop, or Kim''s Shop. It was the closest to Jeremy''s house, and was where we always stopped to get our game night refreshments. This night was no exception. "It''s not going to be the same, Frank. What, we''ll get guns? I just won''t feel powerful, and that''s half the reason I play these games with you guys." Joe had been bitching about playing in the new game the entire way over. He had a way of speaking that sometimes really irked me, like he was a slimy courtier trying to convince you to betray your king. I''d once heard him non-ironically address a girl as "M''lady" if that gives you any clue. "Sure, you''re not going to be invisible and flying at all times. I get it. Give it a shot, Jeremy worked hard on this. And not one of your half-assed efforts, either. A fair shot, man. You never know, it could be brilliant," I said. Joe just snorted, and we entered the corner shop. The bell jingled loudly as the door creaked open and closed. The man behind the counter looked up at us and nodded when he recognized us, but didn''t say hello. Kim was what we called him. It may have been his first or his last name, none of us knew. If you asked him, that''s all he gave. His English was limited, and he didn''t seem like the kind of man that wanted to talk to anyone to begin with. He never smiled, always pure business. He had short black hair and a bulky build. He was Asian, and Jeremy''s wife Kara told us he was Korean. She knew because she''d been there when she was younger and could speak a bit of the language. Joe followed me into the store. He was a big guy, taller than me at a little bit over 6 feet. Joe was one of those people you''d look at and know immediately he wasn''t a regular member of society. Some of us D&D nerds could fit in, but not Joe. He wore the Matrix trenchcoat, combat boots and black army surplus pants. Long, straggly black hair and a bad complexion rounded everything out. He wasn''t exactly fat, but his days of sedentary hobbies had made him chunky. I went straight for the chip section while Joe, still muttering to himself, went to get himself a large slushee. I loaded my arms with four bags, the various flavors that each of us preferred and was moving toward the bottle drink section when the door opened. The bell rang loudly yet again. Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. I looked up, seeing that Joe had already picked up his slushee and was near the counter, looking at the chocolates. He''d be getting his usual selection of milk chocolate munchies. The man who entered the store was familiar to me. A meth head that was always around, begging for money. His skin was terrible, and he always smelled bad. His hair was an indeterminate color, something between brown and blonde, depending on the day and how dirty it was. Most of his front teeth were missing, rotted out by the meth. I looked back down, dismissing him until a moment later when he yelled. "Kim, open the register and put all the money in a bag. Now! Don''t make me shoot you," the meth head shouted, a hysterical tone in his voice. Kim started yelling at him, in Korean. I didn''t understand a word, but Kim was fearless and¡ªit seemed¡ªquite angry. "I don''t speak your stupid language, you stupid chink! Give me the money or I blow you away! I mean it, I''m not joking." I peeked around the corner, potato chip bags forgotten in my hands. Methhead was holding a sawed-off shotgun, the barrel and stock roughly removed. It was a double barreled shotgun, one I was quite familiar with from video games. I hoped that Kim wouldn''t resist, as those same videogames had taught me that up close like this a double barrel shotgun was the last thing you wanted in your face. Behind Methhead the doors were clear. He didn''t seem to notice I was here, fixated on his task of getting the cash out of Kim. Joe, his survival instincts on point, was standing silently, trying not to attract the junkie''s attention. Joe obviously thought this was one of those times where the guy would rob the store and then leave. I didn''t have such a rosy outlook. Methhead had entered a convenience store carrying a gun and without a mask in a neighborhood where people knew him. Either he wanted to go to jail, or he wasn''t planning on leaving any witnesses. I didn''t want to be one of those witnesses he eliminated on his way out. Kim didn''t have any real security cameras. The one behind the counter was strictly for show and everyone around knew it. Kim opened the register and continued to curse out Methhead in Korean as he filled a plastic bag with the meager contents. Methhead''s attention was entirely on him, and I anticipated my opportunity. I moved as quietly as I could, first laying the four bags of chips down. I winced as one of them crackled slightly. Methhead didn''t notice. Once that was done, I crouch-walked along the front of the store, keeping the rack of magazines and newspapers between me and him. Unlike my buddy Joe in his combats I was wearing flat-soled sneakers which were well worn in by a lot of time and miles. I could be pretty sneaky when I wanted to be. I reached the point closest to the entrance just as Kim handed over the bag of cash. Methhead took his left hand off the shotgun and reached out to take it. This was my opportunity. I darted for the door, my shoes squeaking on the clean tile floor. Methhead''s reflexes weren''t entirely shot and his head snapped around to focus on me, fear and rage in his eyes. I watched as time seemed to slow down and the gun began to turn my way. Kim leapt onto the counter, not quite making it over. His large hands pawing at Methhead''s skinny shoulders and neck. Methhead staggered backward, pulling Kim off the counter with him. The burly Korean screamed in rage as he pummeled Methhead with his bare hands. My shoulder hit the front door, causing the bell to ring loudly just as the shotgun went off. I heard what might''ve been a grunt of pain, and Kim stopped screaming. In terror I sprinted directly away from the shop and into the twilight. I just needed to get a little distance. It was a double-barreled shotgun. I knew it had no range. If I got some distance I''d be safe. I was about halfway across the street when I was pushed forward, and face planted into the asphalt. I scrambled to get up, to continue running, but my arms weren''t working. My head was fuzzy and my back hurt like I''d been stung by a lot of bees all at once. "What? What happened?" I muttered to myself. Behind me I heard glass from Kim''s shattered glass door rain to the ground. Seconds later, as darkness closed in, I heard running footsteps and saw Methhead running down the street, away from the robbery. He was carrying a blood stained plastic bag full of cash and his empty shotgun. He didn''t look back. The last thing I saw was Joe looming over me, and I heard the sound of him taking a sip of his slushee through the straw. He looked down at me with an odd expression but said nothing. Then the blackness swooped in and took me. 1.02 - Welcome to San Tadeo I wish I could tell you that I saw a bright white light, some kind of tunnel and that I met my dead grandma and grandpa, that sort of thing. In the end it was like I''d fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep. I opened my eyes, expecting to be in pain. In a hospital, or maybe still lying on that road with Joe¡ªthat fucker¡ªstanding over me watching me die. Instead, I was lying in bed and felt fine. Where I was it was warm and quiet. Nearby was the faint sound of traffic. I opened my eyes and sat up. I was in an unfamiliar bedroom. The bed I was sitting had a hard, single mattress and was barely more than a cot. I hadn''t even been under the covers. I''d been laying on top of a scratchy army blanket and resting my head on a ancient looking pillow. The room itself was quite small. There was a plain wooden door opposite the bed. A small desk with a chair tucked under it on one wall and an armoire on the other wall. Even with the small amount of furniture the room felt crowded. It was the size of a prison cell. The floor was bare concrete with a single area rug in the middle, a muddled mess of blue and red colors in a simple pattern. Up above the bed just under the drop ceiling a long rectangular window let in sunlight and the faint sound of bird song. A basement. Where the hell am I? I should have been freaked out, but for some reason I wasn''t when text appeared in the air in front of me. It almost felt natural, like this was nothing to be alarmed about.
San Tadeo, California, 07:35 Thursday March 05, 2020 Safe House: Martin McLean''s House Walking in the Light
I wiped my hand through the text that floated in the air in front of me. There was nothing there. It had no physical presence in the world. As if it sensed that I wanted it gone, the words quickly faded away. Am I hallucinating? Is this some kind of coma? I looked down at myself, and was happy to see that I was the same me I always was. The clothes I was wearing weren''t familiar. A pair of boxer shorts and an undershirt that I didn''t remember owning. But I was still me. I stood up and stepped onto the cold concrete floor. At the head of the bed was a tiny wooden bedside table, scarred with scratches and a few paint spots. It had an ancient looking lamp on top, and a single drawer. It was completely empty. "Where is my phone?" I muttered. It had been in my pocket when Methhead had shot me. If my hallucination was right, it was the next day and I was somewhere called San Tadeo. I''d never heard of it, or Martin McLean. He shared my last name, so maybe he was a relative I didn''t know about? I still had no idea about the hallucinations, but maybe I was recuperating here? Did they take my phone? What about my keys and my wallet? If this is some kind of afterlife, it sure is a crappy one. There weren''t any dead relatives to greet me. No clouds full of angelic beings, and no hellfire. Maybe I was really lying in a hospital bed and this was just a particularly elaborate dream. I had them sometimes, after all. Dreams that seemed entirely real, with fully developed places and people. Even after I woke up they still made sense, even if they were alien. I had a suspicion that dreams were sometimes more than just your brain sweeping the dust out of the corners. I opened up the armoire and had a look inside. It was nearly empty. A pair of button-down shirts in white and blue hung beside a black suit in a plastic dry-cleaning bag. On the bottom shelf of the armoire were four neatly folded stacks of clothing. Blue jeans, t-shirts, socks and underwear. None of which were mine. "What the hell is going on here?" I muttered to myself. I moved to the door and opened it as quietly as I could, looking out. The door opened silently on well oiled hinges. Clean white walls extended to my left and right. I eased out quietly, seeing stairs leading up to the left and another doorway at the end of the hall on the right. I really could use my phone right now. Google maps would tell me where I was, and I could get an Uber to come get me. Wherever San Tadeo was, they definitely would have Uber. I wasn''t entirely sure that I wanted to go upstairs just yet. I turned right and moved toward the closed door at the end of the hall. Something caught my eye on the left wall¡ªa flash of reflected light. Mounted on the wall was one of those framed mirrors where when you looked into it, it would put a hat on your head. I saw myself in the mirror wearing some kind of military hat, the one with the visor. The hat looked good on me even if my usual shaggy mop of black hair kind of ruined the effect by poking out around the edges. The door at the end of the hall opened easily, exposing a laundry room with another basement window. The walls and floor here were concrete, leading to a drain in the middle. There were no exits other than the one I came in. I closed the door and made for the stairs. A deep, male voice reached me in the basement easily from upstairs. "Francis, I hear you moving around down there. Come upstairs and eat breakfast, the day''s wasting away." I didn''t recognize the voice, but I had to assume that it was Martin. I wasn''t pleased that he called me Francis. Sure, it was technically my name, but everyone called me Frank. They had since I was little kid. The voice was neither friendly nor unfriendly, and I decided that there was no use in pretending that I was still asleep or sneaking around. There was only one way out of this basement, after all. I went up to meet my long-lost relative. I walked up the stairs to a landing. Several pairs of shoes were tucked into a niche, and two light grey coats hung on coat hooks. A deadbolted exterior door was right there, and through a small square window I could see the side of the house next door, a plain white stucco. I could unlock the door right now and escape, if I wanted to. No one was here to stop me. Whatever the text that I had hallucinated earlier was, it said this was a safe place. It felt like it, at least. Another short step of stairs led into the a small, orderly kitchen. I walked up the stairs, looking around. There was a simple table with two chairs along one wall and a row of counters and cabinets along the other. An ancient fridge and stove were tucked into gaps. Whoever Martin was, he sure didn''t believe in spending a lot of money on his kitchen. Something I''d only seen in period TV shows and movies hung on the wall¡ªa green landline phone. It had a long, spiraling cord connecting the curved handset to the cradle on the wall. On the opposite side from where I''d entered there was a doorway leading to what was obviously the living room. I could see a large front window looking out onto a street, as well as a shag carpet and part of a brown leather love seat by the window. I heard creaking leather as someone stood up, and then Martin was in the doorway. Martin was a fit older man, slightly shorter than me but in much better shape. His hair was iron gray, cut close to his scalp in a military style. His eyes were muddy brown, and his complexion a deep tan from spending a lot of time in the sun. Martin frowned as he saw me. I studied him right back, trying to pick out a family resemblance. I''d never seen the man before. Text appeared above his head, shining and bright. It wasn''t like the display in a computer game. The words didn''t literally glow. It was more like hidden, metaphorical sunlight was illuminating the words. It was more a feeling than something I could see.
Martin McLean, Staff Officer (D4), Colonel USAF, retired
"Francis, now that you''ll be living with me rather than my brother¡ªGod rest his soul¡ªyou have to know that there are rules. One of those rules is that we dress before we leave our rooms, son. Go back downstairs and get dressed, then come up here and we''ll eat. Understood?" "Hold on, I''ve got some questions. Who''s your brother? And what''s with this text above your head? And who are you? I''ve never met you, why am I in your basement?" The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. More text appeared in front of me.
Reputation Change: Martin McLean -1
New Reputation: Tolerated (13)
I lost reputation with Martin? What the hell. "I will not brook any foolishness from you, Francis. You know perfectly well that I''m your uncle. I''m willing to grant you some leeway in your behavior due to death of your father, but my forbearance only goes so far, young man. You will get your shit together." Anger had crept into Martin''s voice, but I didn''t care. What he''d said shook me. "What the hell are you talking about? You''re telling me my dad is dead?"
Reputation Change: Martin McLean -1
New Reputation: Tolerated (12)
Another point lost? Well shit, he was pissing me off too. I wondered if he was seeing the same messages but with my name instead. Martin''s face hardened, and in three long strides he was directly in front of me. His face was inches from mine and his eyes bored into me. "I will not have you using foul language in this house, Francis. Return to your quarters immediately and get dressed properly. Return promptly and we will eat breakfast. After, I will inform you of your duties and obligations to this household. Is that clear?" Martin''s voice fairly crackled with anger, and his physical presence so close was intimidating. Unnaturally so. I''d had guys try to intimidate me all my life. In high school, hell, even in grade school kids would pick on me¡ªor try to. Dad taught me to fight back, and I had. I wasn''t a big guy, or a strong one, but it didn''t take strength to fight a bully. They wanted to pick on weak people. Kids that wouldn''t fight back. I was never one of those kids. Bullies didn''t scare me. Even so, Martin in my face was downright terrifying and I couldn''t explain why. I cast my eyes downward, backed off and hurried downstairs. As soon as I was out of his presence, the fear left. I didn''t know what had come over me. I just wanted to do exactly what he''d said, immediately. Even though the fear was gone, I didn''t dare to defy him. I needed to hear what he said, and maybe get some answers. Maybe he could tell me why was I seeing text in the air like I was in a video game. I didn''t even really play video games, but I recognized that''s what it looked like. A few minutes later I was dressed, wearing a T-shirt, jeans and socks. There was a pair of running shoes by the door. There weren''t a brand I wore or even recognized but they fit me perfectly, despite me never having seen or worn them before. Next to them was a pair of black leather dress shoes that I definitely didn''t own. Suitably dressed, I returned to the kitchen. Martin was in the process of cooking up a panful of scrambled eggs, and the smell of food hit me, causing my stomach to grumble. Martin was dressed in a pressed, short-sleeved button-down shirt, slacks and black leather shoes. I wondered if he was planning to leave to go to work, or if this was just how he dressed normally. The text over his set his head said he was retired, after all. "That''s better, if only just acceptable. Try to have some pride in the way you dress, Francis." "Martin, my name is Frank. No one has called me Francis since I was little kid," I said. "Fine," Martin agreed. "Now, will you please tell me about my father? You say he''s dead, but how can that be? I just saw him yesterday and he was fine. How did he die?" I asked. Martin looked at me again, stirring the eggs absently. A hint of sympathy crept into his features. "Sit down and let''s get some chow into you. You seemed fine yesterday, but maybe you''re in shock. Once you''ve eaten, maybe I''ll run you down to the hospital and have a head doctor look at you. Sit, sit." Martin dished eggs onto plates, setting one down in front of each chair. I sat and Martin joined me on the other side of the table. "Eat and then we''ll talk." Martin picked up his fork and started shoveling eggs into his mouth. My stomach grumbled again, reminding me to eat. The food wasn''t anything special. Eggs, salt and pepper mixed in a pan and fried. Still, it filled the hole so I couldn''t complain. Martin was done a few minutes later, and so was I. "Now, Dean asked me months ago to take you in when he died. He knew it was coming, of course. We all did. He''s left me a little money to keep you in food and clothing until you get on your own feet. It''s not a lot you understand. Your father has never been rich. It won''t send you to college, but you won''t starve." I thought about what he said, processing it. He was right, Dad hadn''t been rich. He was a welder. He made a good living but wasn''t rich. Two big things about Martin''s statement stood out, however. One, he hadn''t been sick. And two, his name wasn''t Dean. "Dean. Your brother''s name is Dean? My father?" I asked. "As you well know, Francis." The sympathy that had been in his eyes was beginning to leach out. Maybe he thought I was screwing with him. "Here''s the thing, Martin. My father''s name wasn''t Dean, it was Murray."
Reputation Change Not Applied: -1
Reputation with Martin McLean at lowest possible: Tolerated (12) (Family)
Martin really didn''t like people talking back to him. Luckily since I was family my rep wasn''t going to get any lower, but how did it start off so low? "I don''t know what you''re playing at, Boy, but I won''t have it. I''ve told you how things are. Let me fill in the rest of the blanks. Your responsibilities here in this house are quite simple. You will keep your quarters clean and orderly. That means a properly made bed and everything stowed where it should be. I will be inspecting your quarters regularly, be aware. I will require you to pay rent of $600 per month. I think you will find that this is a very reasonable amount for this neighborhood. I will give you a thirty-day grace period. After that, I''ll expect rent at the first of every month. I started to open my mouth to speak, but his frown deepened, and he just kept talking. "Finally, and I say this just to be thorough, as you know how I feel about this already. There will be no walking in shadow while you live in this home. If I ever see a shadow item in this house, you''re done here, do you understand?" I didn''t. I didn''t understand most of what he had just said. First, inspections? He was going to be checking my room to see if I''d made my bed properly? What kind of bullshit was that? Second, rent? That one really got stuck in my craw. The whole thing with shadow I didn''t even know where to begin. "You want to charge me rent? You just said Dad gave you some money to take care of me." "He did. But it won''t be enough. Even so, you are a young man and need to learn to earn your way. You can''t have me taking care of you for the rest of your life. It''s time to go out and get a job, son." "And what are you talking about when you say walking in shadow? I don''t know what that means," I said, confused. "Listen, I''ve had just about enough of this malarkey. I''ll have no criminals in this house, and that''s all walking in shadow is, a way for criminals to hide who they are. I don''t care what the first amendment says about it. If I find that you are a criminal, then you will no longer be welcome in this house." Martin was getting pretty worked up, his voice rising as he got angrier. The fear that I felt earlier from him was starting to creep back in, squelching my desire to ask any further questions. Seeing that I had nothing else to say, Martin continued. "I will make an appointment for you at a head shrinker to look to whatever''s ailing you. Until that happens, I expect you go out and look for a job. JMC at the strip mall nearby always has help-wanted signs out front. You could try there. I bought this bus pass for you, if you need to get around further afield." He produced a paper card from his breast pocket and laid in front of me. It was a plain green and black card with San Tadeo Transit printed on the front, along with barcodes and numbers. As I looked at it, text appeared.
San Tadeo Transit Pass, March 2020 Value: ???
The ??? in value was strange. Did that mean I didn''t know the value, or I was lacking the skill to determine the value or what? Another mystery to file away for later. I stowed the pass carefully in the front pocket of my jeans. Without a wallet to put it in or my phone to keep it flat in my pocket I was afraid it''d become wrecked. Martin stood up and cleared the plates, stacking them near the sink. He turned back to me. "I''ll do these dishes, but don''t get used to it. You''ll have to carry your weight with chores around here, as well. Get yourself ready and go out and find a job. I expect not to see you back here until 1800 hrs. You understand? When you get back tonight, I''ll give you keys. Today, I want an earnest effort from you find yourself employment." I was clearly dismissed, and Martin turned to the sink and began filling it with water. "Do you know where my phone is? It''s an Android, white with a silicon case?" "What is this nonsense, Boy? If you need to use the phone it''s right there on the wall. If you make a long distance call you''ll be paying me for it at the end of the month along with your rent." I didn''t dare press him on this. The evidence that I was in some kind of alternate world was beginning to add up. I was alive, for one. Martin still had a landline in 2020. What would happen if my reputation with him dropped too much? I didn''t want to find out. I stood up and pulled the phone free from its cradle on the wall. It was heavy and felt solid in my hand despite being made from plastic. A steady tone came from the top half of the handset, another thing I''d only heard on TV and movies¡ªa dial tone. It was then that I remembered that, aside from 911 and 411, I didn''t know any phone numbers. Even simple cell phones from decades ago would let you store contacts. Who still remembers a phone number? I looked blankly at the keypad for a minute before punching one of the ones I did remember in. 411. An actual human answered the phone, startling me. "What name?" the woman on the other end asked. "Murray McLean," I replied. "What city?" "Los Angeles," I replied again. In the corner of my eye I could see Martin shift to look at me. "I''m sorry sir, I''m not finding any Los Angeles in California. Do you know the closest nearby municipality?" "You can''t find Los Angeles? The biggest city in California and you can''t find it?" I asked. "I''m afraid I''ve never heard of Los Angeles, sir. If you want the biggest city, that would be San Tadeo." It was clear that, somehow, I was no longer in the same world. A world where directory assistance was a human instead of a robot and the woman on the other end didn''t know a city named Los Angeles. That world surely wasn''t the one I came from. Tension I hadn''t even known had been there left me. I''m either in a coma, or I''ve been transported to another world, or I''m dead. Either way, this isn''t real life anymore. "Thank you, ma''am," I said, and hung up the phone. Martin was still looking at me but said nothing and turned back to his dishes. I could see why he must think that I was insane. If I really was in a new world, Martin was my only ally so far. I couldn''t afford to piss him off any further. At least, not until I could see how this new world worked. "Thanks for breakfast, I''m going out to look for a job. I''ll see you at 1800 hours, sir." "Very well," Martin said, glancing those over his shoulder as I left the room.
Reputation Change: Martin McLean +1
New Reputation: Tolerated (13)
Seeing the rep number go up instead of down was a welcome change. A little respect went a long way with my uncle. Seconds later, I stepped out of the house and into the glorious sunshine of a San Tadeo morning. 1.03 - Lets See How Things Work The morning air was pleasant, and I stretched, enjoying the sunshine on my face. Near year-round perfect weather was one of the reasons everyone came to California, and I tried to be appreciative. I wasn''t a fan of traffic and didn''t surf, so I took the positive bits where I could find them. I''d come out the side door from Martin''s kitchen onto a sidewalk beside the house. In the back a postage stamp sized yard was enclosed by a five-foot-high wooden fence. It looked a little old but well taken care of. To my right was the street. Two lanes with parking on either side. Martin''s front yard was tiny, like the house and lot. A tiny ten-foot square patch of grass was verdantly green and the perfect height. I wondered if he had a lawnmower for this tiny bit of grass, or if he used a pair of scissors. A set of concrete steps led up to the front door slightly off ground level. Once on the street I chose a random direction to begin walking. Martin hadn''t seen fit to provide me with a map, and I''d forgotten to ask for one. Who still uses a paper map, anyway? Without my phone, I was feeling lost. I knew¡ªtheoretically¡ªhow to get around without one. I just hadn''t had to apply those skills in a very long time, if ever. I couldn''t recall ever having been without at least a friend''s phone to navigate with, if not my own. In any case, I didn''t intend to go far. I just wanted to explore and see what the neighborhood was like. I had the whole day to kill, but I was planning on taking it slow. Despite Martin attempting to keep on the pressure with expecting me to pay rent in thirty days I wasn''t feeling it. It was feeling like I got a fresh start. Sure, I might actually be dead or in a coma, but a new life free of the expectations and disappointments of my old one? Sign me up. I ambled down the street, looking at the houses that I passed, and the cars parked at the curb. Everything looked exactly like I remembered. The cars were all recognizable, a mix of Japanese, German and American. The neighborhood wasn''t very rich, so the cars tended to be slightly older, and less fancy. The houses were typical California bungalows with small yards all crammed together. At the nearby intersection I finally saw my first street signs. As I would need this to find my way back, I made an effort to memorize the cross streets. I was at Live Oak street and Mountain View avenue. The names sounded familiar, but a lot of street names in California tended to be the same kind of flavor. Trees, mountains, fruit, that sort of thing. I could see what looked like a major road¡ªfour to six lanes, I couldn''t tell from this distance¡ªto my right a few blocks away. I turned in that direction and began to walk slowly. I''d been seeing text in the air. Maybe I was hallucinating, but I was beginning to think I wasn''t. The evidence of my sanity was beginning to mount. Martin had said something that didn''t make sense to me at all. Something about shadow and the first amendment. I didn''t imagine that, he definitely said it. I knew that Dean McLean wasn''t my father. I''d never met Martin, yet I knew his name. How? By seeing it over his head. What kind of insanity is that? Not one I''d ever heard of. Was Martin actually a retired colonel? I didn''t know either way, but it certainly seemed like it might be just from how he was. The text I''d seen when I woke in the strange bed was correct as well. It had said I was in Martin''s house, and that I was in San Tadeo. I hadn''t actually asked what city I was in but I was willing to bet that was exactly where I was. I had been in LA, got shot and then woke up just fine here in a city I''d never heard of, with an Uncle I''d never met. One thing I''d say about where I was¡ªit certainly looked and smelled like LA. I racked my brain for how to approach my new situation. Joe, that piece of shit, had always been trying to get me to read these books translated from Japanese and Chinese. He called them ee-sky or something like that. Anyway, the invariable gist of them was that a normal person got transferred to a fantasy world, where his existence was more like a game than real life. They''d get stat sheets and legendary weapons, magical powers and oh-so-much pussy. It was easy to understand why Joe like these books. Who didn''t want all that? Even without the harems¡ªwhich I think was Joe''s reason for liking them so much¡ªthe idea of getting teleported to a fantasy world was super appealing. You''d be free from the boring mundanity of everyday life and become a hero. No more student loans, dead-end jobs or unsatisfying love life. Just pick up a sword or wand and go kill some monsters. Reading about it, however, had never appealed to me. I preferred to get those fantasies out in our tabletop games at Jeremy''s. Still, I''d absorbed a ton of it through sheer osmosis as Joe would talk about it at the table while we gamed, ad nauseum. He''d shut up when we actually started playing, but during the breaks he was always telling us about the latest and greatest new saga he was reading. One of the tropes of those worlds was that you''d see text boxes appear in the air, similar to what I''d been seeing. I decided to give that a test and stopped to look around for a good candidate. The answer was obvious. A car, of course. I focused on a 90s two-door BMW parked nearby. Its dark blue paint was faded by the constant beat of the California sun. I stared intently at it, feeling more and more foolish as seconds ticked by and nothing happened. "Come on damnit, show me," I muttered. Text appeared in the air over the BMW, large and easily readable.
1992 BMW 318i Navy Blue 7AXN386
After doing it deliberately once, I understood what I had been doing wrong. Just staring at something didn''t make anything happen. I needed to want that information and to project that desire in some way that wasn''t clear to me but was completely intuitive. It''s not quite right, but I could almost describe the process as intent. The info provided wasn''t useful. I could read the license plate by myself, and I could see that it was a BMW and what color it was. Sure, it had added the model, and the year, but maybe that was subconscious information. Maybe I''d somehow internalized BMW makes and models over the years? Was I really sure this was some kind of external system giving me this information and not my own brain? I chuckled at myself for a moment after seriously considering that. Like any boy of the right age, at one point I''d dreamt about cars. Just never so intently that I memorized the stats and the look of specific brands enough to be able to identify them. Maybe if I''d ever actually owned a car that would have been different, but that hadn''t happened. I was due to get one once I graduated high school. That would be well after all of my peers had cars, of course. It wasn''t that my dad couldn''t afford to buy me one. I''m sure he could have. It was that I didn''t need one, and he knew it. The car was going to be a reward for good behavior, for graduating high school and becoming an adult. Graduation had only been a few months away, and now I might never see that car. I felt a deep pang in my chest when I thought about my dad. I wondered if somewhere, maybe in some other world, he was at a morgue right now identifying my corpse. Or in a hospital, staring at my comatose form under white sheets. I choked it down. I had no idea what had happened to me after I got shot and lost consciousness. If I was dead, I was dead. There was nothing I could do about it, no matter what had happened. If there was one thing my father taught me, it was sheer pragmatism. "If you can''t change it, then don''t worry about it," he''d always say. That was sometimes hard advice to take, but it was good advice. Most of his advice was, honestly. I''d never met Dean MacLean, the man Martin thought was my father in this world, but I doubt he measured up to my real dad. I continued walking, glancing back at the information hovering over the BMW as I got farther away. The text rotated to face me, always fully readable. It shrank as I got farther away and then after about 100 feet it completely disappeared. I''ll have to test the range on that, see how far I can use it. I practiced identifying things as I walked. Not everything would give information. Cars and people would, for sure. Passing buses on the big street ahead. Even a jet flying by overhead. Even houses. Not other things though, like fire hydrants, pink flamingos or the sidewalk. There were some rules there, but what they were still wasn''t clear. I soon got bored of cars and focused on the people. The rare pedestrian I saw walking down the sidewalk opposite me, or people getting in and out of their cars. This was California after all, only the desperately poor walked anywhere. Everyone I identified was the same as Martin had been. The text had that same sunlight feel about it that I''d seen with him. The cars didn''t have it, and I wondered what the difference was. I mean, other than the obvious. Maybe people just had status lines that looked like and felt like warm sun was shining on them at all times? It was weird. I determined my range with the identify skill to be about 300 feet, at most. I was just calling it that, identify, but I had no idea if that was what it was actually called. It''s not like I got some kind of pop-up or something when I used it to tell me my skill had increased. That was another one of those things from Joe''s ee-sky books. I could dismiss the identify text at any range as well by simply projecting that desire at it, my intent to close it. The next thing on my list was to try to find a character sheet. The first thing I did was try to do it the dumb ee-sky way. I said out loud¡ªnot too loud, people were around after all¡ª"status", "character", "stats" and even "inventory." Nothing happened. I thought of as many synonyms for the word character sheet as I could and spoke them out loud at a low volume, hoping for the best. Nothing continued to happen, and I felt like an idiot. I wasn''t yet ready to concede that maybe this world wasn''t like the ee-sky books and didn''t have a character sheet. Not quite yet. I thought about how identify worked. It wasn''t just staring at the car that did it, I needed the intent. I stopped walking again and looked down at my chest. I tried to express intent for something I wasn''t quite clear on. What was it? A desire to know more about myself? To see my character sheet? What was it going to take? Did I simply need to identify myself? It turns out, no. That intent¡ªthe need to know information about the thing I was looking at didn''t seem to apply to myself. I spent a couple unproductive minutes trying different intents until I finally stumbled upon it. Nothing related to wanting to see a character sheet worked, at all. Despite the game like aspects to this world, it was really hard to think of the obvious reality around me as a game. With that in mind, I went deeper and thought about what the essence of a character sheet was. Character sheets were something I was very familiar with from all my tabletop gaming. They are a description of the essence of the character. Stats, appearance, name, age, race or species and sex. Literally every defining attribute about that character including their tragic back story, if any. What was the one word that described that? The soul. As soon as I changed my intent to the desire to know the details of my soul, it happened. A large window full of text and numbers appeared in the air in front of me, bright white text on a blue, semi-transparent background. Joe had always been going on about blue boxes. "I hope today''s the day I see a blue box welcoming me to the system," he''d say. I didn''t understand why the boxes had to be blue and white, but it seemed important. Apparently, this new world I had landed in agreed.
Frank McLean (Walking in the Light) Job: None
Age: 18 Height: 5''10 Weight: 157
Stats
Strength: 8
Agility: 9
Dexterity: 11
Constitution: 9
Beauty: 12
Respectability: 0
Skills Holdings Accounts Resources Favors Reputation Fame
Despite my earlier musings about how this world wasn''t a game, it seemed that I had stats. I was interested to see that none of them were mental. Physical stats only. Where on a Dungeons & Dragons character sheet I would see intelligence and wisdom, they were conspicuously absent on mine. Strength, Agility, Dexterity, Constitution and Beauty. Not even Charisma, but Beauty. Charisma in D&D was a combination of your physical beauty and your charm. Beauty was just physical. This character sheet had literally no mental stats at all. Obviously, humans varied. I knew I wasn''t the smartest guy in the world, and I wasn''t the dumbest. So where was my intelligence stat? Why wasn''t it on here if this was my soul I was looking at? I didn''t have an answer. The whole character sheet was bathed in the same sunlight feel as the identity tags of people around me and I got a bit of a clue by reading text beside my name. Walking in the Light The sheet didn''t show a class, but a Job instead. I didn''t have one and that made sense. After all, I was unemployed. Was that what it meant by Job? That didn''t feel right. My stats were random numbers. If this was Dungeons & Dragons, I could''ve told you immediately what those numbers meant, and how I compared to the average human. But this wasn''t, and I couldn''t. I had no idea how I stacked up. I could get an idea, roughly, by looking at my Strength stat. I was the opposite of strong. Sure, I wasn''t fat and I wasn''t a skeleton, but I''d never lifted weights or gone out for sports. It just hadn''t seemed important. I''d spent my time studying, playing games with my friends and watching the right movies and TV shows. Despite how disappointed my father sometimes seemed; physical activity just didn''t fit into my schedule. I began to regret that a little bit now that I was seeing my stats in front of me. The numbers were depressingly low. My Dexterity was decent, and my Beauty was at least higher than my Strength, but that was it. Everything else seemed pretty low. The rest of the character sheet was somewhat bare. I had no skills listed, no perks and no titles. The sheet had no level or experience points. Not that I had expected there to be. It wasn''t like I was in a fantasy world. I couldn''t go out and start grinding goblins to level up. I knew there were cops in San Tadeo. Several cruisers had went by on the large road just ahead of me. They looked exactly like LAPD cruisers, except with STPD on the side. If I started grinding mobs here, I''d end up in jail. Who wanted to kill people for XP anyway? Not this guy. No. If this world had an XP system, it wasn''t an obvious one. Maybe it''d become clearer when I got a job, or even a skill. At the bottom of the sheet was a line of what looked like buttons but weren''t. A lot of them. The first three, Skills, Holdings and Accounts looked different. Grey and almost deflated compared to the shining, white text of the others. Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. I tried to press the Resources button that was hovering in the air in front of me and my hand passed right through. A man walked his dog past me at that very moment and gave me a bit of side-eye as I pawed at the air. He didn''t say anything, but I imagined he had a good laugh about it with his friends later. All that to say that despite the the fact that this screen in front of me looked like something out of a¡ªadmittedly very old¡ªcomputer game complete with buttons, I couldn''t reach out and press the buttons. I''d have to do it a different way. I focused on the Favors button and made my intent clear. The button visibly pressed inward and stuck in the down position. An additional screen appeared to the right of my still-open status sheet.
Favors - Frank McLean
Frank McLean OWES a small favor to "Manny"
"That''s not cool. An otherwise empty character sheet, but I owe somebody a favor?" I muttered to myself. "Who the hell is Manny?" There were two strange things about the favor I owed Manny. The first was his name. Who has just one name? It was also in quotes unlike the other names I''d seen. The final thing was that the whole entry felt strange. It wasn''t the brilliant white of my character sheet. It had no sunlit, warm feel to it. Instead, it gave off the feel of something hidden, possibly dangerous but mostly obscure. "Shadow," I mused. It seemed right. Whoever Manny was, maybe he was walking in shadow? I felt grateful that it was only a small favor that I owed Mystery Manny. Why a favor was tracked on my character sheet, I didn''t know. Obviously favors were a big deal here. The Resources button pressed in just like the Favors button did and another screen opened to the left of my character sheet. There was one entry there, and it was confusing.
Resources - Frank McLean
Catastrophic Medical Coverage 2/2
Provided by Martin McLean
Apparently Martin had put me on his health insurance plan. But what did the 2/2 beside it mean? I quickly popped open the the last two sheets. Each of the arranged themselves around the main character sheet in the middle.
Fame - Frank McLean
San Tadeo Unknown (0)
Reputation - Frank McLean
Martin McLean (Family) Tolerated (13)
I was unsurprised to see I wasn''t famous in any way, and that my uncle Martin didn''t like me very much. I tried a few other things but was unable to coax any more information out of my character sheet. No matter what I looked at or what intent I projected, nothing happened. I was almost begging it for tooltips, but no joy. It sure would be nice if you told me what those stat numbers meant, character sheet. With a thought the three sheets closed and left my view unobstructed once again. When they were open it wasn''t like I couldn''t see through them. I certainly could, since the backgrounds weren''t fully opaque. Even so, I could see how they could get in the way. I hoped it wasn''t one of those things where notifications would pop up and block my field-of-view at critical times. That would be super annoying. Another thing that Joe had mentioned was how in the beginning of his ee-sky books the Heroic Harem Prince of Destiny would have to figure out how to minimize their notifications in order to avoid being killed when they popped up at inopportune times. What kind of idiot would design a game system like that? I walked on, headed toward the busy road intersection ahead of me. I had been walking watching the street signs as I walked, first passing California and then Walnut street. "I could swear I was in LA." I got to the corner of the big street ahead of me, passing by a convenience store with a large parking lot. It had an odd name; one I''d never seen before. "24/7 MaxiMarket". Normally, I''d assume that it was just some family-owned shop with a weird name. Lots of the shops run by immigrants in my old neighborhood had strange names that probably made sense before they went through Google Translate. The name didn''t seem like one of those, but it just didn''t flow. The one thing that stopped me from immediately dismissing it as a bad translation job was the signage. It looked professional and polished. A large, well-designed sign above the store entrance itself and the large sign projecting above the parking parking lot. Someone had spent serious design money on the graphic design, and it showed. "Weird," I said. There was a crosswalk leading across the road to a strip mall on the other side. It had a pair of restaurants and an auto parts store. Now that I wasn''t so absorbed with my character sheet, I took a closer look. There was a restaurant called Jose''s Mexican Chicken next to a pizza place called Skinny Tony''s. The parts shop took up the majority of the mall and was simply Mel''s Auto. I looked up and down the road in front of me which the large sign told me was called Florence Avenue. In both directions I could see the signs of shops of all kinds. A tire store, a motel, a locksmith, you name it. None of them were familiar. What kind of strange place is this that the cars are all the same, but none of the shops are? The answer was clear with a moment¡¯s thought. What kind of place? A game world. It made sense. When you played a videogame of course you wanted to drive familiar cars. The developer would license them from their manufacturers, in order to put them in their game just for that reason. But what kind of dumb ass would license a fast food brand? The devs just made up their own. Nobody gives a shit about going to taco hell. At least, I wouldn''t. Maybe some people would love the verisimilitude of eating at the same restaurant in the game and real worlds. I didn''t want to know those people. Jose''s Mexican Chicken was the JMC that Martin had mentioned earlier. I wasn''t hungry yet, but I knew I would be later. I didn''t even have a nickel on me, much less enough to buy chicken. I guess sending me out alone into the world to find a job without a penny in my pocket is Martin''s way of building character. I couldn''t blame him. I hadn''t asked him for money. To be fair, I was pretty sure he wouldn''t have given me any. He''d given me the bus pass, anyway. Those were damn pricey in LA. I could live without eating for a day. It wasn''t something I usually did, but how hard could it be? When the light turned, I crossed Florence. Traffic wasn''t heavy, not by LA standards, but the street was full. I guessed it was only about 8:30 in the morning. I didn''t have a phone or watch, but it hadn''t been that long since I''d woken up and had breakfast. Thinking about the time caused text to pop up in front of me again. My desire to know had been strong, and bam there it was.
San Tadeo, California, 08:11 Thursday March 05, 2020 Florence Avenue and Mountain View Avenue Walking in the Light
I grinned. That might be really handy. It wasn''t the same as having a smartphone with GPS in your pocket, but anything was better than what I currently had, which was nothing. Jose''s Mexican Chicken had just opened. The drive-through was full and several cars were parked in front. The parking lot that Skinny Tony''s, JMC and Mel''s shared was quite large and mostly empty at this time of the morning. I approached JMC and, just like Martin it said, they had a large "Help Wanted, Apply Within" sign in the window. At the corner of the restaurant was something I''d really only seen on a screen. A phone booth. It wasn''t one of those half booths either, it was a full-on enclosed booth with a door. The truly odd thing about it was the the panes of glass. They were all black like a gangster''s tinted windows. I couldn''t resist, I walked past the JMC entrance and went to check it out. The door was open, and I could see the phone inside. It looked exactly like in the movies, a long, fat rectangle with a braided steel cable leading to a plastic handset. It was like a museum artifact. You just didn''t see these anymore. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. A light came on as I close the door, giving me just enough light to see the phone and the litter at my feet, mostly cards with pictures of prostitutes on them. I could see outside, but only just. The door opened and I stepped out to look through the glass from the other side. The tint was dark, and I could only just make out the rough outline of the phone, even with the door open letting light in. I couldn''t for the life of me figure out the purpose of tinted glass on a phone booth. I looked around and after a minute spotted another phone booth with the same blacked out glass farther down the street, right on the sidewalk by Florence Avenue. Filing the mystery away for later, I returned to the front doors of the JMC. The Help Wanted sign looked back at me. I thought about it. Did I really want to work fast food? Hell no. What was my alternative, though? I had literally zero skills. Sure, I could play any number of tabletop role-playing games. I could ride the crap out of a bicycle, and even competently use most TV remote controls. I was a whiz at Googling shit. None of those things seemed like a marketable skill right at the moment. It made me realize just how reliant on my father I''d been. With zero dollars in my pocket and a hard deadline from Martin of thirty days to raise rent I didn''t have anything fall back on. Dad had paid the bills my whole life. He would give me a little spending money each month and he always made sure I had what I needed. Not everything I wanted, but everything I needed. He was a good dad. Is a good dad. I was standing there staring at the sign and mulling my options over when the front doors opened and a dude wearing what I thought of as the Cholo uniform stepped out. An oversized button-down shirt with only the top button fastened and a white undershirt. Baggy pants, a shaved head, tattoos and gold jewelry. He was clutching a fat paper bag with the JMC logo on it in red and green to his chest. He ignored me and stepped out to his car parked directly in front of the restaurant. It was some massive boat from the 70s that I didn''t recognize. A Mercury. All sharp angles and Detroit steel with a drop top and white leather interior. The paint was cherry-red and although I wasn''t normally a fan of cars from that era, it was beautiful. He set the bag down carefully on his passenger seat and started the car. A deep throaty roar came from underneath the massive hood, a burbling, rumbling sound that I didn''t hear that often anymore. More and more, in my old life, people were driving Teslas and other efficient, quiet cars. The sound of an American V-8 was familiar, if almost a distant memory. I loved it. Out of habit, I tried to identify the man. Nothing appeared over his head, surprising me. Instead, I got that strange feeling of something obscured, something lurking in the shadows, invisible. The man glanced up at me, his eyes skipping across me as he backed out of the parking stall, the big V-8 rumbling delightfully. He turned and accelerated out of the parking lot onto Florence, flooring it to get in front of oncoming traffic, merging in a uniquely Californian way. So that''s what shadow is? I just don''t see anything if they''re in shadow? That can''t be all of it. The smell of the departed Cholo''s order¡ªfried chicken, bacon, whatever else was in there¡ªlingered in the air after he left. My stomach complained, even though breakfast was not long ago. There was no way I should still be hungry, but it was an enticing smell. Martin had almost ordered me to go apply for a job at JMC. He hadn''t, quite, but I didn''t want to know what would happen if I showed up back at his house at 1800 as instructed and he asked me about it. I could lie to him, but I was beginning to think that was a bad idea. I had no doubt that he had the same character sheet that I did. The only difference was that he''d been a colonel in the Air Force for some significant portion of his life. What skills did an officer in the military get? Some kind of intimidation skill would explain the effect that he had on me. It would come in handy to make the lesser ranks do what you wanted when they are being difficult. I wasn''t in his chain of command, but it seemed like it had worked anyway. Who knew what other skills he had? Maybe he had one for telling whether little punks like me were lying to him or not. I opened the door and went into JMC. The staff behind the counter were relatively efficient, and I didn''t have to wait long to get to the front. The young woman behind the counter greeted me with a brilliant white smile. She was a tiny little thing, petite with dramatic curves for her size. She was very pretty. Looking into those shining, friendly brown eyes I found myself smiling back. "Welcome to Jose''s, what can I get you?" she asked. "Actually, I saw your help wanted sign." Her smile got even broader and maybe even more genuine. I glanced at her name tag, fully charmed. Mindy. "That''s great! Take these, go find yourself a table and fill them out. In a few minutes when you''re done, I''ll come and speak with you. My name''s Mindy, I''m Assistant Manager here." "Hi Mindy, I''m Frank." "Nice to meet you Frank. Please, go sit down and I''ll come talk to you soon." I found an empty booth and sat down facing the kitchen and order counter. There weren''t many people working back there. Mindy, some greasy guy on the fryer and one other. The third guy looked like the manager. He wasn''t wearing a uniform but instead a polo shirt and black slacks with a smart leather belt. He had a name tag, but I couldn''t read it from where I was sitting. It took me a moment to remember that I could just identify him.
Barry Goreman, Senior Manager (E4), General Manager JMC #441
Sure enough, the manager. I identified the other two as well. Mindy Varga and Wayne Trant. Neither of them had titles like the manager and my uncle, but each of them had a job.
Mindy Varga, Junior Manager (E2)
Wayne Trant, Fry Cook (E3)
I felt a bit nervous, honestly, using this skill or whatever it was to identify the people working at JMC. What if people could tell when you did that to them? Was it considered rude to use this on people? Mindy was wearing a name tag, after all. If everyone could do this, why did anyone need nametags? The Cholo in the Mercury out front hadn''t seemed to react when I tried to ID him, but maybe that was because he was in shadow. So many questions. Where the hell is my damn tutorial? The application form was surprisingly brief. They wanted my name, my phone number and address, and my previous employment history. What I didn''t see, in true California fashion, were any questions about age, sex or criminal history. They didn''t even ask about education. I didn''t keep up with the crazy California employment regulations. Was that another thing you weren''t allowed to ask about now, or did JMC just not care? I filled it out as best as I could. I remembered Martin''s address but didn''t know his phone number. My previous experience was¡ªwell¡ªnone. Even if I had worked at a fast food restaurant, what was I going to put in this section? I''d worked at a place that didn''t exist in this reality? That would go over well. I left it blank. Mindy handed off her register duties to the manager, who gave me a brief look over before turning his attention back to the customer in front of him. A bright, obviously fake smile appeared on his face as he greeted the man at the counter. Mindy slid into the booth across from me. "Okay, can I take a look?" she asked and reached out for the application. I handed it to her, and she scanned it quickly. "No experience, that''s okay. We fully train all of our employees. Can you tell me why you want to work at Jose''s, Frank?" She looked into my eyes, a serious expression on her face. I hadn''t been on any job interviews before, but I knew that telling the truth on them was generally a poor idea. I went ahead and did it anyway. "To be honest, Mindy, I don''t particularly. I need a job though. My dad just died, and my uncle needs me to pay rent if I want to keep living with him." Mindy''s expression softened and her right hand reached out to grab mine. "Oh, I''m so sorry, Frank. Losing a parent so young, that''s terrible." I nodded, keeping a sober face. I hadn''t known Dean, but I wasn''t opposed to using his death for sympathy points from a pretty girl like this. Mindy''s hand on mine felt good. It had been almost a year since my last girlfriend had dumped me. That had been rough. She was our healer. When we broke up she no longer wanted to entertain my "silly gaming hobby" and that was that. The party had been screwed without healing, and I''d no longer had my female affection. "Thank you, Mindy. I know I''m not supposed to say things like that, but I felt I should be honest." Mindy''s lovely smile changed to a wry, knowing grin. "I''m going to be honest with you, Frank. Not many people really have a passion for fast food. Maybe Barry, my boss. This is just a job. Let''s just skip the bullshit questions then and get right down to it, okay?" I was liking this girl more and more. "Sure." "Are you available to work immediately?" "Tomorrow would be fine." She nodded. "Great. I''m not supposed to ask this one, but I will anyway. Do you have any infectious diseases? You''d be working with food, and even though we fry the crap out of everything I still worry. I wouldn''t feel right hiring you if you did." It didn''t surprise me that she wasn''t allowed to ask something like that, no matter how much it seemed like an obvious question to ask. "No, I''m as pure as the driven snow." She smiled at that and moved on to her next question. "Are you a reliable person, Frank? If you make a commitment, will you keep to it?" I got a strange sense in that moment. In any other context I would''ve assumed that she''d gone back to her bullshit HR questions, but I felt that she was being genuine. She really wanted to know the answer. "I''m not perfect, Mindy. But, when I say I will do something, I try my best to do it. I think I''m reliable." It was true, I wasn''t bullshitting her. I was one of the only people in the history of Jeremy''s game group with a perfect attendance record. No, I hadn''t been there every night that they played. Instead, I''d been there every night I said I would be. Everyone else had a spotty record, flaking at least once or twice if not more. Jeremy had, unknown to me, been taking attendance the entire time, tracking us in a spreadsheet. After two years he''d awarded my flawless no-flake record with an immaculately painted mini of my 11th level fighter Broznan in our current campaign. I was touched. Broznan died that session. For the briefest moment, I thought about using that story to impress Mindy. I swallowed that urge down, and merely looked her in the eyes and let my previous statement stand. She paused a beat and looked into my eyes to find the truth before replying. I met her stare and after a moment she looked away, blushing a little. "Great. That''s great, Frank. I make the schedule around here, with some exceptions. When my employees don''t show up when I''ve scheduled them, it really makes me angry. I''m trying to avoid hiring anyone unreliable again." "Mindy, if you don''t mind me asking, you''re the assistant manager, right? Isn''t it usually the manager that hires people?" She nodded. "Yeah, that''s normally how it works. Barry''s not that kind of manager. He''ll veto if he doesn''t like someone, but he leaves the hiring and scheduling to me." The next question that was on the tip of my tongue was to ask if she was doing that work, what the hell did Barry do? I knew better than to ask that one. "That''s it then. I''ll have to talk to Barry, but I''m inclined to offer you the job. It''s not much. Minimum wage, no benefits. If you''re reliable I''ll give you forty hours a week, so you''ll be able to pay your rent. I''ll call you, and let you know, okay?" She asked. "Oh, about that. I just moved into my uncle''s house and I don''t actually know his phone number." She looked down at my application form. "I see the address here. Is he listed?" It took me a minute to understand what she was asking me. Listed. Listed in what? "Oh, you mean in the phone book? I have no idea. Probably? His name is Martin. Martin McLean." She pulled a pen free from her breast pocket and noted that down on my application form. "Got it. If you don''t get a call from me in the next couple of days letting you know one way or the other, come on by and I''ll let you know, okay? I''m on most mornings." I nodded, and she extended her right hand. I shook it, returning her smile. We both stood up, and she returned to the counter while I stood and watched like a dummy. She waved a final time and disappeared into the back. I suddenly found myself hoping that this new world I found myself in was like those silly ee-sky books of Joe''s. 1.04 - Meeting Manny I was standing on the sidewalk in front of JMC moments later, trying to decide my next destination. Should I go next door to Skinny Tony''s and put in an application there? Sure, Mindy had said I probably had the job, but it wasn''t a hundred percent sure thing. Being flat broke really sucked. Would my uncle be pissed I came back tonight if I came back that night and had applied to a grand total of one job opening? My reverie was broken by the sound of loud gangster rap coming from cheap speakers being pushed to their limits. I could hear the distortion, and almost feel the tortured groaning of the cars strained amplifiers. I looked over and saw an older, boxy convertible with brown paint and no hubcaps pull into the parking lot. This car I actually recognized. It was a Buick Regal, one of the few convertibles that almost anyone could afford. I''d looked at quite a few of them just before I hit 16 when I''d been vainly dreaming that my dad might buy me a car, or with some miracle I''d come into enough money to buy one. When you''re a 16-year-old kid in California any convertible was better than a normal car. The guy driving a car was singing along with the lyrics, enthusiastically. He had a black ball cap with CREAM written across the top, a bright blue jersey and black wraparound sunglasses. Around his neck, a thick silvery-gold chain with a comically large glittering dollar sign hung. He looked like a caricature of a gangster. The Regal rattled to a stop, brakes squealing in protest. The driver turned it off and hopped out, pocketing the keys in his baggy, sagging shorts. He walked around to the sidewalk, and when he saw me, he stopped in his tracks. He smiled and pulled his sunglasses off to make direct eye contact. He had dark brown or black eyes and I could see now that he was clearly Asian, but I didn''t recognize him. He seemed to know me, though. "Holy shit, Frank. It''s good to see you, brother," he said, and strode over to me. He extended his right hand for an obvious Bro-hug, and after a brief hesitation I accepted, and we embraced. The Bro-hug wasn''t something I had done with my other friends, but I''d seen it done often enough that I knew how it went. I caught the distinct odor of marijuana, strong and recent. When he pulled back, I could see his eyes were a little pink. That was no big deal, lots of people in LA smoked up. Hell, it was even legal, now. Mostly. In any case it wasn''t like there was any social stigma to marijuana anymore. I didn''t smoke it myself. It seemed to make people dumber. I reflexively identified him as he pulled back. Nothing appeared in the air, only that feeling of shadow again. "I''m sorry, man. What''s your name again?" I asked. I didn''t see any other way to go. He was in shadow and I didn''t know his name. There was no way I was going to do that sitcom thing where I tried to talk to him without knowing who he was. "You''re fucking with me, Frank. You know me, it''s Manny, Bro." Manny. What were the chances? I''ve got a bare character sheet, except that I owe one favor to a guy named Manny. I go out on my first morning in this new world, and who do I meet in the largest city in California? Manny. So, to answer the question my own question about the chances? The chances are: none. There''s no way that just happened randomly. As a long-time tabletop gamer, this had the stink of a DM on it. Something ran this world. Whether it was a god, a DM, aliens or, hell, even my own subconscious. Whatever it was, it was trying to push us together. I wasn''t sure that was a good idea, but I also knew most DMs didn''t particularly like you leaving the rails. "Hey, Manny. What''s up?" "Getting my feed on, Bro! I had a late night chasing the ladies and I''ve got some stuff to do today but I need to eat. Wanna join?" "No, sorry man. I''m flat broke." "I got you, Homes. Let''s eat." Hell, if Manny was going to buy me some chicken, I definitely wasn''t going to say no. I followed him back into the JMC and we went to the counter. Mindy took our order, looking curiously at Manny as we stood together and ordered. I saw the question in her eyes, but I didn''t have an answer for her. There was so much I didn''t know about this world. Was there a social stigma about hanging out with people that were in shadow? Or was it just like someone choosing to be anonymous? My uncle surely didn''t see it that way, but was his view a common one? Manny ordered one of the breakfast combos and I followed suit. Nothing like chicken strips and fries for breakfast. I filled my drink cup with a brown, sugary liquid from a tap sporting a logo I didn''t recognize. Whatever it was, it wasn''t anything I''d drank back in Los Angeles. It still tasted pretty familiar. Some kind of cola. Manny led me to the farthest booth and sat in the corner with windows at his back and right side. I slid in after him. The chicken was delicious, spicy and crunchy at the same time. It definitely had a bit of a Mexican flavor to it but also tasted a lot like the southern fried chicken I was used to. The french fries were nothing special, but the chicken disappeared quickly from both our trays. Once that was done Manny leaned back and looked at me from across the table. "I''m so glad I ran into you this morning, Bro. When was the last time I saw you, anyway?" That one was a landmine. I had no idea, so I tried to obfuscate. "I don''t know Manny. I''ve been having a rough couple days. My dad just died." "Oh shit, Homes. Now I remember your dad was sick. He got worse, huh? I guess that''s why I haven''t seen you in school. I thought you were just ditching. They got you on compassionate leave?" "No, I''m out for the rest of the year, at least. Gotta get a job and pay rent to my uncle." "That''s harsh, Bro. That works out though, since I can help you earn a little scratch today. You up for it?" My first instinct was to tell him "Hell, no". Whatever Manny was doing, I didn''t want any part of it. He was dressed like a clown pretending to be a gangster and walking in shadow. Whatever he was doing, he didn''t want anyone to know who he was. I tempered my answer a bit instead. "I don''t know, man." "Seriously, just come back me up, Bro. I don''t want to go to this meet alone. I want somebody watching my back. And who better, huh? The boys roll again, Bro. You help me out, and like I said I''ll hook you up." He pulled out a roll of cash from his front pocket and peeled off the a hundred. He laid it on the table and put the roll away but not before I saw that the next bill was a twenty. "Help me out today, I''ll give you a Benji. Sound good?" It did sound good, actually. Going from lint to a hundred bucks in my pocket sounded really good. But whatever Manny wanted to do sounded shady as fuck. He wanted back up at a ''meet.'' Screw that. "Sorry, Manny. I don''t want to get mixed up in anything." "Shit, Bro. I thought you had my back. Boys forever, right? I need you man. I gotta call in my favor, if you won''t come." Text appeared in the air in front of me, shrouded in shadow.
"Manny" is calling in his small favor. "Manny" will now state his terms and judgement on fairness will be rendered.
"I can''t believe you''re making me do this, Bro," Manny muttered and then spoke more clearly. "Here''s what I want: You to come with me to the meet and have my back. It''s not going to get violent; I just need you there to boost my rep. I need to show that I''ve got boys and I''m not just some chump all by himself. After the meet''s done, we''ll call it good." The display in front of me changed. Manny clearly saw the same text as I did, as he grimaced in frustration.
Repayment proposal of small favor to "Manny" is deemed imbalanced. Imbalanced in favor of: "Manny" Degree of imbalance: moderate
"Damnit. Fine. That, and I''ll give you the hundred bucks. We good?" The display in front of me changed once again and Manny relaxed, looking up at me.
small favor repayment terms are judged balanced. Accept these repayment terms? NOTE: Declining reasonable repayment of favors will have consequences.
I grimaced and read the prompt again. The universe had deemed Manny''s terms to be balanced, somehow. How it could possibly determine that escaped me. I was still tempted to say no. The warning was just vague enough that it worried me. Manny saw my hesitation. "Come on, Bro, you can see this is fair. What are you going to do, take the penalty? Help me with this and we''re even." With a bit of trepidation, I projected my will and the accept button in front of me depressed and locked into place. The display changed before fading out moments later. I took the hundred-dollar bill and tucked it into my pocket.
Repayment of small favor to "Manny" is in progress. Favor will be considered resolved after a good faith effort, or when "Manny" declares repayment complete.
The gamer in me cringed when I read that. Even in games with a DM watching over the players a "good faith" effort was a high bar. It was so abusable. If I wanted to screw Manny over, I could just do something stupid, deliberately. Who was to say it wasn''t just an error of judgement and not me breaking faith? In this case, it seemed the universe was the arbiter. Maybe whatever it was could read minds and tell when people were being deceptive. I wasn''t planning on screwing Manny over, but I resolved to find out what the limits of this system were. Manny and I left JMC''s a few minutes later, dumping the trash on our trays in the bins near the exit on the way out. Manny held onto his drink, noisily sipping it and rattling the ice around. We approached his car which squatted inelegantly in the bright California sunshine just outside. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. "Alright, as soon as you''re ready, Bro, we''ll roll," Manny said, and sat on the hood of his car. "I''m ready now, I guess." "Shit, Bro. You can''t go to this meet in the Light. Like I told you, there''s not a lot of risk, but you don''t want these guys knowing your real name." That wasn''t promising. We were going to meet with guys who we didn''t want to know our real names. Great. The more pressing concern I had was what I could do about it. "I''ve never walked in shadow before, Manny," I said. Manny''s eyebrows raised, an almost comical expression of surprise on his face. "No shit, Homey? You''ve never ever done it? Come on, Bro. You gotta express those constitutional rights. Every American has a right to walk in shadow, you know that. It''s one of the reasons the terrorists hate us so much, Bro." "Yeah, sure. It''s just, I don''t know how. Like I said, I''ve never done it." "Shit, Bro. Did you miss that health class? I skipped it¡ªmy cousin showed me how to do it when I was ten. My mom didn''t want me to know how, but good luck with that." "Yeah, I must have ditched that one. So, how do I do it?" Manny stood up, setting his drink on the hood of the Regal. "I got you. Hold on." He stepped down from the sidewalk and walked to the rear of his car, using his keys to open the trunk. He reached in and pulled and after rummaging around for a while, pulled two items free and slammed the trunk. He came back to me holding them. It was another jersey, a blue one, for a different team than the one he was already wearing. The other item was a thick, gold rope chain. I took them both and looked them over. The first thing that I noticed was that the jersey stank, a lot. The smell was incredibly potent, a mix of eau de marijuana and a sewer. I recoiled, thrusting the jersey away from me as my eyes watered. "Yeah, my bad Bro. I used that one to clean up a bit of spilled bong water and the smell hasn''t come out yet. Don''t worry once we''re on the road the wind will take that smell right out." I doubted that. "I can just wear the shirt I''m wearing, can''t I?" I asked "Shit no, Bro. You gotta look the part. Anyway, the chain is what you really need. Check it out." I pulled the chain up, identifying it.
Decorative Chain of the Mirror (Shadow Focus) +1 to Street Cred Value: ???
A shadow item. Martin had mentioned that. I clearly remembered him saying how if he ever found one, I was done in his house. The real surprising thing however was the stat that it added. "What the hell is Street Cred?" I asked. "Come on, you''re definitely fucking with me now. Every kid knows what Street Cred is. It''s the mirror stat of Respectability. Light and Dark, Karmic Mirror, that whole thing." I didn¡¯t but didn''t want to press for more answers. Maybe it would be obvious once I was actually walking in shadow. "What, so I just put the shirt and chain on here, and I''m good?" I asked. "Hell no, Homey. Get in that booth. First rule, never enter or exit the shadows where somebody can see you. If you do that, you''ll break the mirror for anybody who sees you. Believe me, most the time you don''t want that. With us, it''s cool. We''re bros. Other people though? No, no way. It makes you way too vulnerable. Protect those First Amendment rights, Bro." I added "break the mirror" to the list of things I needed to know. Whatever it was, it sounded bad and I''d avoid it. There was one last bit I was unclear on. "So, I go in the booth, put the shirt and the chain on, and then job done, right?" "No. You need the chain, but you''ve gotta want to go into the Shadows. Just like you gotta want to walk in the Light when you''re done. Without that, nothing''s gonna happen. Just like if you take off the chain later without the want you''ll still be in the shadows." "So even if I lose this chain, I''ll still be protected?" "Yeah, Bro. What use would the shadows be if all somebody had to do to drag you back into the light was just take off your chain? That wouldn''t make sense." That filled in a large hole in my understanding. Once you entered the shadows you were there until you wanted to leave. If it weren''t for that, think of how easy the cops would have it. They''d just have to arrest you, strip search you, and bam¡ªthey''d know who you were in the Light. So many more questions flooded my mind and I swallowed them down. If Manny was going to be my tutorial, my intro to this world, I had to play it cool. He wasn''t just some dumb AI I could fire questions at rapid fire. I had to stay in character, because there was no way I wanted to explain to him that his high school friend that he trusted was some stranger from another world that just happened to look exactly the same and have the same name. "I''ll go try it." Manny nodded and sat back down on the hood of his car. I walked back to the phone booth I had checked out earlier. At some point the layer of prostitute cards on the floor had been refreshed with new ones added to the top. Otherwise, everything was the same. I entered and shut the door behind me. The light came on, and I looked at the two items in my hands. The smell of the shirt in the tight space was almost overwhelming. I held my breath as I pulled it on over top of my other shirt, hoping I wouldn''t cook in the sun with two layers. I really didn''t want this stinky thing to touch my bare skin. Hell, I''d probably have to destroy the shirt I was already wearing afterward. Once it was on, I pulled the chain over my head. At least it wasn''t incredibly gaudy like the one Manny was wearing. If the one that he''d been storing his trunk was +1 to a stat, then the one he was actually wearing must have more bonuses. That was standard gamer wisdom. You don''t wear gear with inferior stats. Especially not when it looked so ridiculous. There was no upper limit to how ridiculous a true gamer would look for superior stats. I put the chain around my neck, and after a moment managed to find the right intent. Shadows seem to gather around me, and text appeared in front of me.
Welcome to the shadows! Choose a name to represent your mirrored self. WARNING: This name is not easily changeable.
"A name?" It didn''t make seem to make sense. Why would I need to give a name when people couldn''t see it? My identify skill didn''t show Manny''s name. It showed nothing at all, just that feeling of shadows. In any case, the prompt sat there, waiting. I thought briefly about just using Frank, but that didn''t seem like a good idea. "Mack," I said, out loud. Mack was one of my favorite D&D character names, a short version of my last name. After I said that, it appeared in front of me, properly spelled and everything. I was surprised, but not much. The system was clearly very good.
Name chosen: "Mack" Confirm, or choose another name.
I took a deep breath, then projected my desire to confirm. The shadows that had gathered around me seemed to retreat slightly, but although nothing was visible, I still could feel them. It was an odd sensation, the cool darkness of deep shadow on a summer''s day despite the near oppressive heat inside the blacked-out phone booth. I realized that I would always be able to tell when I was walking in the shadows. With a thought I pulled up my character sheet.
"Mack" (Walking in the Shadows) Job: None
Age: 18 Height: 5''10 Weight: 157
Stats
Strength: 8
Agility: 9
Dexterity: 11
Constitution: 9
Beauty: 12
Street Cred: 1
Skills Holdings Accounts Resources Favors Reputation Infamy
The whole sheet had that shadowed feel, and my name had changed. Respectability had changed to Street Cred. I was curious if that was the only change and started opening up the sub screens. It wasn''t, of course.
Fame - Frank McLean
San Tadeo Unknown (0)
Infamy - "Mack"
San Tadeo Unknown (0)
Reputation - Frank McLean
Martin McLean (Family) Tolerated (13)
Reputation - "Mack"
"Manny" Respected (60)
Now that I''d entered the shadows for the first time, I was seeing values for my new shadow-self, "Mack", in my Fame and Reputation screens as well. Dismissing the character sheet, I stepped out of the phone booth''s oppressive heat and stench. Out in the open air things improved marginally, but I pitied anyone that had to be near me. Manny was still sitting on the hood of his car, taking small sips from his drink and looking around. His eyes skipped right over me as I exited. I felt incredibly conspicuous in the jersey and fake gold chain, even with no one looking. I stopped in front of Manny and he finally looked up and met my gaze. I couldn''t see his eyes behind his sunglasses, but his expression wasn''t friendly. He seemed a little nervous, even. "What''s up?" he asked. "I''m ready. Let''s go," I said. Manny stood up and set down the nearly empty drink on the hood. "I don''t want no trouble, Bro. I don''t know you, Mack. We got beef?" I was stunned. Did he really not know who I was, or was he just fucking with me? I instinctively tried to identify him despite it not having worked the previous times. This time was different.
"Manny"
It was just his name, and it still had the shadowed feel. Now that I was in the shadows as well, I could see it. Did that mean that no one on the light side could see any info on people walking in the shadows? Manny was standing like he was ready to either throw down or take off running, depending on what happened in the next seconds. I didn''t know him that well, but there was no way he was that much of an actor. He honestly didn''t know who I was. "Manny, it''s me," I said. I glanced around to make sure no one could overhear and then lowered my voice anyway. "Frank."
Mirror Broken You have relinquished the protection of the shadows. Manny will now be able to associate your Light and Shadow selves.
Manny''s posture immediately relaxed, and he dropped the sunglasses off his eyes to look me over. "Homes, you scared the shit out of me," he said, and pulled me into a hug. A moment later he pushed me away. "Holy shit, you stink. We''ve really gotta get you a different shirt. Remind me, would ya?" "How the hell did you not know it was me, Manny? You gave me this damn shirt and chain, and you saw me go into that phone booth and come out. Who else could I possibly be?" "Ditched that one too, did you? Shadow''s like that, Bro. Fucks with your head. Now that you broke the mirror with me, I''ll know it''s you from now on. To be honest, I thought we''d already done that. I could''ve sworn, actually. Maybe I was too high that day. Sorry, Bro. If I''d known I would have warned you. My bad." Whatever this world was, it was turning out stranger than I thought. There was some kind of magical or psionic protection of your true identity when you were in shadow. Wild. If this were like a typical game, I''d expect that a skill existed that could breach that protection. A rare one, or maybe an item. Yet another thing to ask about. Later. Manny was moving around to the driver side door and waved me to the passenger side. "Come on, let''s go. It''s a bit of a drive, and traffic''s gonna be a bitch." I opened the passenger side door and got in, but Manny just jumped in Dukes of Hazard style. I raised an eyebrow at him, and he chuckled. "Door doesn''t work. Been meaning to get it fixed, but you know mechanics. They''re expensive as fuck. Besides, I''m saving my capital. I need every dime for expansion. You''ll see." He started up the car with some difficulty. The engine turned over a few times before wheezing to life. A fan belt squealed in protest. The sweet sound of American muscle it wasn''t. As the engine roared to life, the gangster rap that had been playing started back up. The sound hurt my ears now that I was inside the car. I didn''t recognize the song but wasn''t sure if that was because it was music from another world or if it was just my near-complete ignorance of the genre. I reached out and turned the volume knob almost all the way down. Manny looked over at me and raised his right eyebrow but didn''t protest. The engine settled into a smooth, loping rhythm after the initial complaints and without hesitating, Manny use the shifter on his steering column to put the car into reverse and backed out quickly. The drink that he''d forgotten on his hood tumbled off, hitting the asphalt and spraying ice and a small amount of drink. Without giving it a glance, he pulled us out onto Florence and merged with the steady traffic. "Where we going?" I asked. "We''re going to see my connect. He''s a guy goes by Brass Lee." "Brass Lee?" "Yeah, it''s dumb. But he''s Chinese and I think he''s into martial arts or something. It''s kind of a pun. He''s in the Brass Dragon Tong, you see. He''s one of their lieutenants." "A tong? Like the Chinese mafia?" I asked. "Kind of. Not quite the same, but yeah, they''re organized. I''ve got an in, and I need to reup. I bought some dope from him last week and it''s all gone. I got a good customer base and they''re desperate for my product." "If you''ve done business with this guy before, why do you need me?" I asked. "I''m just the smallest of fishes here, Bro. I need to make a good impression. Like, that I''m scaling up. You know, growing. These Tong guys are sharp. Real capitalist sharks. If I look like I''m too little of a fish and that I''m never going to get bigger they''re just gonna eat me. I need be just big enough for them to not to not feel like they''re wasting their time." I didn''t know exactly what he meant, but the thought of us going to see somebody in the Chinese mafia didn''t sit well. I''d known, intellectually, that LA had been full of gangs of all sorts. The wonderful rainbow of diversity that was organized crime in California. Even with that knowledge, I''ve never met any of them. That I knew of. I''d never wanted to, either. Those people were dangerous. And now, I was traveling with my wannabe gangster buddy to buy dope. Great. 1.05 - Going to My First Drug Buy We drove east on Florence Avenue, and the city continued to remind me of Los Angeles. It was hard to explain, but other places in California didn''t have the same feel. It might''ve been the oversized roads, the prevalence of pawn shops and gang tags. Whatever it was, cruising in Manny''s regal in the morning sunshine made me feel right at home. I lost myself in the sunshine for a minute and then reality came crashing back. Manny and I were on our way to a drug buy. "What are you buying anyway, Manny? You said dope. What? Heroin? Meth?" "Fuck no, Homes. That shit''s dangerous. I''m buying good old Mary J. It comes from the earth, Bro. Mary will never hurt you. She just makes you feel good." "Hold on, you''re selling weed? Isn''t that legal?" I had just been musing in my head how much this place felt like LA but as soon as Manny said he was selling weed I realized the one thing I hadn''t been seeing. No signs, billboards or sky-writing advertising marijuana dispensaries. That green leaf I''d gotten so familiar with in LA was remarkably absent. "Hell no, it''s not legal Bro. If it were, I''d be screwed. How do you think I can afford this sweet ride?" I relaxed a bit. How serious could things get if we were just talking about marijuana? "How much are you going to buy? What does marijuana cost, anyway?" "I''m to buy another ounce off of Lee. He''ll sell it to me for $550 like last time. I mark it up a hundred percent and after it''s all sold, I''ve got a cool $1100 in profit." I hadn''t bought marijuana when I was in LA, but that price seemed high. I dismissed that thought pretty much immediately. It was becoming clear to me that wherever I was, it didn''t follow the same rules as home. In an LA where weed was illegal, maybe that was a good price? "I saw your roll, Manny. You don''t have $1600 bucks. What happened to the rest?" Manny glanced over before returning his eyes to the road. Despite his appearances, he was driving in a sober and safe manner, unlike the cholo I''d seen earlier. Hands at ten and two, alert and aware of the road around him. "You clocked that, huh? Yeah, I''ve got just enough to re-up. Moms saw my stack and I told her I was tutoring kids in my spare time for college money. She made me put most of it in the bank for my tuition next year. Sucks, Bro." I laughed, the thought of my new friend''s Tiger Mom taking away his drug capital and making him save it for his college education was just too funny. "What you laughing at, Homes?" Manny asked, indignant. "Sorry, Manny. It''s just funny. What does Mom think of your outfit?" "You know I don''t dress like this all the time. My mom would have a heart attack and kill me. Maybe not in that order. I don''t even know what my dad would do. He''s old school man. His dad was Vietcong. Scary. I never met Grandpa, but if you see the pictures of him, he''s got one mean mug." "Oh, your family''s Vietnamese?" Manny looked over at me again, lowering his glasses to give me an incredulous expression. "Duh, Homes. The fact that I''m all Asian and have a Vietnamese name clued you in, huh?" He shook his head and returned to his driving. I didn''t know what to say about that. Telling him that I didn''t know what his real name was didn''t seem like a good idea. The other me, the one who might''ve actually existed before I came in and took over this body, he might have. That guy knew Manny. They were friends. I''d just have to wing it. We crossed over a short bridge. I looked to my right and could swear I was looking at the LA river. That concrete hole in the earth full of trash, gang tags, and almost no water. "Manny, what''s that called? This thing we''re crossing right now?" "That''s the mighty Tadeo river, Bro. What, you lost all of a sudden?" I resolved to look at a map of San Tadeo and California itself as soon as possible. Manny pulled off Florence, onto the Highway 710 North on-ramp. It was a big cloverleaf just on the other side of the Tadeo river. Despite Manny''s attention to the road, he was unable to Dodge a very large pothole and cursed as his right front wheel made a tortured sound. The impact jolted the whole car and popped the glove box open in front of me. It was stuffed full of junk paper. "Shit, my suspension! I hope that didn''t wreck anything. Can you close that, Bro?" He asked, indicating the glove box. I leaned forward and caught a glimpse of what was stuffed in the back of the glovebox. Not able to help myself, I reached in and pulled it free. A shining, nickel plated revolver with a snub nose. It was exactly like those guns you''d see middle-aged cops carry on the TV shows. It had a real weight to it, and felt substantial in my hands. I pulled it out to look it over. "Hey, be careful with that. It''s loaded. Nice piece though, huh?" I nodded and identified the gun.
Smith & Wesson Model 36 (F) Ammo (.38): 6/6
Handling: B Damage: E Serial: None
Penetration: E Accuracy: E Value: ???
Seeing the guns stat sheet prompted a ton of new questions. No damage numbers? Why was everything rated with a letter, and not something more concrete like a percentage? Or hell, even a DC. Give me a plus to hit and damage, universe. What was up with this JRPG strangeness. Despite my curiosity as a gamer I pushed those questions to the bottom of the pile for now. A more important one was in the front of my mind. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. "Manny, what do you have this for? Are you gonna take it into the meet?" "Hell yeah, I am. There''s no point having a gun if it''s not around when you need it." "Hey, you said this wasn''t going to be dangerous." "It''s not. Seriously, it''s not. I''ve got no beef with Brass Lee or the Tong. I''m one of their dealers. A customer anyway. Stringer, freelancer, whatever you want to call it. I give them money for their product. The gun is just to show I''m serious. Actually using it''s going to be a last resort, Homes. Rule of Escalation and all that, you know." "Rule of Escalation? What''s that?" "Shit, man, you watched all the same movies as I did. All those gangster flicks. You telling me you don''t remember that?" "No, what is it?" "Simple, Bro. You get in a fist fight with somebody, that''s one thing. You win or lose. The cops are probably not going to interfere. But if you get in a fist fight, and when you start to lose you pull a gun, you escalated. You never want to be the guy that escalates. Then it becomes self-defense when he pulls his piece and shoots you, or murder when you shoot him. If you''re going to escalate, gotta make sure it''s worth it. I sure as fuck don''t want to get into a war with the Brass Dragon Tong, do you?" I definitely did not. What he was saying didn''t exactly jibe with my understanding of law, but again, I was in a new world. "So the Rule of Escalation is?" He snorted. "If you escalate it better pay off." "That .38 is a clean gun, so if I ever have to use it I just gotta make sure I wipe and toss it before the cops find it on me. Then the cops need solid witnesses to make a charge stick." Manny was talking like he was an old hand, but I got the impression that all his knowledge was theoretical. I wanted to test that assumption. "Have you ever shot this gun?" I asked. "A couple times. The guy I bought it off of sold me a box of .38 to go with it. I popped off a few rounds out in the mountains. It''s a lot harder than it looks." "So you''ve never used it to shoot anyone?" "Hell no, Bro. I just told you if I ever have to use that thing I gotta toss it. You know, ballistics, CSI that kinda shit. Besides, you know me, Bro. You know I''m not a killer. This is just a side hustle. Mom kinda screwed me up by taking my capital, but she''s right this money is for my college. I can''t put all that on my parents. It''s way too much money." I was starting to get a picture of who Manny really was. The one that was walking in the light, anyhow. Whatever his name was. A good kid with a Tiger Mom and a distant father. He wasn''t rich and neither was his family. I put the gun back into the glove compartment, being careful to make sure I didn''t catch the trigger on anything. I''d seen and even handled pistols before, but never fired one. They scared me a bit. Once the gun was back ensconced in its nest of junk paper, I closed the glove compartment again. We were in the far-right lane, cruising at just under the speed limit on Highway 710 North. "Where are we going anyway? How far is it?" I asked. "Traffic''s good. Maybe thirty minutes? We''re going to one of Lee''s laundries in Glendora." Glendora. That was a name I knew. It was right on the edge of the Angeles National Forest in my world. I put that on the list to confirm later when I could find a map of San Tadeo. "Laundries?" "You know, where they clean their cash. I''m not there yet, but after a while you gotta clean it. Can''t buy everything with stacks of cash as much as I might like that. Sad, really. IRS, you know? They got Capone; they can get me." I snorted. Of course, the IRS existed. Any thought of this being some kind of heavenly afterlife was now thoroughly debunked. No heaven contained the IRS. Whether I was in hell was still to be determined. Hell would definitely have an IRS. "Yeah, true enough." Conversation lulled a bit, and Manny turned the gangster rap back up, if not so loud as before. He glanced over at me to make sure I was cool with the volume levels before resuming singing along with the lyrics. Like any good wannabe gangster, he didn''t self-censor when using the N word, instead he sang it loud and proud. After a while with the simpler choruses I joined in, although I didn''t find it in me to break that deeply ingrained social taboo and sing the forbidden word along with him. We continued to drive and got onto the 10 West for another 25 minutes before we exited into Glendora. The surroundings were a lot more lush and green around there. Well-tended lawns, green trees and wide four-lane roads with sprawling bungalows far back from the street. It was gorgeous. One of those quintessential California places, insulated from the crushing reality of life in gang territory not so far away. Manny obviously agreed. "These dudes out here got it good, no? I bet every one of these houses has a pool in the backyard. Their kids go to college and nobody wants for anything. Look at these cars! Not one of these is more than a few years old." He pointed to the cars that we drove past. Shining and clean, they were parked in long driveways or even occasionally out on the street. He was right, it was a mix of high-end and more modest cars. Toyotas, Hondas, Mercedes, BMWs and even the occasional Bentley or Porsche. One thing was universally true, however, none of them were old and beat up like Manny''s Regal. "Yeah, it must be nice. I know I would''ve loved a pool in my backyard as a kid," I said, watching the houses pass by and trying to imagine the lives of the people within. "My kids are gonna have that," Manny declared, his tone suddenly dead serious. "No shit, Bro. My parents worked too hard to get me here and I''m not going to let the family down." I smiled. "Yeah, you''re going to have your mom and dad living with you when you make good? That''s the Vietnamese way, isn''t it?" "It is, and I am. They took care of me when I was little and helpless. What kind of son would I be if I didn''t return the favor? Old folks homes are for parents whose children don''t really love them." That was a perspective I hadn''t heard before. I''d been trying to make a joke. I didn''t know anyone who wanted to live with their parents as an adult, much less a successful adult with a family of their own. The idea was alien to me. I could see where he was coming from, though. Maybe it would be nice. Would I be willing to do that with my own dad? Was the alternative putting him in a home when he got too old, like Manny said? It seemed like it was. My dad made a good living, but he ran his own business. If he was saving for retirement, I sure didn''t know about it. Maybe it''d be nice to do that with Dad. I''d get a place where he''d have his own space, and he''d always be around his family. A weight settled deep in my chest when I realized that I might never see him again. It was still unclear to me what had happened to me. All I knew is that as of right now there was no prospect that I''d ever see him again. I was stuck in this world, and I needed to make the best of it. I realized as I snapped out of it, that Manny and I had been both in our own little worlds, thinking about our families and future. Manny''s family was still intact, and he was doing his best as a dutiful son to make sure he was a success. I envied him that. Despite his clownish wardrobe choices, I was really beginning to like Manny. "It''s right up here. Remember, be cool, Bro. Let me talk. Just try to look serious. If Lee fucks with you just take it, okay? He can be kind of a dick." I nodded. "Got it." We pulled into the parking lot of a near deserted stripmall, four shops all in a line. One was a real estate agent, the windows covered in large pictures of luxurious California bungalows in the area with six and seven figure numbers underneath. The only other open shop was a shoe place, Sammy''s Super Shoes. Manny eased the car into a spot and put it in park, turning the key to kill the engine. It sputtered and complained for a moment but then went quiet, the only sound the ticking of the radiator cooling. Manny reached over and open the glove box, pulling his .38 free. I honestly expected him to simply tuck it in the waistband of his baggy shorts, but he surprised me yet again. He reached under the seat in front of him and produced a holster, a tiny piece of black synthetic leather. It still had a price tag dangling off of it so he bit it off and spit it out his window. The gun fit tightly in the holster and once it was secure, he lifted the back of his jersey and clipped it to the back of his pants and concealed it again under the jersey. "I thought you were gonna put it in your pants, like the gangsters do." "No way, Bro. Good way to shoot your nuts off. I know a guy who knows a guy that did just that. Not going to happen to me. A holster is not an expensive thing. This one was five bucks." With that, he stood up and hopped over his door. I exited the car the normal way, and both of us walked toward Sammy''s. 1.06 - The Buy The shop was open, racks of brightly colored running and basketball shoes lining the walls and decorating pillars interspersed throughout. Again, I didn''t recognize any brands. An electronic bell dinged in the back, and a middle-aged Chinese woman hurried out of the back, her smile wide and professional. When she saw the two of us it faded a little, and she stopped in her tracks. "Hi, can I help you find anything?" Manny spoke up. "We''re here to see Lee." She nodded. "Wait here, please." She disappeared into the back, and a minute later someone different came back out. He was a hulking, muscular Asian guy about my height wearing a white muscle shirt showing off the products of many long hours at the gym. His bald scalp shone in the reflected sunlight from the front windows. A tasteful, thick gold chain was around his neck. His look was completed with gym pants and spotless white sneakers. I identified him, and his name popped up.
"Leonardo" , Soldado (E3)
He looked us both over, then his eyes locked on to Manny''s. "Manny, you''re late. You know Lee doesn''t like to wait. You''re lucky we''re still here." He was well spoken with a smooth, deep voice and perfect English. "Sorry, Leo. You know how it is, traffic is shit. I''m here now. Can we see him?" "Yeah, I gotta search you." Leo walked in our direction and Manny spoke again. "No need, Bro, I''m strapped." He lifted his jersey and showed the holstered .38 at his back. "Give me that. I''ll hold onto it for you. I still need to search you both, though." Manny handed over the holstered gun without complaint, which seemed dumb to me. Why bring a gun if you immediately surrendered it? Leo took the gun and gave it a quick look. "Moving up in the world, are you? Got a real piece and even brought one of your boys. Good for you, Manny. Now, hands up. You know the drill." Leo tucked Manny''s gun in one of his large front pockets and quickly patted us both down. I was literally carrying nothing except a bus pass, which he missed. "You''re good. Wait here a second," Leo said before disappearing back through the curtain. He reappeared twenty seconds later and waved us through. The back of the shop was far from glamorous. Long rows of shelves jammed full of shoeboxes. Off to the right was a small room¡ªa tiny kitchen with a table and two chairs. The Chinese woman sat at the table and sipped something from a ceramic cup. She eyed us as we went past but didn''t move or speak. Our destination was further back, past the rows of shelves and in an area that was obviously used for loading and unloading. The loading doors were open, and I could see an unmarked white van parked outside with the doors closed, backed into the loading dock position. An old black leather couch was pressed up against the far wall with a tall, elegantly groomed Chinese man lounging on it. His feet were propped up on the scarred, dark wood coffee table in front of the couch. The table was piled high with shoeboxes, some of them opened. He looked up as we entered, and I instinctively identified him. Brass Lee was only showing his name, and not a Job or title. I wondered if that was a power move or if he just didn''t want us to know. "Manny! So glad you could make it," Lee said, revealing perfectly straight and white teeth as he smiled at us. A shadow darkened the loading gate doors and another man stepped inside. I looked in disbelief between Leo and the new guy before realizing the truth. Identical twins.
"Raphael" , Soldado (E3)
The two men were dressed exactly the same and even wore the same bling. I had a wild thought. If you and your twin were both in shadow and one twin had a solid alibi, could you beat a murder rap because of reasonable doubt it was you and not your twin? Seemed likely. Raphael lounged in the doorway, watching us curiously. Unlike Leo, there was a boxy automatic pistol visible in the waistband of his black athletic pants. "Hey, Lee. Yeah, Bro. It''s good to be here. I need to re-up. Business has been good." "Has it? That''s good to hear. I see you brought a friend." "Yeah, this is my boy Mack. He''s cool, I vouch." Raphael and Leo both chuckled, but Lee just smiled. "Oh, you do? That makes me feel so much better." Lee''s voice simply dripped sarcasm. It had been gradually ramping up since we entered, but now it was clear. "Yeah. We''ve been friends a long time. He''s solid." Lee stood up and walked around the coffee table. He was wearing what must have been a very expensive tracksuit. It was shiny and the fabric looked soft. On his wrist was a chunky, golden watch. I didn''t know watches, but it was one of those watches that just screamed expensive. There was something about the man that made me want to take him seriously. It was almost like a feel in my belly that this guy was not to be fucked with. I briefly wondered if that was his Street Cred stat having an influence on me. "Mack. How come I haven''t seen you around before?" I couldn''t think of a good bullshit answer, so I went with the truth. "It''s my first time. I''m just here to help Manny. He''s my friend." Lee nodded, seeming to take my words at face value. "Friendship. A very powerful thing. Manny here broke your cherry, did he? He chose to do that by bringing you to meet with me? I''m flattered, Manny." Manny had nothing to say and neither did I. Now that Lee was saying it out loud, it did sound pretty dumb. "That''s okay," Lee said and looked me over. "You look too young to be a cop. You a cop, Jump Street?" I got the reference, but just barely. The original had been far before my time, but I''d seen the remake. "Nope." "Nope, he says. What do you think, Leo?" Brass Lee looked over at the hulking twin who was leaning against the doorway behind us. "Everybody''s gotta start somewhere, Boss. I think he''s just a kid. Doesn''t smell like a pig to me." "And you, Raph?" Raphael simply shrugged. "Well, okay then! It looks like you''ve passed, Mack. Welcome." Lee stepped back and looked us both over. "You''re here to re-up. How much can we sell you today, Manny?" "I need an ounce again, Lee, if that''s cool?" Manny said, and pulled the roll out of his right front pocket. "Manny, Manny, Manny. This meeting had such a promising start. Leo tells me you''re strapped. You even convinced one of your friends to come and have your back. So promising. You were so promising and now you''ve disappointed me." "Lee, I would totally scale up if I could but I''m a little cash-strapped. I had some unexpected outgoings. You know how it is." Stolen story; please report. Lee nodded and put on an understanding expression. "Of course. Every business has its up and downs. I''m afraid to tell you though, Manny, that the ounce I sold you last time... Well, let''s say it was a trial of sorts. I sold it to you at a wholesale rate in order to allow you to build some capital and show me you were serious. I want all of our freelance associates to be successful. But if you come back to me on your first re-up and buy retail quantity, I''m going to have to charge you retail prices, Manny. "Raph, grab an ounce for me, would you?" Lee asked, looking over at the man standing in the loading dock doorway. Raph opened the rear of the van and lifted a black duffel bag. It was one of many lining the van''s floor. All of them were full but zipped. Raph unzipped the one he pulled free and rummaged around in it. He quickly found what he was looking for and pulled free a vacuum sealed bag full of a familiar green plant. Raph dropped the duffel bag his feet and two strides later had placed the vacuum sealed ounce of weed in Lee''s outstretched hand. "Your weed. One ounce of our finest. That will be $800, Manny." I knew that wasn''t the price that Manny was expecting, and I could almost see it in his body language. He tensed up and was silent. It was almost double what he''d been expecting to pay. "That''s high, isn''t it Lee? I''m not looking to make a lot of profit at that price. No one''s gonna buy it if I have to charge almost sixty bucks a dime bag." "Your profit margins aren''t my concern, Manny. Do you want my product or not?" Manny looked down at the roll in his hands. I didn''t know him that well, yet, but I was getting the impression that he knew exactly how much money he had down to the last dime. And it wasn''t enough. "Yeah, but I''m a little light. I wasn''t expecting to need that much cash. Can you front me?" Lee shook his head sadly, and with a smooth motion tossed the ounce of weed back to Raph who had returned to the doorway. "I''m afraid we don''t extend credit to our retail customers, Manny. Thanks for coming by. Next time make sure you bring the proper amount of money. I don''t like to have my time wasted." Manny started to sputter but I spoke up, unthinking. "Lee, how much would we need to buy to get your wholesale pricing, and how much is it?" I asked. Lee smiled and looked at me. "It''s we now, is it? I thought you were just here as backup, Mack?" "This is what that looks like," I replied. I didn''t feel as sure about myself as I was trying to project, and I hoped it didn''t show. "Wonderful. To answer your question, Mack, let''s say that I''m going to set my wholesale quantities to at least 5 ounces of product. Does that sound fair? As for the price, that depends on quantity. At the minimum quantities, $600 an ounce. None of that helps Manny, though. He doesn''t even have $800 in that roll. Are you going to make up the difference, Mack? Has Manny found himself a new partner?" I didn''t really like where this was going, but I needed to see it through. "No, I''m not Manny''s partner. Tell me, though. You said you can''t extend credit to your retail clients. Doesn''t that mean you can extend it to your wholesale clients?" Lee gave a single amused clap of his hands. "Sharp. I like you, Mack. Yes, that was implied in my statement, wasn''t it? I suppose for our dear friend Manny I could extend some credit. How does three points sound?" I only had the vaguest idea what he was talking about. Points was the interest rate, I was pretty sure. So a 3% interest rate. It didn''t seem so bad. Hell, shitty credit cards were 20%. Maybe Lee wasn''t so bad. I nodded soberly. "Seems fine to me. Manny?" Manny looked at me and I could see the fear in his eyes and hoped that Lee and the turtle brothers couldn''t. "I guess." "Wonderful. Now I know we talked about a minimum quantity of five ounces but considering our new relationship and how much your operation is growing that seems parsimonious. Raph, give these fine entrepreneurs ten ounces of product. I will extend you credit for $6000 at three points. Is that agreeable?"
Loan offered with the following terms:
Creditor: "Brass Lee" Amount: $6,000 Vig: 3.0%/7 days
Other responsible debtor(s): "Manny"
Accept these terms?
I was kind of surprised that I was included in the loan but backing out now would probably collapse the whole thing. Besides, it was 3% interest. Lee was almost giving the money away. I''d probably have a job tomorrow and if Manny needed help with interest, I could manage that. The display in front of me changed, indicating that Manny had accepted the terms. I focused my intent to press the accept button and was surprised when it didn''t immediately depress. It took several seconds of concerted intent. An aura visibly grew around the button before it finally clicked into place.
Loan from "Brass Lee" accepted
Lee smiled broadly, and out of the corner of my eye I could see that Manny looked sick to his stomach. "This has turned into a wonderful morning. Thank you, Mack," Lee said. Raph removed a lot of the marijuana packets from the duffel taken from the van and pressed the half-full duffel bag into Manny''s arms. Manny held it close, seeming a bit out of it. His small roll of cash was still clutched in his right hand, and after he settled the load in his arms, he put it back in his pocket. "That will be all, gentlemen. I''ll send one of the boys by in a week to collect my first payment. Don''t make me look for you, Manny and Mack." That seemed odd. He wanted his first payment in a week. Fine, at 3% that wouldn''t be a lot of money. I guessed when you dealt with informal systems of lending like this, things were more granular. Leo ushered us out of the back room and into the front of the store. Once we had passed through the curtain, he returned Manny''s revolver. "Here you go, Manny. That was a ballsy move, guys. I hope you don''t regret it. See you in a week." We left the store in silence. Leo statement and Manny''s body language had me thinking I''d missed something. Something important. As we exited the store a window appeared in front of and quickly disappeared as I mentally waved it away.
The small favor to "Manny" has been repaid.
We returned to the Regal and Manny used his keys to pop the trunk and secure the duffel bag. He climbed over the driver¡¯s door, still not speaking. "Manny, what''s wrong?" I asked, opening the door and sitting beside him in the passenger seat. "Dude, you fucked us," he said in a quiet voice. "What do you mean? The loan? Fuck, man, it''s 3% interest. The banks won''t give you money at 3% interest. What''s the fucking problem?" Manny spluttered in disbelief before finally managing to get out. "The banks? You''re fucking insane. Brass Lee isn''t a fucking bank. It''s not 3% interest like a bank, Bro. It''s three points. That''s 3% a week, compounded. How the fuck do you not know that?" My stomach dropped as he said that. I''d never been much of a gangster movie guy. Sure, I''d watched them but more as light entertainment. I''d never in my wildest dreams thought that watching the Sopranos would become useful vocational training. "Shit. 3% a week? That''s not legal. It can''t be." "Of course it¡¯s not fucking legal. We''re fucked. I''ve heard of this. Now they''ve got that debt on us, it''s like a leash. We''ll never pay it off. It will just keep going up and up and we have to do whatever the fuck they say. You and I just became debt slaves, Mack. Fuck!" Manny slammed the steering wheel of the Regal to punctuate his last curse. I did the math in my head, and it wasn''t good. $720 a month in interest. But wait, that wasn''t right either. It was compounding weekly, wasn''t it? I focused my will and the debts screen popped up.
Loans - "Mack"
None
Debts - "Mack"
Creditor: "Brass Lee" Amount: $6,000 Vig: 3.0%/7 days
Other responsible debtor(s): "Manny"
Next payment of $180 due in 7 days.
I now knew why the UI¡ªif that''s what you wanted to call it¡ªhadn''t let me simply press the accept button and had made me hold my intent for a few seconds first. The real question was why Manny, who knew better, had gone along with my stupid plan. "I didn''t know that. I''m sorry man. Why did you agree? You could''ve just said no and we would have been out of there." "I was backing your play, Bro. I thought you had a fucking plan. I didn''t realize your plan was to get us both fucking enslaved to the Brass Dragon Tong. What the fuck are we going to do?" "The interest of the first week''s only $180 bucks, right? You''ve got more than that in your roll now, and there''s a shitload of weed in the trunk. You just sell the weed. Pay down the principal every week and it''ll be gone before you know it." Manny laughed bitterly. "I told you, Brass Lee''s not a bank. If you don''t have the full amount he''s not interested. You pay the full amount plus vig, or just the vig. No partial payments." "What? That''s fucking bullshit, man." "By the time we sell enough of this weed to pay Lee back the vig will have ate all the fucking profit, Bro. And that''s if we manage to put together enough cash before we run out of product to sell." I heard that we and chose to ignore it. I wasn''t signing on to be a drug dealer, shared debt or not. "Right, so you''ve got to sell it as fast as possible. I thought you had a big customer base, Manny? You got a ton of product now, just sell it. Sell it fast and pay them back." "You know me, Mack. I like to talk a big game. My customers are mostly the stoners at school. That last ounce I got from Lee took me nearly two and a half weeks to move. I almost got busted by the school pig three times. I''m not sure I can go back and sell there again. I was going to use this next ounce to find some new territory. Besides, it''s so much. I still have to go to school, you know. I can''t afford to drop out. I''m going to college next year." "Manny, I''m real sorry. Let''s just go back in there and give Lee the weed back, tell him we made a mistake." Manny laughed bitterly and scrubbed his face with his hands. "Pretty sure the Brass Dragon Tong doesn''t have a return policy, Mack. No, all sales are final. You heard what Leo said. He was wrong, though. This wasn''t a ballsy move; it was a stupid one. Damnit, why did I take you with me?" I felt like shit. Manny had what seemed like fairly carefully laid plans and I''d blown them to bits by sticking my nose in. If I hadn''t said anything, we would''ve left empty-handed but without a potentially crippling debt to the Chinese mafia. "What are you going to do, Manny?" He looked me in the eyes, his face full of bitter anger. "What am I going to do? This is your debt too, Bro. It''s what are we going to do. Unless you''ve got six grand in your pocket you forgot to tell me about you''re gonna help me sell this weed." Manny started the car and with a rumble and a squeal of a protesting fan belt, we roared out of the parking lot. 1.07 - So Im A Drug Dealer Now? I''d had to stop myself from immediately responding that I wasn''t going to help him sell weed. I sure as fuck didn''t want to be a drug dealer. That hadn''t been on my list this morning when I left my uncle''s house. Manny and I drove in silence. His driving started off reckless and fast and gradually returned to his previous sober, safe style as his anger faded. His face was a slab of stone, expressionless and his eyes were hidden behind the black sunglasses. He wasn''t speaking to me, leaving me to my own thoughts. My initial impulse had been to straight up refuse to help him sell the weed. Maybe I could help some other way. Security or packaging or whatever other kind of support a weed dealer needed. None of that seemed right. A few times I brought up my debt screen and stared at it. That wasn''t just his name on that debt, it was both of ours. If Manny failed to pay Lee, we''d both suffer. On the other hand, it wasn''t all downside. The debt was ours, but the weed was ours as well. It represented a lot of money if we could move it. I had no idea how much, since I didn''t know what the retail price of weed was. Maybe a 50% markup? I just didn''t know. Even if it was only 50% then that weed represented three grand of profit split between us. I could pay my rent and have a bunch of money left over. That was assuming we could sell it all before we had paid any interest which seemed a little far-fetched. Where was my laptop and a spreadsheet when I needed it? What finally pushed me over the edge was the sheer improbability of me being in this Regal at this moment, in this situation. It seemed clear I was meant to be here, or at least that some higher power wanted me to be. It felt foolish to think this way, but I knew that DMs hated it when you tried to get off their railroad. Did the DM really want me to be are a drug dealer? Unknown. I''d sure got a lot of pretty clear hints that they did. "Manny, I''m sorry. I''ll help you sell." His stone face collapsed and the tension in his shoulders disappeared as he exhaled. "Thank fuck. I knew I could count on you, Bro. You had me worried there. Trust me, selling''s not a big deal. Any dumbass can sell weed in this town." "I guess. Like I said, I don''t know how to do it. Can you show me the ropes?" I asked. "Damn right. We can start tonight. Most of my time is going to be at night. I''ll tell Mom I''m out tutoring. I can''t ditch all the time. Since you''re not in school you can take the day shifts." I thought of the job that I had applied for at JMC''s. Not taking that crap job didn''t seem like a big loss. JMC probably wouldn''t even offer it to me, and if they did, I could just refuse it. Once I had some cash I''d go in there and try to get Mindy''s number. Or hell, maybe I''d be too busy with the hordes of gangster bimbos. It was a nice daydream. "That works. I don''t know what I''ll tell my uncle. He''s kind of a hard ass." "Just tell him you got a job. It pays cash and you need to be out all day. What does he care what you''re doing as long as you''re paying rent?" I knew it wasn''t a simple as that. I''d have to hide my daytime activities from Martin. He thought that walking in shadow was for criminals, and in this case, he''d be entirely right. In any case, it wasn''t something I had to worry about right then. "So now what?" I asked. "We just go find a place, set up shop and start selling this stuff?" "Not yet. I gotta go home and weigh it out and get it packaged into dimes and eighths. Mostly dimes, I think. Depends on where we''re selling. Anyway, it''s gotta be weighed out. I''ll do that at my house. I''ve got the scales and everything there. It''ll take at least an hour to get it all sorted. You want to come?" "Actually, I kinda want to do some research. Can you drop me off at the library? I want to use one of their computers and get on the Internet." "The what now? I don''t know what kind of library you''ve been to, but the San Tadeo public library doesn''t have any computers. Have you seen those things? They''re enormous. Where would they put it? And what would they use it for? Nah, Bro. Lots of books though. Still want to go?" I swallowed my disappointment. Not just no smart phones, but also no computers and no Internet. Whatever research I had to do; it would be the old-fashioned way. Books, newspapers and the card catalog. "Yep, still need to go." "Sure thing, Bro." I turned to look at the library. It was a long, low brick building. The front was covered in some kind of creeping green vine, almost obscuring the Public Library sign. The sun was high in the sky and it was about as hot as it got during a California spring, so the cool, shady interior of the library felt great. I walked in and the smell of books greeted me. I''d spent a lot of time in libraries and bookstores when I was growing up. It was like coming home after spending the day in a strange land. I wandered in, quickly locating the science fiction and fantasy section. That was my automatic go to. It wasn''t my first stop on this visit, though. I needed to know more about the world. I made my way toward the periodical section, passing close to an older librarian sorting books onto a book cart. She had been facing me but straightened up and turned my way as I got close. I automatically identified her when she made eye contact.
Helen Barton, Junior Librarian (E2)
If I had to guess she was in her mid-30s. For all I knew she was a lot younger, but simply chose to dress like her grandmother. There was no gray in her brown hair, but she had what I thought of as grandma glasses perched on her nose, highlighting her bright blue eyes. She looked me over briefly before holding out her right hand to stop my progress toward the sprawling periodical section just ahead of me. "Hold on, young man. Are you aware of the rules of our library?" She asked. "Uh. Be quiet?" "Yes, that is one of our oldest rules. However, you must think of the spirit of that rule and what base principal it derives from. Can you tell me what that base principal is, young man?" It had been sometime since I got into a dialogue like this with a librarian. It was obvious I was doing something wrong, but I didn''t know what it was. Was it the fact that I was in shadow? I didn''t see any other way to find out than to simply ask. "Is it because I''m in shadow?" I asked. "No, of course not. The right to walk in shadow is the First Amendment for good reason." She paused a moment, and I moved reading the constitution up on my priority list a couple notches. New world, new constitution it seemed. "The base of that rule is a simple one. Don''t disturb the other patrons. Whether that''s making noise, taking up too much space, or being disruptive in some other way such as an excessively offensive smell." She emphasized that last one, looking me directly in the eyes. I admired how polite she was. If it had been me, I might''ve just yelled at the guy that smelled like a well-used outhouse that someone had dumped their marijuana into and then left to bake in the sun for a few days. She, however, was much classier than that and left it there. "Oh, sorry. I forgot about the smell." "The human brain is an engine of adaptation. Eventually even the worst sensory overload can be filtered. However, none of the rest of us have your experience. Please, deal with it. Elsewhere." "I will, ma''am. Sorry." I reversed course, headed back toward the front of the library. There were restrooms there and I knew they''d have what I wanted. I entered the men''s and quickly went to the long line of sinks in front of the stalls. I took the jersey off, folded it up and tossed it in the farthest wastebasket. Sufficiently distanced, I tried to reset my nose and determine whether I still smelled. Eventually, I was pretty sure that I was okay. Whatever foul substance had made that smell in the jersey hadn''t rubbed off. To make sure, I used a bit of the library''s hand soap to give myself a little bath in the sink. The library patrons that walked in and out while I was doing this didn''t even bat an eye. Some of them cursed when they got to close to the waste can, but otherwise left me alone. Once I dried my hands, I left the bathroom and returned to the periodical section. I passed by Helen the librarian again and this time she only nodded. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. The next three hours flew by. I quickly gathered a stack of periodicals, all with unfamiliar names. It wasn''t like I had read a lot of newspapers back in LA. Who did that? I had websites, and YouTube. Doing the research this way felt like historical reenactment. What I learned in those three hours was that the world was much the same as mine had been, but with some large differences. There were no computers, no smart phones and none of the technology that came along with it. In fact, it seemed like the world''s technology level had been stagnating since 1990. Maybe it hadn''t, and back in my world in 1990 things had been different. In any case, 2020 in this world was roughly equivalent to 1990 in my world. That was good and bad. I couldn''t imagine how a system like the mirror, Light and Shadow, could exist with the Internet and ubiquitous cameras. Not unless the magic was powerful enough to extend to video. Hell, maybe it was. The other thing I discovered was what I had expected. San Tadeo was Los Angeles. It had never been called that, but the layouts were identical with some minor changes here and there. It felt like I was in one of those alternate history novels that I''d read on occasion. You know the kind, what would today look like if Hitler had never been born or had died early? That kind of thing. Unlike those novels I had no idea what the branching point was. I simply didn''t know enough history. Sure, I took the classes in school. Everyone did. I even got decent grades, solid Bs. That just wasn''t enough. I had no clue when the two worlds had diverged. Maybe it was something I could figure out, but honestly, I just wasn''t that interested. I was here, and that was that. I was still pretty convinced this world was a game anyway, so the DM could have just waved his hand and made it happen. I know that Jeremy would often improvise campaign settings if we caught him before he''d finished preparing. Sometimes the improvised stuff was better than the stuff he spent months planning. I gave a wistful glance at the science-fiction and fantasy shelves before giving in and taking a walk through. I found literally none of the authors I knew and loved. Sure, some familiar names popped up but when I picked the books out, they weren''t any books those authors had ever written. Without the Internet to check, I wasn''t even sure that they were the same people. Some authors names are quite common. I looked up at the clock on the wall and saw that it was just before five. Time had flown by and my stomach was starting to eat the rest of my body. I''d had breakfast twice and then nothing since. I wouldn''t die, but it was time to get back to Martin''s and check in. I headed toward the entrance of the library and ducked into the bathroom. Someone had changed the garbage, but a tiny hint of the smell still lingered in the air. I felt sorry for everyone I had inflicted that on today. I ducked into a stall and closed the door. It was one of those floor-to-ceiling jobs, offering complete privacy. I took the chain off my neck and tucked it into my left front pocket, away from the bus pass and Manny''s card. Once it was off it took me a few seconds to get into the right headspace and will myself out of the shadows and back into the light. I felt the shadow that had been cloaking me all day recede as I entered the light. Like nervously picking a scab, I brought up my debts screen and saw that it was the same on both sides of the mirror. I wondered if I took out a loan from the bank, or had a credit card would the balance show up here? That''d be pretty cool. I left the bathroom and headed outside. A group of four people was headed inside as I headed out. They were a motley crew. The most visible was a big burly tank of a man, towering at least 6''5". He looked like a bodybuilder that had given up and let most of his muscles go to fat. The big fellow, a woman in her 40s and a skinny young guy all followed an older man with long gray hair and a thick beard. He was speaking to them all and they were paying close attention. All four of them had the same mismatched clothes. It was a look I''d come to recognize from the homeless in LA. When you lived on the street it was often easier to simply replace your clothes when they got dirty, and you''d take whatever you could get out of the bins at the shelters and the churches. What really interested me though was what they were talking about. I caught a snippet of their conversation "If you make your build right, Duke, you''ll be able to parry almost any attack that comes your way. You''ll still be vulnerable to elemental damage, but with the right perks a pure fighter build is a powerhouse." The big man, apparently Duke, was nodding along as they talked. I looked back over my shoulder and projected my intent, trying to identify the man with the long gray beard. I got nothing back but a feeling of shadow. The man didn''t miss a beat but looked over at me and made eye contact briefly. Had he sensed that? Was that a thing? So many questions. The group of them, and I had to assume it was a group since they seem to be talking about a role-playing game, passed into the library and I could no longer hear the conversation. I really, really wanted to follow them in and see if they were playing. I didn''t know why but bringing that kind of normalcy back into a life which had suddenly turned absolutely insane felt very appealing. There was no way though, not that night. I had about an hour to get back to my uncle''s and that wasn''t going to be easy.
LA public transit sucks. If you know anything about LA, this should not be surprising to you. It''s an enormous city and only the very poorest need to use public transit. That means it gets no money and no love from the government. Shit, maybe it does. Maybe everyone involved is just so corrupt it doesn''t matter how much money you throw at the problem. In any case, it sucks. San Tadeo public transit? Exactly the same. It didn''t take me long to figure out how to get back to my uncle''s. I had to take a bus, transfer to another bus and then a short walk. The first bus took twenty minutes to arrive and was nearly full. I stood the entire way, swaying as the bus slowly made its way from stop to stop. I transferred onto the second bus and got a seat, but there was no AC and as I waited there at the transfer point the bus filled up until I was sandwiched against the window by a very large woman who needed a lot more of that bench than I did. I spent the ride gazing out the window at the people passing by in their cars, listening to music and enjoying the luxury of personal space. Maybe if things went well with our weed business, I''d be able to afford a car. Sure, those people out there weren''t moving much faster than the bus, but still. Fifty minutes later I was at my stop. I was already late, but I jumped off and began to power walk toward Martin''s house. It was 6:30 when I made it to the front door. I hopped up three front steps and rang the doorbell. Twenty seconds later the inside door opened, and Martin was looking at me through the barred outer door. "You''re late. Come around to the side door, we don''t use this door." I left the front steps and went around to the side. Martin had left it ajar for me. I closed it behind me and entered the kitchen. There was a faint smell of pork and spice hanging in the air, and a covered pan on the stove. "Sorry, Martin. I was at the library and the bus took much longer than I thought to get back here." "I expect you''ll try to do better next time. Grab a plate. I left some food for you." I opened cupboards until I found the one that had the plates in it and took one. There was a serving spoon beside the pan, and I lifted the lid to see what he''d made for us. Stir fried rice and pork, with a selection of vegetables. It looked and smelled great. Martin was standing in the doorway watching me dish up. "I don''t like that you are late, but you did well today. I can overlook tardiness when the mission gets accomplished." I literally had no idea what he was talking about. What mission had I accomplished today? Getting deeply in debt to a Chinese gangster? If so, mission accomplished. It must have been obvious that I was completely confused because he elaborated. "Jos¨¦''s Mexican Chicken called while you were out, and I spoke with a nice young lady named Mindy. She said that you had the job and you should report for work at 0800 tomorrow morning. Well done. You''re well on your way to making a man of yourself, Frank." That job at JMC wasn''t going to happen. For at least the next few weeks I was gonna be a full-time drug dealer, after all. Until we sold all that weed. It would make a great cover, however. As far as Martin was concerned, I''d be working at JMC full time. "Yeah, that''s great news." I stuffed another forkful of rice and pork into my mouth to avoid having to speak again. "I''ll make sure you''re awake at 0700 so you can shit, shower, shave and be on your way," Martin said. I rubbed my jaw and felt a bit of stubble there. Shaving wasn''t something I did every day. I hadn''t been planning on doing it to work at a chicken restaurant. Martin laughed when he saw what I did. "It''s just a turn of phrase, son. I don''t expect you''ll be spending a lot of time on the shaving part. Finish your feed and then you''re on your own time until lights out at 2100 hrs." He turned and entered the living room. There was a click as a TV came on and I heard the sounds of the evening news. I finished eating my plate and then finished the rest of it in the pan. After I was done, I washed the dishes and left them to dry in the dish rack. It didn''t take long, and I''d rather remain on Martin''s good side. The TV was loud in the living room, but I till tried to be quiet as I picked up the phone and dialed Manny''s number. He answered on the first ring. "Yo," he said. I could hear music playing in the background. "Manny, it''s Mack." I heard a loud click as someone else picked up. A heavily accented woman''s voice spoke. "Hello?" "Mom, I''ve got it," Manny said. "Minh? Who is it?" Manny''s mom asked. "It''s my friend Frank, Mom." "Hello, Frank. Don''t forget your homework, Minh." "I won''t, Mom." We waited until there was a click and Manny''s mom had left the line. "Hey, sorry about that. I got it weighed out and divvied up. You ready to go, Bro?" "Yeah. Meet me at the corner of Florence and Mountain View, okay?" I didn''t want Martin seeing Manny or his car. He might get the right idea. "Got it. I''ll see you there in twenty, Bro." The line clicked as he hung up. I gently replaced the receiver and glanced at the clock on the wall. It was just after seven. If I was going to respect Martin''s lights out, I didn''t have a lot of time. "Hey, Uncle Martin, I''m going out for a while. Can I have those keys you promised me?" "They''re on a ring by the side door with your name on it. Be back by lights out." They were right where he''d said they were. Two newly cut keys and a tag on the ring that said Frank. I took them off the hook, pocketed them and left to meet Manny. Manny knew his way around San Tadeo really well and made his way to the library closest to my Uncle''s house. Near on a California scale. Which meant it was miles away. He pulled up front, stopping let me out. "You want me to pick you up back here?" "No, that''s cool. I gotta be back in my uncle''s at six to report in. After that? Can you come get me at his place?" I asked. "Cool, Bro. Just give me a call." Manny reached into his front pocket and pulled out a ragged, white business card. The front was just Manny in large black letters with a bright green marijuana leaf in the top right corner. Along the bottom edge was a nine-digit phone number. "That''s the number of my house. If my mom answers just leave a message and she''ll give it to me. I''ve been meaning to get one of those beepers they''re selling now. People can send you their numbers to call them back, and they can even leave a message. It''s cool shit." I nodded, cool shit indeed. One day soon he''d be singing the praises of fax machines to me. I tucked Manny''s business card in my front pocket with the bus pass and the hundred-dollar bill. I really needed a wallet. "Later, Manny," I said. He waved jauntily and pulled away. With a squeal of its complaining fan belt the Regal left me behind. 1.08 - Hipster Safari Hipster Safari Ten minutes later I was waiting on the corner near the 24/7 Maximarket and not long after Manny pulled up and into the parking lot, roughly on time. "Hey, you''re in the light. Where''s the jersey?" "That thing was killing everyone around me slowly. I had to get rid of it." "True that. Sorry." "Did I need it?" I asked. "No, it''s just that now you look like a narc. Don''t worry, Bro, we''ll get you some fly new threads tomorrow. You brought the chain though, right?" he asked. "Yeah," I said and pulled it out of my pocket. "Go use that booth before we go. Not smart to mix shadow and light sides, Bro." I ducked into the booth beside the Maximarket and came out shortly after as Mack and jumped into the Regal. Manny pulled out of the parking lot and back onto Florence and we were on our way. "I can''t stay out too late tonight, so I didn''t bring that much. Check it out though, it''s in the bag at your feet." I looked down and nearly under the seat below me was a beat up pink and gray satchel with the faded remains of some cutesy Asian cartoon cat on the front. "Nice bag, Manny." "In the bag, Bro. It was my sister''s, okay? It was the only bag I could find that wasn''t being used." I took it off the floor and into my lap and the contents rustled softly with the whisper of plastic against plastic. I peeled back the satchel''s flap and looked inside. Insider were dozens of vacuum sealed packages, each two inches square. They reflected the streetlights overhead as we drove. Each one contained a small cluster of green bud. "Cool, huh? Vacuum sealed, Bro. I found a spot to get the little dime bags. I think it looks way more professional. No one''s going to keep a dime around for long, but when it''s all vacuum sealed like that it''s a mark of quality, don''t you think?" I had to admit it was pretty cool. This was the modern answer to the plastic zipper bag. The dime bags were stiff and felt substantial despite their minuscule weight. "It looks good. So, this is an ounce?" I asked as I looked through the bag''s contents. It seemed like a lot. Twenty-eight small packages of weed nearly filled the satchel just with the sheer volume of plastic packaging. "Yeah, I still have to package more. There''s no way we''ll sell all that tonight. I was thinking I''d give that to you to start you off. That way, you can go and sell whenever you want." "I can''t take it man. I don''t have that kind of privacy at my uncle''s." The thought of trying to sneak a bag of weed into Martin''s house and then find a spot to hide it from him wasn''t appealing. He''d promised he''d be inspecting my ¡°quarters¡±, after all. "Okay, no big, Bro. I just thought you might like that. I''ll hold onto it. We can meet up every morning and I can give you some weed to sell that day. You don''t sell everything, and I''ll take what''s left back that night. Cool?" "Cool," I agreed. "Now, let''s talk price. We want to do a 100% markup. Technically speaking, that would make those dime bags forty-two and change. But that''s a shitty number, so let''s round it down to forty bucks even. That way our customers give us two twenties, we give them the weed. No bullshit with change." That made sense to me. Insisting that your pot smoking clients have exact change didn''t seem like a good business move. "Where are we going?" I asked. "There''s this spot gets pretty jumping right about now. It''s just a parking lot, but a couple food trucks like to show up there every night. They draw a small crowd, and I figure we could try to sell to them. It''s mostly hipsters, but they''ve got money." The parking lot wasn''t far. I had been expecting a lot full of cars. Instead, it was full of people. Two large food trucks had pulled in and were taking up a decent amount of space, but the rest was people. They were milling around, talking, drinking and eating. One truck was selling gourmet hotdogs and fries, while the other seemed to be Indian food. The smell was amazing, drifting across the parking lot toward us. "Jump out, I gotta find a spot on the street to park. People come from all over for this, so it might be a couple blocks away. I''ll be back in couple minutes." I jumped out and left the bag of weed on the seat beside Manny. The Regal trundled away carefully, avoiding the knots of people wandering out into the street either going to or from the food trucks. The nearby streets were packed with parked cars, and I wondered just how many of them were from the crowd in the parking lot. The neighborhood we were in was a mostly residential one. I could see at least a few vacant lots full of nothing but weeds and trash. Behind the parking lot was a two-story brick building, several hundred feet long. Some kind of factory or warehouse. That entire wall facing the parking lot was covered in graffiti. Most of it seemed to be random, unintelligible scribblings of paint. A few of the more artistic types had gone for something more beautiful, but their efforts were slowly being obliterated by fresh scrawls of paint. I saw one of the patterns repeat a few times, a simple sequence of letters that I couldn''t actually puzzle out. The bright bluish-white paint looked fresh, unfaded by the California sun. The crowd around me weren''t paying any attention to their surroundings. A diverse crowd that generally had one thing in common¡ªnone of them were poor. Hipsters and foodies from all over San Tadeo had come to sample the delights on these trucks. If it had been LA, they all would have been on their phones taking pictures of their food for their social media, but instead they seemed to just be legitimately enjoying the food and the impromptu party atmosphere in lot. I caught a whiff of marijuana from somewhere in the crowd, mostly disguised by the strong scent of curry. I pushed through the crowd and checked out both the food trucks while waiting for Manny to return. The food looked good, but the wait to order was insane. It wasn''t cheap, either. I wondered what the point of ordering food from a truck was if it was more expensive than a cheap restaurant? Maybe I just wasn''t a food truck kind of guy. A few minutes later I saw Manny at the edge of the crowd looking for me and I made my way back toward him. "Smells good, Bro. Anyway, follow me. I''ll set up and you can watch how it''s done. This shit''s not hard." At either side of the parking lot were houses, although only one seemed to be occupied. Manny went to the side with the empty, darkened house. It had a tall wooden fence separating the parking lot from its yard and Manny leaned back against the faded grey wood, not far from the street. The fence itself was covered in more tags, and I saw that repeating pattern once again. Whoever that tag artist was, he certainly lacked imagination. Manny settled back and scanned the crowd without speaking. It wasn''t what I''d expected him to do, and after a minute with no change I spoke up. "What are you doing? You''re just gonna stand there?" "Yeah, Bro. I''m using my-" he started and then interrupted himself. Manny straightened up and strode into the crowd to touch the arm of a tall, skinny guy with a man bun. Manbun had black, square framed glasses and was scarfing down a hotdog dripping with mustard and caramelized onions. He stopped and looked at Manny quizzically. "What''s up?" he asked, his voice muffled by the hotdog still in his mouth. "Weed?" Manny asked. His voice was pitched low, and I could barely hear it even though I was somewhat close. Manbun faced Manny and swallowed the bite of hot dog. "How much?" "$40 for a dime. It''s good stuff, real potent," Manny replied. Again, this was one of those strange things. In my world, back in LA, telling someone you had weed to sell them would just trigger questions. What breed was it? What flavor notes did it have, what kind of high did it give you, that kind of bullshit. I knew nothing about weed other than it was green and got you high. If you were a marijuana buyer in LA and went to a dispensary you''d be pissed if they didn''t have a weed sommelier to help you pick your perfect smoke. All that said, I was amazed when Manbun didn''t ask any follow-up questions. He simply produced two twenties and faster than I expected, he was moving on with one of our vacuum sealed dime bags, and Manny was $40 richer. Manny returned to the fence and resumed what he had been doing, which looked a lot like loitering aimlessly to me. A few people nearby had noticed the transaction but hadn''t seem particularly interested or alarmed. "What the hell was that?" I asked. "Sorry, Bro. I was about to say that I''m using my skill. Customer Identification it''s called. It''s unlocked with my shadow Job. It''s not very high level yet since I didn''t really have to use it when I was selling in school. When it works it shows me if the guy I''m looking at is interested in the product I''m selling. I got a hit on that guy, as you can see." "That''s basically magic," I protested. "Hah! Maybe, Bro. Anyway, it works. All you need to do is unlock the Job and then you''ll be able to use the skill. It won''t work very well at first, but the more you use it the more you''ll earn, and it''ll level up eventually." "Earn? What, you mean like earning XP?" Manny looked puzzled and took his eyes off the crowd for a minute to look at me. "Huh? XP? What''s that?" "It''s a role-playing game thing. Experience points. You know, the more you do something, the better you get at it." Manny snorted derisively. "Yeah, that is not the way the world works, Homes. Not even a little. If it were, you could just sit on a bench and watch everybody that went by and see if they wanted whatever it was you were selling. You''d just sit there leveling up forever. Nah, Bro. The universe doesn''t give a shit how much you do something. It''s all about how successful you are. You gotta earn, son. Dollar dollar bills y''all." "So, you''re saying that you level up the skill by earning money with it?" I asked. "You level up everything by earning money with it, Bro. Seriously, how do you not know that? I mean, some of my clients smoke so much weed they''re basically brain dead and they probably still know that shit, and you don''t? But you don''t smoke and you''re not dumb. What''s up?" Manny looked concerned and a trifle suspicious. I did my best to deflect. "I just thought maybe it wasn''t a universal principle. My bad, I''m new to shadow and all that." My heart was in my chest, but I relaxed when I saw that he seemed to accept that explanation, as far-fetched as it might be. "No. It''s universal. If you''re a doctor or a drug lord, it''s the same. Cash rules everything around me." I chuckled. Even though back in LA I didn''t listen to a lot of rap, I knew that reference. I was amazed that simple philosophy of the street was the root principle of the new world I''d found myself in. I didn''t have the opportunity to incriminate myself further with yet another newbie question before Manny lunged out into the crowd and stopped another hipster. This one was dressed like a lumberjack, complete with the long black beard and unkempt, shoulder length hair. I say unkempt, but it looked like he''d spent a lot of time getting it exactly the right degree of mussed. Lumberjack Hipster declined the weed after asking the price, but a pair of guys beside him overheard the conversation and each bought a dime bag. I''d been sticking close, hovering just close enough to hear what Manny was saying to the customers. It wasn''t much, usually. The most basic of sales pitches. One of the hipsters spoke up as he was paying Manny. "You''re not the usual guys." "No, it''s a free country and all that, Bro. Enjoy your smoke." The two hipsters left, and we returned to the fence. Now Manny looked a little nervous. "What''s up?" I asked. "I can''t tell, but I think we might be in somebody''s territory. Keep an eye out for serious looking guys, would you?" Serious looking guys. That wasn''t much to go by, but I got what he was saying. I scanned the crowd; the sea of mostly male hipster faces far from serious. Almost everyone I looked at was walking in the light. The few that weren''t seemed more like they were doing it ironically. Their shadow names were things like "The Littlest Prince" and "Marvelous Dan". Maybe that was just how hipster gangsters rolled but looking at them they didn''t set off any kind of alarm bells. Lack of Street Cred, maybe? It felt strange to be able to see everyone''s name while I knew that the majority of them couldn''t see mine. Manny and I crouched by the fence like two ridiculously dressed lions surveying herds of gazelle. Manny''s last two customers came back and pointed us out to a blonde girl and her redheaded friend. They were both quite attractive, although the blonde was wearing the de rigeur problematic glasses I was growing to hate. "I hear you got weed?" The blonde asked, looking back and forth between me and Manny. "Sure do. Forty bucks for a dime," Manny replied. "So pricey! Can you do us a discount? Please?" The blonde asked, begging in a cutesy voice at the end. Manny hesitated, and I could almost feel his will weakening. The girls weren''t looking at me at all, and when the redhead joined in cajoling Manny, I thought for sure we''d be giving them a deep discount. Both of the girls were touching his arms gently and were right in his personal space, wheedling to save twenty bucks that probably meant nothing to them. Just a simple exercise of their power. I looked away, my eyes skipping over the sea of similar faces until I landed on one that wasn''t. I stopped and focused on the man. Superficially, he looked same as the crowds around us. Beard, long hair and from what little I could see of his clothing, flannel. He was big, but there were some tall guys here. He was at least a head taller than most of the men around him. There was just something about him that caught my eye. I projected my will and his nameplate appeared.
"Magnus" , The Fatally Hip
He was in shadow, and the name didn''t seem jokey. More important to me was the feel I got from him. Like he was dangerous, and I shouldn''t fuck with him. Magnus was scanning the crowd the same way that Manny had been, moving slowly through it. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. His expression was completely neutral, neither smiling nor frowning. Someone approached him, a man, and Magnus immediately showed a brilliant white smile. They started talking, and I saw something change hands. There was no way I could be sure from that distance, but that looked like a drug deal to me. I turned back to Manny, who had two dimes in his right hand and what looked to be about $45 in his left. I could see that the girls had almost broken his resolve and got him to sell two grams of our weed at a fraction above cost. I slapped him on the shoulder and broke the trance. The girls stopped what they were doing and looked at me, frowning slightly. "Manny, over there. That guy looks like he''s selling. You see him? The guy who looks like a hipster but not really? Magnus?" Manny looked through the crowd until he saw the man I was talking about. He frowned. "You sure he''s dealing?" The two girls looked at the same time, and the redhead giggled. "Hey, it''s Magnus. You guys don''t know him?" "No, should we?" I asked. "He''s our regular guy. One of the Hip. This is their territory. You''re not with them?" I shook my head and Manny didn''t say anything. The blonde snatched the money out of Manny''s left hand. "I thought you were wearing that ridiculous get up ironically!" The redhead pulled her hands away from Manny''s arm. "Ewww, gross." The girls stormed off into the crowd, headed directly for Magnus in the distance. "We should get out of here, Bro." The girls approached Magnus and caught his attention. The blonde looked over her shoulder and pointed us out. The smile that had automatically pasted itself on Magnus''s face quickly faded and he looked in our direction. He made eye contact with both of us briefly before looking back at the girls and saying something to them. They disappeared behind him in the crowd and he began to make his way through the crowd toward us, almost casually. "Manny, I don''t want to say this, but I think I might be afraid of that hipster. Let''s go." Manny shoved the two dime bags back into his satchel and we started to push our way toward the street. We''d only just got onto the sidewalk and were ten feet away when a deep, masculine voice stopped us in our tracks. "Hold it, fellas." Both of us turned and looked over our shoulders at Magnus, who was twenty feet away standing in the middle of the sidewalk. Fully visible outside the press of the crowd he was intimidating. Where all the male hipsters in the parking had been soyboys pretending to be real men, it was clear that Magnus was a man pretending to be a soyboy pretending to be a man. Everything about Magnus was intimidating. His hands were enormous, and his face looked carved out of stone. Broad shoulders and thick, heavy muscles were only barely concealed by perfectly tailored flannel and denim. A sleek black leather man purse was draped over his broad shoulders. For some reason his belt buckle caught my eye¡ªa shining oversized silver skull with sparkling red gems in the sockets. The skull¡¯s ruby eyes seemed to glow with an internal light. I found myself hoping that Manny knew kung fu, or whatever martial art it was that Vietnamese people had. "Some lady friends of mine told me that you were selling here. This is my territory, fellas. I can¡¯t have that." "Sorry, Bro," Manny said. "Our bad, we didn''t know this was somebody''s territory. We''ll just leave, no harm done." "I''ll be the judge of that, Manny. You say that you didn''t know this was our territory? I have real trouble believing that. Our tags are all around you. You would have to be blind to miss one." Magnus started to slowly close the distance between us. I was desperate to ask Manny if he had his gun on him, but Magnus was too close. He''d hear every word. "Really? What does it look like?" I asked when Manny said nothing for a heartbeat. Magnus switched his focus to me, still slowly walking forward step at a time. Behind him a gaggle of curious hipsters watched, perhaps hoping for a fight. "Look down," he said. I looked down and saw the same tag I had seen all around the space, the three unintelligible letters in bluish-white spray paint on the sidewalk under our feet. Now that I knew what it stood for, I could see it. TFH - The Fatally Hip. "You''re right, we should''ve seen that. Seriously, our bad. Let''s go, Manny." Manny nodded, and we both started to back away from Magnus. He didn''t stop walking, and we turned and began to walk a bit quicker. We weren''t running, mind you. We were power walking. That''s it. Not fleeing, just moving rapidly to our next destination. "Where''s the car, Manny?" I asked, sotto voce. "It''s a block up." I jumped slightly when behind us, Magnus let out a piercing whistle. It was incredibly loud. There was movement in the shadows on the other side of the street about 200 feet ahead of us. Two men emerged from an alley. I quickly identified both of them.
"Herbert"
"Zeke"
In the scant light I could make out traces of the hipster uniform on the two men. Shadowy beards, glimpses of flannel. "Manny." "I see them. Keep walking. Rule of Escalation applies here." I glanced behind us and saw that Magnus had been keeping pace with us. He''d only had to lengthen his stride slightly. Instead of power walking like a mall-dwelling senior citizen he fairly prowled after like a lion on the savannah. Again, I had to wonder if a skill was being employed. There was no way I could tell since back in my real life I''d made it a point to not get into situations like this. Was this fear a natural reaction or was it some skill of Magnus''s? Magnus had heard Manny''s last statement and spoke up, his voice carrying easily to us. "Yes, Manny. You are right. The Rule of Escalation does apply. More appropriate in this case is the Rule of Turf." I cursed internally. Another rule. I needed to try to find a book the next time I went to the library. There had to be something in this universe to give me my complete tutorial experience. Even while I made that mental note, I couldn''t resist a snappy rejoinder. "I''ve heard it''s really more of a guideline," I offered. In the distance I could see the silhouette of Manny''s Regal, half illuminated by a streetlight. The two hipsters on the other side of the street from us were keeping pace with us, sticking to the shadows. "I think of it as an ironclad rule, Mack." I glanced over my shoulder again and saw that Magnus was slightly closer than he had been. The gaggle of hipsters behind him had dissolved¡ªreturned to the parking lot or to their cars. The street around us was dark and mostly deserted. Quiet homes with curtains closed or empty, black windows. In short, the worst possible place for us to be. We''d just reached the front of the Regal when the trap closed. Manny had his keys in his hand and was moving toward the driver''s door when two more men came out of the shadows near the rear of the car. They had the same look as Magnus¡ªserious men pretending to be weaklings. I identified them instantly out of sheer habit.
"Huck"
"Byron"
All four of Magnus''s men were moving quickly to block our escape, but they weren''t the problem. Magnus moved as quickly as a striking snake and closed the distance between us faster than I thought possible. His enormous right hand clamped around Manny''s spindly neck and Magnus lifted him effortlessly off the ground. Manny''s feet kicked fruitlessly at the hipster giant''s legs and at the front bumper of the Regal, making hollow metallic thumps. Manny made choking noises and both of his hands scrabbled at the veiny, tree trunk of an arm holding him up. "The Rule of Turf is an ironclad one, fellows. Thou shalt not trespass," Magnus pronounced, looking into Manny''s eyes as he struggled. I could hear and almost feel the two men closing in behind me ready to commit violence. Since it seemed clear that Manny didn''t know any kung fu, it was up to me. I dove onto the hood of the Regal and scrambled across it toward Manny''s back. Magnus looked at me and raised an eyebrow. He started to speak, most likely to make an ominous promise of my doom. I cut that short when I pulled Manny''s holstered .38 free and in one motion pressed it up underneath Magnus''s jutting stone shelf of a jaw. I was standing on the hood just behind Manny with my left hand braced on his shoulder. "Let him go," I instructed, my finger on the trigger. Magnus opened his massive meat hook and Manny fell, crashing down into the hood of his car and onto the asphalt with a painful sound. He choked and wheezed as his body tried to get air back into his lungs. "I''ve released him. You have escalated, Mack. Do you think that was wise?" Magnus asked. I wasn''t feeling like I was in a secure enough position for banter as much as I was tempted. I didn''t dare to look at the guys behind me. Without taking my eyes off Magnus I could only see one of his four goons, Zeke. Zeke was holding a gun in his hand, a boxy black automatic pistol. It wasn''t quite aimed at me, but it wouldn''t take much to raise it. If Zeke had a gun, I had to assume that the rest did as well. Magnus spoke again after I didn''t respond to his opening. "Let me make this easy for you. My friends and I will take Manny here and leave you to go about your business. As long as you don''t trespass on our territory again, all will be well. You have my word." Manny straightened up, his coughing starting to die out. "Bro," he croaked out. I shushed him without looking at him. "Here''s what''s going to happen, Magnus. You''re going to tell your guys to back off, and all three of us are going to get in Manny''s car. We''ll leave the neighborhood and once we''re sure that no one has followed us, we''ll let you out. Then we''ll make sure never to trespass on your territory again. How''s that sound?" Magnus smiled. His teeth were perfect, a beautiful expanse of straight white enamel. That smile never reached his eyes, which were cold and calculating. I could see my death in them, if I let him. "You''re not a killer, Mack. I bet if I were to tell my boys to shoot you right now you wouldn''t even pull that trigger. Isn''t that right?" "That''s a high stakes bet, Magnus. You really want to make that one?" I tensed up, ready to pull the trigger if it seemed like he was going to give the order. I had some idea that I would shoot him and then dive roll across the hood into cover. I''d come up shooting, kill the goons and save the day. Magnus must''ve seen it in my eyes¡ªthe ridiculous insanity of a young man with a gun in a hopeless situation. "No. Gents, put the guns away. I will be accompanying these gentlemen on a short ride. It should go without saying that if I don''t return you should find Manny, Mack and both of their families." That was a little chilling. Other than Martin who was a stranger, I had no family. But Manny, that was a different story. Zeke made his gun disappear into a concealed shoulder holster and stepped back. Manny staggered around the front of the Regal, avoiding Magnus as much as he could. Magnus raised an eyebrow at me, as if asking me "What next?" "Turn around," I ordered. He turned around to face directly away from me. I kept the gun pointed at the back of his head I stepped down from the Regal''s hood. I rested my hand on his left shoulder and pressed the muzzle of the .38 to the base of his skull. "Now slowly walk over to the passenger side of the car and get in. You''re taking the front seat." Everything went smoothly. Magnus moved slowly and carefully around the car, opened the door and sat down. I climbed like a spider monkey into the backseat directly behind him. I kept the gun on him the whole time, my finger on the trigger. I was glad that he didn''t try to pull any Krav Maga ninja shit. Manny coughed and started up the Regal. In the shadows of the street around us there were now six of the Fatally Hip. Two of them had rifles. I couldn''t see them clearly, but they were black and scary with large magazines. I began to worry about who it was we had tangled with. Was it really possible that hipsters were a serious gang here in San Tadeo? Manny pulled out and drove carefully down the shadowed. None of the men standing around us moved to follow. I kept the muzzle of the gun pressed to the back of Magnus''s head, hoping that we wouldn''t pass by any squad cars. The Hip''s leader was such a big man that I wasn''t certain the .38 would kill him if I shot him through the back of the seat. I''d seen lots of movies where people took multiple rounds from a .38 and kept coming. At least with a headshot I was reasonably certain he would no longer be a threat. "Manny, don''t get too close to any squad cars." Manny just nodded, not saying anything. He rubbed his throat and put his hand back on the wheel. I kept my left hand on Magnus''s shoulder, scanning all around to make sure that we weren''t being followed. Traffic was still pretty heavy, as it was still quite early in the evening. If someone was following us, I didn''t see them. "My boys have their instructions, no one will be following." "That''s good. We''ll drop you off and we can both be rid of each other." "Oh, not so fast, Mack. I really don''t expect this to be our last meeting." I sighed. "Why? Because you''re gonna hunt us down and kill us for the crime of selling a little weed in a parking lot that you pissed on? Some of your turf? Is that it?" Manny shot me a warning glance. The content was something like stop pissing off the crazy guy in our car, but I ignored him. "Exactly that, Mack. You have made an enemy of me. I would''ve been happy to merely take what you brought into our turf and dish out a little punishment to you and Manny here. But you escalated, and then you escalated again. Well done. Now you have to live with those the consequences of those actions." "Fucking hipsters," I cursed. "If that''s the case, Magnus, why don''t we just take you somewhere quiet right now and put a bullet in your head? Tell me why I shouldn''t do that?" "Escalation again, Mack? That appears to be your favorite method of dealing with a problem. I admire that, honestly. If you were to escalate in this matter yet again, my instructions to my compatriots would go into effect. They would find you, no matter what rathole you found to hide in. And once they found you, they would find your family. Once they were sure they had found all of your family, they would gather as many of them together as possible and make a fine spectacle for you." "Jesus. Are you really this psychotic, or this all an act? I get it, you''re scary. You''re Fatally Hip, whatever the fuck that means. We were selling a little weed. Get over it. Nobody has to die." "Debatable. Now, have you made your decision, Mack? Escalation, or not?" As much as the hardened gamer side of me was telling me that I needed to kill this guy it felt wrong. I couldn''t just murder Magnus in cold blood because of what he might do in the future. Sure, he was threatening me and Manny in rather creepy detail, but he hadn''t done anything yet. The worst thing was that I was pretty sure that Manny was willing to follow my lead on this whatever I decided. Dragging him into a murder didn''t seem right either. "Manny, pull into that alley up there," I instructed, pointing with my left hand. Manny nodded, evidently still not trusting his voice, and pulled off the street we were on into a side street, and then turned left into the alley I''d indicated. It was just wide enough for two cars to squeeze past each other, paved but rough. A motley assortment of garbage bins and cans lined both sides of the alley. The back fences of houses on either side of us mostly hid us from view. One of the houses on the right side had a garage set back slightly from the alley. At my instruction Manny pulled into the open space in front of the closed double doors. "If you''re going to kill me, Mack, there are much better places to do it than here." I shook my head slightly, amazed at the balls he had. Either he was toying with us and realized there was no way I was going to kill him, or he really was that much of a bad ass. Neither one of those options was something I liked. Manny looked at me for further instructions. "We forgot to search him. Take whatever he''s got." I had to give it to Manny. Magnus was a monstrously scary psycho that had just nearly killed him, but Manny swallowed that fear and searched him anyway. "You''re going to rob me as well, Mack?" I ignored Magnus. Manny turned up a silver automatic pistol, a thick roll of cash, and a long straight blade. It was at least ten inches long, but thin. It didn''t look like a hunting knife so much as a stiletto, or a small dagger. He''d had it in a narrow sheath on his right boot. Manny handed the everything he found to me and I set them beside me on the back seat. Magnus''s pistol was quite a lot larger and heavier than the .38 in my hand, but there was no way I was going to distract myself enough to equip it, not with Magnus in the front seat. Better stats or no, I''d make do with what we had. This wasn''t a game where I could instantly equip and be familiar with a new gun. Rather than searching Magnus''s man purse, Manny unclipped the strap on one side and looked inside before he handed the whole thing to me in the back seat. Magnus grumbled slightly, a deep low sound that I felt through the seat I was resting my right hand on. "Weed in there, looks like seven dime bags." It went on the seat beside me with the rest of our loot. Magnus chuckled. "You two are in so over your head." He wasn''t wrong. It felt like the water was so far above my head now that the surface was just a memory. "Yeah, yeah. Manny, let''s go. You know that industrial area just east of Maywood where you dropped me at the library? There." Many nodded and pulled back into the alley. A minute later we were back in traffic. We drove for fifteen minutes in relative silence. I kept the gun hidden as well as I could and was thankful it was so small. Manny did his part by keeping us well away from any cop cars. Just like in Los Angeles, the cops where everywhere. Traffic thinned out and then almost disappeared as we entered the industrial area. The streets were wide here, accommodating the large semi-trailers that would often come in and out of this area. Warehouses and small-scale factories of various types filled the large lots. Interspersed between the buildings were equally large parking lots, dimly lit by infrequent lights and completely empty at this time of night. A perfect place to kill someone. Magnus obviously thought the same and I almost thought I heard a note of nervousness in his voice when he spoke again. "Mack, I''ve been thinking. Perhaps I was rash to threaten you and Manny with such dire consequences. You''re new to this life. You''ve transgressed against me, but perhaps I can accept a lesser penalty." "Oh, is that right? What do you have in mind, Magnus?" "Let''s call it the return of my property and a stiff monetary fine. A tax on your actions. $20,000 should cover it." I almost laughed but restrained myself. $20k, is that all? Sure, where''d I leave my wallet? Did he really expect us to pay him that much? Even putting aside the matter that Manny and I couldn''t afford it and wouldn''t be able to for some time, I didn''t trust him. He was trying desperately to make a deal. A deal that would prevent me from doing the smart thing and just shooting him in the head. He''d say anything to save himself and I had no idea what kind of man he was. Was his word good for anything? Could we trust him? The safe answer my mind, was no. "Over there, Manny." The space I''d pointed out was a long, narrow parking lot between two hulking warehouses. Several of the lights were out and it was mostly in darkness. Manny nodded and pulled in and stopped in the deep shadows. I scooted over to the far corner of the backseat, keeping the .38 trained on Magnus''s head. I was fairly confident I could hit him at this range. After all, how hard could it be? Point-and-click, right? "Get out, Magnus. Then face the wall and walk forward five steps." "What about my proposal?" he asked. The calm confidence that had suffused his voice the entire time seemed like it might be wavering. "Do it, now," I ordered. In the movies, that would''ve been where the stupid character would cock the pistol to emphasize how serious they were. The pistol that until now hadn''t been cocked. Luckily for me I was wasn''t tempted as the .38 in my hands didn''t have a hammer. Magnus hesitated, and I could almost see the calculations being made. Was I going to kill him? Could he get to me before I shot or at least before I managed to land a fatal hit? His shoulders tensed and I got ready to fire, steeling myself to pull the trigger and keep pulling it until Magnus stopped coming. After the three of us spent an interminable moment on the threshold of sudden violence the tension flowed out of Magnus''s shoulders. He opened the door of the Regal gently and stepped out. He left it open and facing the wall of the warehouse walked forward five steps. I exhaled as quietly as I could manage after I realized I''d been holding it in. I climbed out of the backseat and gravel crunched under the soles of my shoes. The .38 in my hands never wavered. I''d seen how fast he could move. "Get on your knees and put your hands behind your head." Magnus knew the drill. He dropped slowly to one knee and then the other before lacing his fingers behind his head. "Mack-" he started to say. Whatever it was, we didn''t get to hear it. I flopped into the passenger seat beside Manny and gestured for him to go. He didn''t need any prompting and stomped the accelerator pedal. The old Regal''s engine roared and we surged forward. The passenger door slammed shut and we peeled out of the parking lot and onto the deserted streets. I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Magnus slowly coming to his feet and watching us leave. He receded in the shadows, and soon we left him far behind us. 1.09 - Manny Has Second Thoughts Manny found his voice again once we''d been driving for five minutes. He signaled and pulled over into an empty parking spot and put the car into park. "Bro, what the hell," Manny said. His voice was hoarse. "I mean, sure, thanks for saving me from that asshole, but shit." I knew what he meant. Things had gone a little pear-shaped. What should''ve been my nice, easy tutorial to selling weed in a parking lot full of harmless hipsters had turned into a standoff and then a kidnapping. "You alright, Manny?" I asked. He nodded. "Why didn''t you take his deal, Bro? We just needed to sell the weed, buy some more and in a couple months we''d have paid him off. No sweat." "I didn''t believe that. He was only trying to make a deal because he thought we were going to kill him." "Shit, Bro. I thought you were going to kill him." "Yeah, sorry. If you didn''t think I was serious he might''ve picked that up and made a play for the gun. Then we''d both be fucked, for sure." "Seems like we''re pretty fucked now, Homes. What if those guys find us?" "ST''s a big city, Manny. We''ll just avoid their turf and try to keep our heads down. What else can we do?" "I can get rid of this car and never walk in shadow again. That''s what I can do. You can do that too, Mack." My reaction came swiftly from deep in my gut. I almost shouted my rejection in his face before I swallowed it down. "And do what, Manny? Work at a chicken joint? No. Ride the bus? No, fuck that. I''m done with that." I couldn''t explain to Manny that this world was a fresh start for me. Whether it was a coma dream, the afterlife or I''d suddenly become the protagonist of an ee-sky novel, nothing changed. I was going to live exactly how I wanted to live. That did not include getting a sensible job, earning a steady paycheck and living a life of quiet obscurity. "Instead you''re going to get yourself killed? You saw that monster." "Manny, we won. We won! That doesn''t mean we''re gonna win all the time, but tonight we won. We''ve got to celebrate that!" A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. Manny looked at me like I was a little mental. "This isn''t a game, Bro. This is real fucking life. Those guys can find us." "Look, Manny, let''s just take it one day at a time. We''ll pay our debt to Brass Lee and then we can see where we''re at. Cool?" I could tell it wasn''t. The encounter with Magnus had really shaken Manny. Magnus had said that he just planned to punish us a little bit, and then I had escalated the situation. I didn''t believe him. I''d brushed shoulders with death that night and felt nothing but elated. Whatever fear I''d been feeling earlier was gone, banished by the sweet taste of victory. Manny wasn''t feeling it. "I don''t know, Bro. I''ll come by tomorrow morning to give you the weed, but I can''t bring my family into this. Selling was supposed to be a little bit of part-time fun. A way to bank a bit of extra money. Not a way to get my entire family killed." I didn''t want to force Manny to continue doing this when he really didn''t want to, but I didn''t feel like I had much of a choice. I had nowhere to keep the weed, no car, and despite my crazy actions earlier, I didn''t even have any of the skills that Manny had. I needed Manny until I could sort my shit out. I got on my knees and reached into the back seat to grab the wad of cash that had been rolling around back there, nearly forgotten in our rush to leave Magnus behind. I took it and the gun and sat back down. "I get it, Manny. You want out, fine. Let''s just pay off Lee. I''ll have a go at selling tomorrow and we can use this cash towards our debt." The bankroll was thick, but I had no idea how much money was in it. "Give that to me and I''ll count it," Manny said. I handed it to him and expected him to peel off the rubber band and slowly count through it while we sat there. Instead, Manny gripped the roll in his hands for a moment before tossing it back to me. "$2215," he said. "How the fuck?" I began to ask and then realized. A skill, of course. "Fast Count. I''ve got that one leveled up a bit, unlike Customer ID. If there had been more than $2500 it wouldn''t have worked." The skill made sense. If you were a drug dealer, you''d want to way to be able to count the money people paid you without taking a lot of time to do it. "Great, so we''ll put that toward our debt, and we''ll sell as much of the rest of the weed as we need to get Lee off our backs. Cool?" I asked. Manny nodded. Lee was a problem we didn''t need in addition to Magnus and his psychos. Once we paid Lee off Manny could leave the shadows behind forever if he really wanted. I was hoping this was just a phase. I really didn''t want to do this alone. "I''ve gotta get home, it''s getting late. See you tomorrow morning before school," Manny said and put the Regal back in gear. I looked at the clock on the dash. 9:45. I had missed lights out and blown my implied curfew. I hoped Martin wouldn''t be a dick about it. Manny dropped me off on the street in front of Martin''s darkened house. I left the roll of cash and the gun with him. It wouldn''t do for Martin to find me holding any of that. My keys worked and I let myself in through the side door. I was downstairs through the darkened basement and in my room before I realized I was still wearing the chain and walking in shadow. I whipped it off and reentered the light. I would''ve really been screwed if Martin had confronted me for blowing curfew as I snuck in. I stashed the chain under my mattress, got undressed and went to sleep. 1.10 - Terminator Fashions
San Tadeo, California, 07:00 Friday March 06, 2020 Safe House: Martin McLean''s House Walking in the Light
The lights came on in my room at exactly 7 AM and woke me. I got dressed and stuffed the chain in the front pocket of my jeans along with my cash and bus pass. I went upstairs to meet my fate. The kitchen was empty, and Martin was nowhere to be found. There was a note on the kitchen table, addressed to me.
Frank, Good luck on your first day at work. Make yourself breakfast, I''m out for the day. Regards, Martin McLean PS. Respect lights out in the future or there will be consequences.
"How the hell did he get the lights to turn on when he isn''t even here?" I muttered. I felt relieved. Martin came off like a hardass. Like he expected me to be one of his soldiers. When it came down to it though it seemed like he was all talk. Still, I didn''t want to test him. After last night, it was clear I needed to find my own place to live as soon as possible. I wandered into the other part of the house, making my way to the only bathroom. I quickly showered and brushed my teeth and then changed back into the same clothes. In the living room on a long wooden table along one wall I spotted several photos, and went over to take a look. Martin was in most of them, wearing a uniform in roughly half of the photos. In one of the others he was a young man smiling under the bright sun, with the ocean in the background. The man standing next to him was clearly related. The family resemblance was unmistakable. I''d never seen the man before, but I had my suspicions that this was Dean. Either that, or Martin had another brother and had just never mentioned him. I made sure I had everything before leaving Martin''s house and locking the door behind me. Manny wouldn''t be meeting me at the corner for another 40 minutes, so I had time. I walked down Mountain View toward the JMC and crossed the busy street. Mindy was working the front counter once again and smiled and waved me over. "Frank, you''re right on time. Come on in the back and we''ll get you a uniform and start your training." "Hey, Mindy. Actually, I''m here to tell you I''m not going to take the job. Sorry, I''ve got something else going on." "Oh, okay. Great. I mean I''m sorry we won''t get to work together, but good for you." "Yeah, me too. Maybe it''s for the best. Now I can get your number and take you out, and it won''t be weird." That kind of move hadn''t been in my toolbox before. I''d always been one of those guys who''d wait for the clear green light from a woman before I tried anything at all. The events of the previous night had filled me with a heady confidence I''d never had before. I''d faced down the dangerous leader of a street gang and come out triumphant. She looked nervously over her shoulder, and quickly looked back. "I could get fired," she protested, weakly I thought. "Come on, Barry''s not here. Put it on my receipt," I said. "I''ll take the number two breakfast menu, please," I said, quite a bit louder than we had been talking. The abrupt shift threw her briefly but then she straightened up and put the professional smile back on her face. "Of course, sir. Will there be anything else?" I shook my head, and she rung up my order on the register. I handed over the $100 bill that was the only cash I had at the moment. She handed me back my change and checked for her boss once again. Not finding Barry lurking nearby she pulled my receipt off the printer and quickly wrote on the back before handing it to me. "Take a seat, sir, I''ll bring your food to the table when it''s ready." I returned her smile and filled my soda cup with iced tea and then found a booth near the window. Once I was sat down I checked out the back of the receipt. Written there was her name in beautiful cursive script, with a heart as the dot above the i. Below that was her phone number. I folded it up and put it in my pocket beside the bus pass. I really needed to get a wallet, or something. A few minutes later she brought over my breakfast tray and set it down in front of me. She flashed me her brilliant smile again, the more genuine one she''d shown me before. "Enjoy your breakfast," she said. "And call me," she finished at much lower volume before turning and walking away. The breakfast was fresh and hot, chicken and potatoes. It still seemed like an odd choice for breakfast, but it was a chicken restaurant after all. Who goes to a chicken restaurant and doesn''t order chicken? It didn''t take long to finish my breakfast and I made sure to dump my trash in the bin as I was leaving. I entered the blacked out booth right outside the JMC''s front entrance and embraced the shadows. Manny showed up right on time. He pulled into an empty spot and put the Regal into park. I wondered why we weren''t moving, but it became obvious quite soon. "My mom freaked out. I had to tell her I got in a fight." Manny''s voice was still a little rough and visible on his throat were bruises in the rough shape of Magnus''s sausage fingers. "She barely let me out of the house this morning. Did you see the rep change notice last night, Bro?" "No, what are you talking about?" "Look at your Reputation screen," Manny said, leaning back in his seat expectantly.
Reputation - Frank McLean
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Reputation - "Mack"
The Fatally Hip¡ªHostile
"That''s not good," I said. "I guess Magnus is pretty mad." "No shit, Bro." "What''s that actually mean for us, though? He was already pissed." "I mean, nothing I guess. When one of his guys IDs us we''ll be marked as Hostile. That way they''ll know to come over and kick the shit out of us, or whatever." "They probably already know our names though," I said. "This way they won''t forget, Bro. It''s not as bad as it could be really. We''re not marked as ''At War'' - that''d mean that the Hip''s allied gangs could see our status too." "Maybe those douchebags don''t have any allies?" I said, laughing. Manny grinned back at me. "Probably not!" "Anyway, fuck those guys. You ready to go and sell? I''ve still got to pick up the skills that you have. Where are we going?" "I''ve got a spot in mind. I can drop you there before I go to school, but first we need to get you some new threads, Bro. Everybody''s gonna think you''re a narc dressed like that." I didn''t entirely trust Manny''s judgment on this topic any more, but maybe he was right. Maybe my clothing was just too generic, too much like an undercover cop. At least this time I''d be able to choose instead of having to wear his stank hand-me-down. Manny started the car and eased us out of the Maximarket parking lot. We were headed west on Florence, Manny quickly turned off and I was lost. The satchel with the Asian kitty on the front was at my feet again and I opened it to take a look. Manny had refilled it back up to an ounce of product. That seemed like way too much. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. "Manny, there''s no way I''m going to sell all of this today," I protested. "Chill, Bro. If you don''t, you don''t. You want to run out, instead? The spot I got picked out will be good all day. Lots of college students that need their weed." "You''ve sold there?" I asked. "No, I hadn''t got around to it. I scouted it out pretty good, though. I know just where to to go. No gangs, at least not that I''ve ever seen. Just students and the occasional campus cop. You''ll have to watch out for those, but they''re lazy as fuck, Bro. If they hassle you just run. They won''t chase you long." "Did you bring Magnus''s cash?" "No, I stashed most of it at home. I''ve got some cash though. You need some? Half that roll''s yours." Some small part of me was tempted to tell him that the whole thing was mine. I''d done the work, after all. Instead, I nodded. "Give me a couple hundred. I want to have some cash in my pocket." Manny took his right hand briefly off the wheel and pulled the wad of cash out of his front pocket and handed it to me. "Take what you need." His roll was more substantial than the last time I''d seen it. Less $20s and more $100s, and more of both. I peeled off the top three hundreds and replaced the rubber band before handing it back. He returned it to his pocket without comment. Minutes later we were pulling into yet another strip mall. If there was anything that LA had, it was malls. San Tadeo was no different. The storefront we stopped in front of was large, with a gaudy black and white sign. Terminator Fashions. I was confused until I saw the supplementary graphic, a rocky planet with the sharp terminator between the light and dark sides. No robotic assassins from the future. The display windows were full of everything an aspiring gangster would want. Racks of shining, gaudy bling. Sports jerseys from every different team. Baseball hats in all colors, slogans and logos in all the right places. Manny turned the Regal off after he found a parking spot and we both got out of the car. "Manny, where''s the gun we took off Magnus?" I asked. "It''s in the trunk, why?" "I need a gun, is why." "I guess. You can get a holster in Terminator, Big El has them." "Let''s get it then. We''ll bring it in and make sure the holster fits." Manny shrugged, and we exited the Regal. He popped the trunk and lifted up the carpet covering the spare tire. The pistol was wrapped in a dirty cloth and wedged between the tire and the depression in the floor it sat in. He handed it to me and closed the trunk. I examined the gun more closely, marveling at how it felt in my hands.
Browning Hi-Power (D) Ammo (9mm Parabellum): 13/13
Handling: B Damage: D Serial: None
Penetration: D Accuracy: D Value: ???
The stats were really good as well. The value was still ??, but it felt and looked expensive. I stashed it in the kitty bag with the marijuana. "Manny, I meant to ask. How are the gun laws here in California? If the cops catch me with this gun, what will happen?" "As long as it doesn''t have a body on it, you''ll be fine. It''s a crime to not have a serial number, but just a misdemeanor. They''ll take the gun, and if it''s got any bodies on it then you''re in trouble. They''ll issue a warrant. That''s why we toss them." "And this one?" I asked. "Do you think Magnus would be carrying it around with a body on it?" "Fuck, no. The guy¡¯s scary as fuck but he''s not stupid. It''ll be clean." We walked up the shop and entered Terminator Fashions. I was kind of lost, looking around at the incredible display. It felt like a costume shop for gangsters. Everything a gangster needed to look Respectable on the Light side, or to have Street Cred in the Shadows. "Manny, welcome back," a friendly voice said to my right. I looked to see a tall, immensely fat but elegantly dressed black man. His suit was perfectly tailored in stark black with a white shirt and shoes, and no tie. His fingers were festooned with thick gold rings, and a tasteful rope of gold was around his neck. He had a friendly grin on his face, and I couldn''t help but like the man.
"Big El" , Fixer (C3)
"Hey Big El. I brought my boy, this is Mack." Big El turned his eyes to me. "Mack, welcome to Terminator Fashions. Is there something I can help you guys find today?" I noticed he looked at me when he said that, dressed in my plain T-shirt and jeans, with only my stupid fake gold chain to differentiate me from one of the hordes of normies. Like Magnus, I could feel that Big El¡¯s Street Cred was substantial. Whether that was just from the stats on his many rings, or because of his level and the rarity of his job, I had no idea. Unlike Magnus, however, he came across as warm and friendly. A serious man, but not one you needed to fear unless you crossed him. "Yeah, Mack needs some fly threads. That''s why we came here," Manny said. Big El smiled a bit wider at that. "Perfect. Tell me, Mack. What is it you want to tell the world? When people look at you, what do you want them to see?" I wondered if he was speaking metaphorically, or if he really was talking about assembling a costume for me. Maybe both, I wasn''t sure. "You mean like, what stats do I want? Street Cred, that sort of thing?" I asked. "Yeah, it''s all about the stats, Bro," Manny opined. Big El looked at him with a wry expression for a moment. "Manny, you and I disagree. It is not all about the stats. One must also have a coherent look. I can help you with that, Mack." I chuckled. This wasn''t something that a gamer usually had to worry about. Stats were all, as Manny said. But I didn''t want to look like a clown with min-max gear. Today would be my first day selling weed, and I had a theory about what I could do to make it easier for myself. I wanted to test that theory. "I''m new, so of course I want stats, but I do have a look in mind. It''s not a style, so much as an advertisement." Big El raised his eyebrow at me, but once I explained what I wanted, he was eager to help Ten minutes later I was standing in front of a mirror, looking at the new me. It was a look I would never have chosen, except maybe for a Halloween costume. I had a long green and yellow T-shirt on, where the green part was an enormous marijuana leaf on my chest, fading out to yellow with streaks of green on it. The color wasn''t quite High-Viz, but close. I¡¯d swapped my jeans and plain running shoes for a pair of sandals and cargo shorts. Now, I''m not one of those guys that hates on cargo shorts, quite the opposite. As a nerdy guy with lots of things to carry, I love them. These weren¡¯t your typical shorts though. They were black, with green trim. They had the same number of pockets as your typical cargo shorts, but in strategic places there was an embroidered logo. Again, a marijuana leaf. It was a lot subtler than the T-shirt, but still if someone were looking, they''d see it. Neither piece gave me any stats, but that was fine. I didn''t want to be looked at as a gangster, at least not yet. I wanted to be a walking billboard. Without skills, I would be unable to spot customers. Wearing this, maybe they''d spot me. Good old-fashioned advertising. "This may just work for you, Mack. It''s a bold strategy, as maybe you will attract more customers. You also might attract the attention of the police." Back in LA, this outfit might have been considered a little outlandish, but wouldn''t have been cause for a cop to have a talk with you. Here in San Tadeo, however, weed was illegal and maybe it would be. "I''m hoping to just use this as a crutch, until I can get my skills up. Then I can go a little more low-key." "Yeah, Bro. You look ridiculous," Manny offered. I shook my head, almost hurt. Coming from someone with Manny¡¯s fashion sense that was quite the blow. Big El stepped in to defend my honor. "Manny, if this outfit attracts the business that Mack hopes it does, then it''s not ridiculous. It''s all about the Benjamins." "It''s all about the Benjamins," Manny repeated. His repetition felt rote, like someone echoing an amen. This place was weird, and I added it to the list of questions to ask someone. "Anything else?" Big El asked. "Actually, yeah," I said, looking around to make sure no one was nearby. On the other side of large store, a couple walking in the light were looking through some of the more ridiculous shadow items, but they weren''t paying attention. They were merely laughing to themselves as they discovered each new, over-the-top shadow focus that Big El had in his inventory. I pulled the pistol free from the bag and laid it on the counter in front of Big El. "I need a holster for this." The giant shopkeeper reached out, and then stopped himself. "May I?" I nodded and he picked up the gun to inspect it. He checked the chamber and then popped the mag before making sure it was safe and laying it back down. "Very nice weapon. Yes, I have a few different holsters for this. I assume you want to conceal it?" I nodded, and he left us at the counter and returned a minute later with three holsters. "This one is a shoulder holster, meant to be carried under a jacket. I present it as one of the options, but I expect is not what you need. "The other two are meant to be concealed at your waistline and differ only in quality. They will fit this pistol and any roughly the same size, which includes most 9 mm automatics. This is the better of the two." He picked up and handed me the one I''d been looking at. It was black and silver, meant to tuck inside the waistband of pants, and tightly hold the pistol in place until needed. It looked well-made, but other than that I didn''t know much about it. I inspected it.
Leather IWB Holster Value: $45
I was surprised to actually see a number for the value. "Hold on, why can I see the value? I usually can''t." Big El raised an eyebrow at me but answered. "Of course, since you are in a shop, you can see the prices of the items in that shop, Mack. Have you literally never entered a shop before?" The answer was that I hadn''t really. Or at least I hadn''t looked at any price tags. I hadn¡¯t remembered seeing any price tags. This raised a whole bunch of other questions. Like, for instance, how did shopkeepers set prices? Was it a skill? Was there a Stock Boy Job that got the ''Set Price'' skill? Anyway, rather than answer Big El¡¯s question, I deflected. "Sorry, late night. Price is good so I''ll take all the stuff." Big El nodded and put the other two holsters back under the counter. The total was $75, so I placed a $100 bill on the counter in front of Big El, who took it and quickly made change. The new outfit had been quite cheap, relatively speaking. It was the holster that had taken most of my cash. Since it was still clear at the counter, I pushed the pistol into the holster and practiced pulling it out. There was a bit of a trick to it, but it was easy enough. Once the gun was seated nicely, I clipped it onto the back of my cargo shorts and dropped the tail of my long T-shirt over top. Manny observed, and commented. "Not bad. You can still see a bit of a bulge, but you really have to be looking. Anyway, dudes with the right skill will know you¡¯re strapped no matter how good you hide it. So, don''t worry about too much. It''s really just so the normies don''t freak out." "Yes, and if you ever have the need, I can sell you a holster that will partially counteract that skill. It''s useful if you need to smuggle a weapon past security. Quite expensive, but worth it in the right circumstances," Big El said. "Thanks, I¡¯m good with this for now," I replied. "Then, if you''ll excuse me, I need to see if I can sell something to those two. That, or tell them to get the hell out of my store. Good luck today, Mack. I hope to see you again." With that, Big El left us and swept across the store to the couple who had been giggling nonstop for the last five minutes and we pushed outside. 1.11 - Selling at Mesotonic Technical Not long after, we were back in the Regal and cruising again. The gun wasn''t comfortable in the small my back, but it wasn''t like it hurt me either. The holster did its job well. I only had the most vestigial of knowledge about how to use the gun. I¡¯d seen them hundreds or thousands of times on movies and TV, but I¡¯d never actually had one myself. At least not one that wasn¡¯t a toy. "Manny, is there anywhere we can go, like a gun range or something where they''ll teach me how to shoot this thing?" I asked. "Uh," He said, thinking about it. "Yeah, I guess there is. I never thought about that. I think you gotta pay them something, but for sure there are courses. Second Amendment, bro. The right to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed, and all that." "We should do that. You with your .38 and me with this thing. If we ever have to use these guns, we should know how. Don''t you think?" I could almost see the fear warring with the logic in his brain. The obvious answer was yes, of course we need to know how to use the guns. Fear was telling him that he wouldn¡¯t need it because he needed to go and hide. Eventually, the logic won out, as I''d hoped it would. "I''ll ask Mr. Vitek today, you know how he is about guns. He''ll know where to go." "Mr. Vitek?¡± I asked. "I know you haven''t been gone that long, Bro. Shop teacher." "Oh, yeah right." I was getting worried about this knowledge that Manny expected me to have. Like who our shared teachers were in high school. If he got suspicious it wouldn''t take much for him to simply lay a trap for me. That could''ve been one, right there. Mr. Vitek, he¡¯d say, and I''d agree that of course he was our shop teacher. If Manny had been fishing to see if I was still me, I would''ve stepped right into that trap. I didn''t know what to do about that. Eventually I''d have to leave Manny behind, come clean with him, or hope he¡¯d never lay one of those traps for me. I decided to change the subject. "We going to the college now?" "Hell yeah, Bro. Money here we come.¡± "You sure there are no gangs this time?" I asked. Missing obvious gang tags was a mistake I was determined not to make again. "Hey, give me a little credit. I''m only going to make the same mistake once or twice. No tags." We drove in the early morning sunshine, listening to rap on the Regal¡¯s stock stereo system. It didn''t have a CD player¡ªI wasn''t even sure those existed¡ªand the tape deck was empty. It was just the radio, and it was surprisingly good. There were a lot less commercials, and the music seemed better. Maybe I was just getting into gangsta rap, San Tadeo style. Ten minutes later we were there. Massive parking lots full of cars surrounded huge buildings, and hordes of students milled around. Mesotonic Technical College. I didn''t recognize the name, but I did have a faint memory of there being a technical college at this spot in Los Angeles. It just wasn''t called Mesotonic. Another one of those strange discrepancies. While Manny was looking for a parking spot, I was scanning the walls and sidewalks of the campus we were passing. Nothing that looked like a gang tag jumped out at me. There were the remains of painted over graffiti, and plenty of places where the walls were plastered with posters for gigs elsewhere in the city. It looked like Manny was right, this area was unclaimed. A beat-up minivan left a spot just ahead of us, and Manny maneuvered into it like a pro. "Got one. I''m going to skip first period and make sure everything''s cool before I leave you here." That sounded good to me. Despite my new wardrobe, I wasn''t sure any of this would work. "You just have to get the Job, and then you can start training up the skills." "What is the Job, anyway? You keep mentioning it, but you never said the name." "Shit bro, that''s because it''s lame. It''s the Dealer job, but the first level title¡¯s Corner Boy. It sucks. I hate that title. Can''t wait until I rank up." I chuckled. Corner Boy definitely wasn¡¯t a flattering title. "How do I get the Job?" I asked. "Sell $100 worth of drugs, and you¡¯ll unlock the Job. That''s it. The low rarity jobs like Dealer are super easy to unlock. The higher rarity ones take a lot more doing." I thought about that. Big El had been a Fixer (C2). That had been that was the rarest job I''d seen on display yet. Even Martin''s job as an officer on the Light side was only D rarity. "All right, Bro. Let''s do this. We''ll set up over there," Manny said, and pointed to a broad walkway leading to a packed parking lot. One side was the mostly blank wall of one of the campus buildings, and the other was the street. Trash cans and concrete benches were distributed on the sides of the 40-foot wide pedestrian walkway, and it seemed like a great place to set up. We walked over, looking for and then finally finding what seemed like the best spot. Right in the middle, a concrete bench and the wall at our backs, facing the road. I looked to Manny and he shrugged. "I''m not doing anything. It''s all you." Manny sat on the bench, and I set the kitty duffel bag beside him. I distributed dime bags throughout the pockets of my cargo shorts. "Smart. But don''t leave this bag here. At least not when I''m not here. You do that, someone¡¯s likely to snatch and run. That¡¯d be a lot of money to lose." I nodded. It was one of those reasons that having a car or someplace nearby to stash the drugs and cash would be important. Soon, I vowed. Finally, I felt ready. I slung the duffel bag back over my shoulders. It was lighter now. The students came in waves roughly every ten minutes, either to the parking lot or from it. Between the waves, students trickled in ones and twos. Quite a few of them looked my way, but no one approached. I¡¯d never sold anything before. The thought of asking someone to buy my product was terrifying, even putting aside that what I was doing was illegal. The time was ticking away, and I didn''t want to disappoint Manny. We were in this jam because of me, and I needed to help make things right. I had to sell. When the next pair of students eyed me for more than a few seconds, I swallowed my fear and approached. "Weed?" That first pair of young guys shook their heads and kept walking, but having done it once it was easier the second time. It only took three more times before I had a bite. "What you got?" This was where the next part of my brilliant plan would come in. For some reason, this element of weed culture hadn¡¯t made it over to San Tadeo and I wanted to see if it would work here. "I''ve got dimes of our finest Green Monster. A Mellow high with no paranoia. It won¡¯t kill your focus. Interested?" I said, showing the kid the dime bag in my right palm. His eyes widened at my sales pitch. I heard Manny shift behind me. "You serious, no paranoia?" "Yep. They bred it out. Isn''t science wonderful?" I said. "How much?" he asked. This next part was what caused my guts to clench a bit. I still had no idea what baseline prices were like, I only knew our costs. For all I knew, when Brass Lee sold weed he sold it for $30 a dime. After all, his cost of acquisition might be a lot lower than what he sold to Manny for. I couldn''t worry about that. Our costs were our costs. What I wanted to be selling was not just weed, but primo weed. It didn''t matter whether what we had was actually that good or not. I honestly had no way of knowing, as I didn''t know shit about weed. I suspected, however, that very few other people did either. "50 bucks a dime. It''ll be the best $50 you ever spent." The kid hissed through his teeth, but a second later he pulled out a wallet and extracted a $100 bill and handed it to me. "Two dimes," he said. I dug another dime bag out of my right front pocket and handed both of them to my first customer. The vacuum-packed weed disappeared into the front pocket of his hoodie, he nodded and kept walking to class.
Job Unlocked - Dealer (F) (Shadow)
Requirements Met:
  • Earn $100 selling drugs
Accept this Job?
It was like Manny had said¡ªCorner Boy, the first rank of Dealer, an F rarity Job. I smiled and was about to accept when I had a scary thought. "Manny, I''ve unlocked Dealer. If I take it am I stuck with it forever?" I asked. "What? Hell no, Bro. You can switch whenever. It just means the skills linked to that Job don''t earn anymore. You can evolve some Jobs too, but I don''t know if Dealer is one of those. You have to max it out and then there''s special things you need to do. Evolution is one of those secret things, I don''t know much about it." Secrets! How refreshing. The Internet had basically killed secrets and they were back here in San Tadeo. "Great, thanks," I said, and accepted the Job.
Skill Unlocked - Customer Identification (F) Level 1/5
Every 60 seconds, determine with a 10% success rate if the person you are looking at is a likely customer for what you are selling.
Earned: $0/$500
Skill Unlocked - Fast Count (F) Level 1/7
Quickly count up to $100 cash in your hand with a brief period of concentration.
Earned: $0/$250
Manny stood, slapping me on the back. "Congrats, Bro. You¡¯re a natural. And $50 a dime? Damn. What was all that about it not making you paranoid?" "All part of the sales pitch." "Well shit, good work. Not sure it''s true though. I haven¡¯t smoked any of this, yet. It might be no good." One thing I knew about marketing was that your product didn''t actually need to be good. It needed to be seen as good. Lots of times, that was all about signaling. Via price, packaging, or marketing. If people thought the product was good, they''d excuse any flaws they found with it, because obviously the product was good, everybody said so. We weren¡¯t quite there yet, but I had a suspicion this approach would work for weed as well as it did for everything else. I couldn''t imagine this was unique approach for drug dealers. "It doesn''t matter, you''ll see. I got the Job. I¡¯m a Corner Boy now." I brought up my stat sheet, and there it was.
"Mack" (Walking in the Shadows) Job: None
Age: 18 Height: 5''10 Weight: 157
Stats
Strength: 8
Agility: 9
Dexterity: 11
Constitution: 9
Beauty: 12
Street Cred: 1
Skills Holdings Accounts Resources Favors Reputation Infamy
Nothing about how much it would take to level up though. I concentrated on the Job part of my sheet and another sheet popped open. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.
Dealer (F) Level 1/3
Earned: $0/$10,000
It looked like leveling up my Job would take a while, but it was doable. I wondered what would happen when I finally did level it up. More skills? Stats? Another question for the list. Both of my new skills were at zero dollars earned. I assumed that if I used them to sell some pot, those numbers would tick up. Again, it was one of those rather fuzzy systems. I could definitely envision the existence of skills that wouldn''t be easy to tie to direct income. How did those work? It was like in some tabletop games where you''d only get experience for kills or quests. Healers and other support classed got screwed when they did their jobs. It was a bad design, and I hoped that my new world had a better system. "Congrats, Bro. Just use Customer ID every time it cools down. That cooldown gets shorter as it levels up and the success rate goes up. You''ll see. Fast Count just use it every time somebody pays you. It goes up fast. "Oh, and remember you''re showing your new job title right now. If you want to hide it, you just have to want it, like everything else. I''d hide that shit, Bro." He was right, I didn''t much like the Job title. Maybe the next level title would be cooler. I willed it to go away and felt something change as it did so. I nodded. "I think I''ve got this, Manny. You going to get to class, or stay out here with me and sell?" I could see he was tempted. In his mind, Manny the drug dealer fought Minh the good boy for supremacy. Minh won out this time. "Nah, Bro. I can''t ditch too many days. I''ll come back after school and pick you up." "Thanks, Manny.¡± He pulled me in for a bro-hug and then left me there. A few minutes later he waved as he drove by, and there I was solo on my first outing as a drug dealer. The newly-minted Corner Boy. I continued the approach I''d been using, eyeballing passersby and trying to psychically determine whether they were actually buyers or not. This triggered the Customer ID skill without me even having to think about it. There was no button to press, or phrase to shout. I thought that would be pretty funny, honestly. All these poor students walking by a guy dressed like a crazy weed clown shouting ¡°Customer ID¡± at them over and over. A great video to post, if they¡¯d had that here. Instead the skill just worked seamlessly. I could feel when it fired and when it was on cooldown. I spammed it as often as I could, and it kept failing. I sold four more dime bags to four different customers. I started to notice they had a look. A hungry, appraising look when they saw my t-shirt. Not once did Customer ID trigger successfully. Fast Count, of course, went up quite quickly. The small amounts of money I was dealing with weren''t enough to cause it to fail. My sales approach seemed to work quite well. I just wished I knew if what I was promising them about the weed was true or not. It didn''t seem to matter, but if I was going to continue to sell here, I didn''t want angry customers. I wanted repeat customers. I heard the rumble of an engine and looked out to the street. A beautiful 70s muscle car was driving by. I didn''t recognize it, but it looked to me kind of like a Mustang. It was long and low, with sweeping, muscular curves.
1971 AMC AMX Big Bad Orange AMCJVLN
It was a beautiful, bright orange color. The nameplate said it was Big Bad Orange, and it certainly was that. The tires were fat, and white walled with shining chrome rims. I was so entranced by the car and the sound it made it took me a moment to recognize that both of the men in the car were looking me over as they drove slowly by. The driver was a light skinned black guy with close-cropped hair. I caught a glimpse of gold and lean, muscular arms shown off by his muscle shirt.
"Flattop"
The passenger was a bulkier, darker black guy with a medium sized afro. His face was broad, with a long scar down the left side. He was dressed like Flattop, but I caught the glint of silver around his neck.
"Hondo"
Flattop and Hondo. They were staring at me, but didn''t look hostile. The feeling I got from them was that they were serious guys, but it wasn''t the oppressive, overwhelming presence that Magnus or Big El had. In any case, moments later they stopped looking and the AMX drove away, engine burbling delightfully. I was soon distracted by my next customer, Customer ID succeeding for the very first time. "Hey there, weed? The finest Green Monster. A smooth, mellow high with no paranoia." My first successfully identified customer forked out the $50 quickly and kept walking toward the parking lot. It was weird, I had just looked at him and suddenly was utterly convinced he was interested in buying weed. After the sale I felt a strange sensation, an odd tingling feeling in my head. I pushed the feeling aside when someone spoke. "Not a good idea to sell here, Mack," a voice said to my right. I saw Flattop and Hondo walking from the direction of the parking lot. I tensed, cursing Manny inwardly. Had we somehow missed another set of gang tags? Was I breaking the Rule of Turf, yet again? Now that they were out of the car I could see that Hondo was short, but much bulkier than the lean and wiry Flattop. Around his neck was a thick silver chain and a chunky medallion with the shining red, yellow and green shape of Africa on the front. "Yeah, why is that?" I asked, turning to face them. Both of their hands were in full view, and the Rule of Escalation was running through my head. As much as I wanted to put my hand on the butt of the pistol at the small of my back, I knew it would be an escalation. "Because of the campus pigs. You can only sell here if you pay them and I doubt you have. The second they notice you here, they''re gonna come down on you like a ton of shit," Flattop said. "Yeah, it''s not like they''re going to have to look real hard. Never heard of blending in, white boy?" Hondo asked with a chuckle. When his mouth opened gold flashed in the sunshine. "No turf issue then?" I asked. "This is nobody''s turf. Campus cops won¡¯t let you tag, even if you pay them," Flattop said. "Wait a second. Mack?¡± Honda said, slapping Flattop¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Shit, Flattop. This is Mack. He''s one of those guys pissed in the Hip¡¯s cornflakes. You are, ain¡¯t you?" This was another one of those things that annoyed me. In a game, I would have been forced to pick a unique name. Mack was short enough that I doubted that I was the only one in the world, or even in San Tadeo that had picked it. But somehow, they could use it to ID me? How the hell did that work? "No, I-" I started. Flattop interrupted me, waving his left hand dismissively. "Don''t worry about it. There¡¯s no snitches in the LSS. We¡¯re not going to sell you to those hipster fucks. Just wanted to warn you that it¡¯s not a good place to sell." "Yeah, screw Magnus and his butt boys. He''s got a real hard on for you though," Hondo said, chuckling. "Thanks. What''s the LSS?" I asked. "Lyle Street Soldados. That''s us," Flattop said, indicating him and Hondo. "Represent," Hondo added. "We''re not in the drug game, but we can hook you up with a ride if you need it," Flattop said. "And you got the cash," Hondo added again. "Yeah, cash is important. Anyway, you should go before they notice you''re here. If you need us, you know where to find us." Flattop extended his fist and I dabbed him. Hondo just waved and they walked back toward the parking lot. I wondered how legitimate the warning was. Did I really have to worry about the campus police? They had ignored me so far. I really didn''t want to abandon the spot if I didn''t have to. It didn''t seem like a place to sell with lots of traffic was easy to come by. At least not one that was wasn''t already claimed by some gang or other. I decided to risk it a little while longer. I was a stupid dumb ass. I sold five more dime bags and was feeling good about myself. Customer ID had actually worked another two times, with one of the activations being negative. I''d felt totally certain the dude wasn''t interested. The roll in my pocket was starting to feel thick. I restocked my cargo pockets, leaving the duffel with just a few grams left inside of it. That strange tingling feeling hadn''t gone away, and it was bugging me. An itch at the back of my mind. When I scratched at it, I got a popup.
Fast Count Leveled Up to 2/7
Fast Count had leveled up. That explained the tingling sensation earlier. It was a relief. I never had to worry about the scenario where I leveled up in a fight or something and the popup got me killed. I brought up the skills page, curious to see what it would take to get to the next level.
Customer Identification (F) Level 1/5
Every 60 seconds, determine with a 10% success rate if the person you are looking at is a likely customer for what you are selling.
Earned: $150/$500
Fast Count (F) Level 2/7
Quickly count up to $200 cash in your hand with a brief period of concentration.
Earned: $500/$750
That was interesting. Fast Count''s first level up had been $250 earned, and the next would be an additional $500 earned. The amount needed had doubled. I tried to calculate in my head what that would work out to at the end and failed. I wasn''t one of those guys that could do complex math in their heads without even a pen and paper. I''d have to work it out later. It was time to return to work. Flattop''s warning was still in the front of my mind. The campus cop cars still drove by occasionally and the cops driving were still ignoring me. I had just begun to relax a bit when the trap closed around me. One of the steel doors in the wall to my left opened loudly. I looked over to see a cop in a campus police uniform walking toward me. His eyes were hidden behind mirrored aviator sunglasses like he was a refugee from a 70s cop show. "Hey, what you doing there?" he shouted. Shit, time to leave. I turned and began speed walking in the opposite direction. Toward the parking lot, and away from the campus. I didn''t have anywhere particular to go, just away. I heard the crunch of gravel as the cop broke into a run behind me, so I did the same. The mostly empty duffel flapped against me and the sandals were terrible for running. Still, I poured it on as hard as I could. I could hear the cop gaining on me. It didn''t matter, because I¡¯d just reached the end of the walkway before the parking lot started when a second campus cop stepped out from behind the building and snatched me off my feet. He pivoted and slammed me back-first into the hard concrete wall, knocking the breath out of me. The holstered gun in the small of my back dug deeply and hurt like hell. I wheezed, trying to catch my breath. The one that had slammed me pinned me to the wall and kept me from collapsing. I IDed him as I struggled for breath.
Wayne Garman, Rookie (E2), Mesotonic College Police Department
The first cop thundered up a second later and then they were both right in my face. "You''ve been selling weed in my territory, scrub. I don''t know you. You haven''t paid me my tax." The first cop said. His nameplate appeared without me thinking much about it.
Robert Cardry, Patrolman (E3), Mesotonic College Police Department
I struggled to speak, and finally coughed out. "I''ll pay, I''m sorry." "No, that''s too late. You''ve disrespected Wayne and I. I''m not sure we''re ready to forgive you for that just yet." "Let''s see what he has, shall we?" Wayne said. They found my roll first. Wayne pulled the kitty bag from my shoulders. He unzipped it and looked inside. "Three little dimes, all neatly packed. We''ll take these," he said. "Roll¡¯s a little light," Rob said, holding it in his hand. "Let''s see what else he¡¯s got. Pat him down," Rob said. I knew they''d find the gun. Each of them was armed, and they were even wearing body armor. I didn''t want to escalate, especially not with cops. Not even bullshit pretend cops like the ones that work for college campuses. I really didn''t want to lose my gun the first day I had it, and my pockets were full of weed. Time for a desperation move. I hunched over, retching. One of my hidden talents was the ability to fake vomiting very convincingly. Wayne obviously had had a lot of people vomit on him, because he immediately let go and shoved me away. I launched off the wall, snatching my bankroll out of Rob''s left hand as I smashed my shoulder into Wayne and sent him stumbling backward. Instead of running like an idiot toward a parking lot where I had no escape, this time I ran straight into traffic. On the other side of the busy four lane street there were houses. Fences, yards and alleys. Plenty of places to hide. It was more luck than skill that kept me from being pancaked by oncoming traffic. Some kid driving a Civic locked up his brakes to avoid smashing into me, and I weaved, not even pausing. A moment later I was on the other side of the road, with a slight lead on the cops chasing me. Unlike me, they had a sense of self-preservation and didn''t just run blindly into heavy traffic. I was on the front lawn of a house, a small California bungalow. I stuffed my roll into my front pocket and kept running. There was a gate leading into the backyard. I slammed into it and scrambled over, not having time to find a latch. I landed on the other side, grateful not to twist my ankle. Behind me I heard a siren and the roar of a revving engine. One of them had started up the squad car I¡¯d missed and peeled off to intercept me. I didn¡¯t stop running. The yard was a small, well-groomed square of grass. The wooden gate behind me shuddered as the chasing cop slammed into it and fumbled for the latch. I dashed across the grass and scrambled over the next fence and into the alley. With no idea where I was, I had to choose a direction randomly. Left it was. I bolted and then turned right into the first yard. The fence here in the back was low, and I hopped it without issue. It was a bigger yard than the last, full of landscaped shrubbery and flowerbeds. On one side of the yard hedges took the place of the fence with the neighbor, thick and bushy. I saw my opportunity and I took it. I sprinted across the yard and dove into a slight gap in the greenery. I wormed my way through, branches poking me and scratching. A branch hooked the straps of a sandal and I was struggling to free it when I heard noise at the fence that I''d hopped. I stopped moving, willing the branches to stop quivering. Rob stalked into the yard, looking around. His eyes behind the mirrored lenses passed right over me, hidden in the deep green of the bush. I knew he couldn''t see me, but it felt like he should be able to. He was looking right at me. After a long moment he looked away, and jogged towards the front of the yard. He muttered something into the mic on his left lapel. As soon as he wasn''t looking, I tried to will myself back into the light. Nothing happened and I felt some resistance. I kept trying, pushing against it until finally a minute or two later the resistance gave way and I slid back into the light. I took off the chain and stashed it in one of my cargo pockets, extracting myself from the hedge. I made my way to the street, walking slowly and carefully. I headed back toward the college a few blocks over. I''d only been walking a minute or two when Rob and Wayne drove past me. Their eyes skipped right over me, failing to associate Frank and Mack. I almost gibbered in relief. Since it was still fairly early and I didn''t dare return to my spot, it was time to take the bus once again. 1.12 - At Loose Ends Since the technical college was nearby, it was easy to find a sizable bus terminal, and a bus headed in roughly the direction I wanted to go. Five minutes later that bus showed up and I got on, flashing my pass. It wasn''t as bad as my previous trips had been, as the bus was mostly students and not jammed to the rafters. A group of friends chatted happily to each other at the back of the bus, talking about their classes and the girls they liked. That life seemed so far away. Back in LA, that would''ve been me, in a year or so. I drifted off into daydreams, reminiscing about my previous life and thinking about the new one I was starting. Because of that, I almost missed my stop. The driver was just pulling away when I noticed where I was and bolted to my feet, running for the door. He stopped and opened the door for me. "Thanks," I yelled as I dashed outside. The stop wasn''t right by the library, so I had a short walk ahead. I was in Maywood again. In my previous life, libraries weren''t places I spent a lot of time in. I could get anything I needed online, so why come to a library? If I wanted a book, I could buy that online too. I walked a few blocks and realized I was dying of thirst. The sun wasn''t hot, but I hadn''t had anything to drink since breakfast. I spotted a little convenience store, a family-run joint simply called corner convenience. At the front door I realized that I didn''t actually want to go in. My gut was clenching, as I remembered the last time I''d been in store like this. It hadn¡¯t ended well. The presence of the gun in the small my back was a comfort, if a small one. I still didn''t know how to use it, and probably wouldn''t hit anything I shot at. That''s assuming I could even figure out how to get it ready to fire. Sure, theoretically I knew that I needed to chamber a bullet and make sure the safety was off. I just hadn''t ever actually done that. I swallowed the irrational fear and pushed my way inside. An electronic bell rung as I opened the door. I relaxed when I saw that the shop was nothing like Mr. Kim''s. A young blonde dude looked up from his magazine behind the counter, his long surfer hair tied back in a ponytail. He looked me over once, grinning slyly at my bright green and yellow shirt. "Nice shirt," he called out. I nodded at him and went to the coolers. I picked something in a 16oz bottle that looked like it might be what I wanted and returned to the counter. All of the brands were unfamiliar, so every drink was a new gamble. I put the bottle on the counter and Surfer Dude rung me up. Without even thinking about it¡ªit had become second nature now¡ªI used customer ID, and it succeeded. This guy definitely wanted some weed. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. He confirmed it for me a moment later. "One dollar. Hey bro, you cool?" I handed him a $10 bill. "Can I get some quarters in my change?" I hadn''t answered his question because I wasn''t quite sure what he meant. Was I cool? Was yes the right answer there? Combined with him pinging as a weed customer, I thought that probably meant he was asking me if I smoked marijuana. I was tempted to sell to him, but it didn''t seem like a good idea. I was walking in the light, after all. "Sure, here¡¯s your change," he said and handed me four quarters and some bills. It was the only coinage I''d seen so far. Most prices so far had been in neat one dollar increments. There was no need for a $0.99 coin in this world. I took my drink and left the store. Directly outside on the corner was a blacked out phone booth. I needed to call Manny. It was still early, but I was hoping this would work. I entered the phone booth and dropped a quarter to make my call. With Manny¡¯s card in my left hand, I dialed with my right and it began ringing. "Hello?" A voice answered. I thought I recognized the voice as Manny''s mom. "Hi, is Minh home?" I asked. "Minh''s at school. Who is this?" she asked. "Hi, this is Frank. Can you tell him to meet me at the Maywood Library after school?" I asked. "I can tell him. You tell me, Frank. Why you not in school? It school day.¡± Her English was a bit rough, but I could understand her just fine. "Yeah, I''m out of school for the rest of the year since my dad died." She made a sympathetic noise. "I not know, you poor boy. You come over soon. I make you food." That felt good. "Thank you, I will. Goodbye.¡± "Goodbye Frank," she said, and I hung up. I hoped that Manny would get the message before he got in his car and started driving to where I had been. I was feeling a bit of time pressure. I had sold a fair bit that day, but my encounter with the cops had really short-circuited my plans. At the rate I had been selling I felt like I could have sold the full ounce. That would put us well on our way to paying off Lee. I reached out to open the phone booth door and return to the street when a thought hit me. There was no point leaving money on the table. I returned the chain to my neck and willed myself back into the shadows. I entered the store again, the bing of the bell announcing me. Surfer Dude looked up and gave me the same sly grin as he saw my shirt. No compliments that time. It made sense, in a world where all the criminals walked in shadow, you wanted to make sure you were extra polite to those people. Just in case. The store was empty, and even if it hadn''t been I''m not sure I would''ve beaten around the bush. I walked straight up to the counter. "Can I help you?" He asked. There was no trace of the informal jollity he''d given me when I''d been in the light. "You want to buy some weed? Green monster, the best shit. A smooth mellow high with no paranoia." I was still working on my pitch, but some combination of that approach seemed to work fairly well. His eyes widened, and he looked around the empty store. "Shit, how''d you know? I was just thinking I''d love to get high. How much?" I pulled out one of the dimes and held it up, the dark green and purple bud within the vacuum sealed plastic catching his eye immediately. "Fifty bucks a dime," I said. "Damn, that''s a lot." I started to lower my hand and put the weed away. "Hold on, hold on. Fine, this better be good shit. That¡¯s almost twice what I normally pay." He cracked open the till, and pulled $50 out in fives and tens and handed it over. I gave him the weed and he made it disappear underneath the counter. "Enjoy," I said, and left the building behind a little richer. 1.13 - The Karmic Mirror The Maywood library was a tranquil oasis, away from the noise of traffic and the bright sun. As I entered the front doors, the distinct smell of books hit me. That smell was something unique to libraries and bookstores. It was paper, binding, and whatever other magic it was that made books so enchanting. I breathed in deeply. This trip wasn''t just to kill time, although there was a definite aspect of that to it. No, I had a goal in mind. I spotted the librarian who¡¯d called me out for my stench the previous time, Helen Barton. She was shelving books off a cart. I approached her. "Excuse me," I said. She looked up, taking in my outfit but not commenting, or even seeming to react at all. I was impressed. "Can I help you?" she asked. "Yes. I''m looking for a book explaining the world system. You know, the blue boxes, the stats and all of that. Can you help me find something?" "The Karmic Mirror, by James Sutherland. I''m fairly certain that it is on the grade 8 curriculum for all California schools, and has been for many years. Did you not read it?" "Right, The Karmic Mirror. I remember now. Can you tell me where to find it?" I asked. "You''ll find it in the Practical Philosophy section, under the author. You do know the Dewey decimal system?" she asked. It had been a while, but I thought I''d be able to figure it out. I nodded. "Then enjoy. Let me know if you need recommendations on any other books in that category. The Karmic Mirror is an introductory text for children, so it might not be of much use to you." I thanked her and wandered around the library until I found the philosophy section, and the Practical Philosophy sub-section. The name struck me as funny. If there was anything philosophy couldn''t be accused of, it would be practicality. I guess when the very nature of your world was visible on blue screens in front of you, it was possible for philosophy to be a practical art. I found the book easily enough. There were a few copies, all in hardcover. The author had some other books that looked like they touched on related subjects, and I made a note to check them out later. I pulled the book and went to find a chair read in. The library was quite empty at this time of day, so there was plenty choose from. I chose a quiet corner in a comfortable looking chair and sat down to read.
The Karmic Mirror by James Sutherland Value: ???
The book was old, the spine creaking and nearly broken. The pages were just starting to yellow. I looked and saw that the first printing had been in 1947. I wondered if Sutherland had coined the name or not. The Karmic Mirror, that strange disconnect between our Light and Shadow selves. Why it was called that, I wasn''t quite sure. According to his bio, James Sutherland was a philosopher, and presumably had a good reason to mention karma. What that reason was I didn''t find while I skimmed the heavy text. I looked to the index and found the first section I was interested in, the one on stats.
The numbers we see on our soul display are subject of much contention¡ªor were in the recent past. Take strength, for instance. How can strength be quantified with a number, many have asked? Is it merely the amount a man can lift over his head? What about farmers who are able to carry heavy loads over long distances, how is their strength reflected? The answer is fairly, and well. Whatever being is behind our soul display, call them God, Supreme Being or Gaia¡ªin all things they are fair. As a hypothetical exercise we can put two men with the same strength side by side, an accomplished athlete and a hardened manual laborer. The laborer may not be able to lift the same amount of weight as the athlete. In point of fact, the two men may have vastly different capabilities. The number is merely an approximation, a judgment of a man''s overall strength. This is the same for all of the other scores seen on our soul display. Do not think of them as hard measurements of a limited set of metrics, although behind the veil they may actually be that. No, instead think of them as the fair and impartial judgment of a loving God.
It was interesting to see the author bring God into it. Like LA, religion wasn''t very visible in San Tadeo. I mean, sure, there were churches everywhere but it was like they weren''t trying to stand out. Some of them were really quite hard to spot. European-style cathedrals weren¡¯t something you tended to see in Los Angeles. Religion was just out of fashion in my old city, and it was here as well. I wasn''t religious, but since I had died once and was still kicking, strict atheism seemed to be off the table. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. There was always a possibility that I was in a coma back in Los Angeles having a fantastic dream. If I woke up, would I remember the life I''d led here in San Tadeo? I''d have to cross that bridge if and when I came to it. The rest of the section on stats was pretty similar. Mr. Sutherland made a few other analogies about Dexterity and Constitution. The next bit was what I''d been looking for, however. The practical part of his practical philosophy tome.
One thing that all experts are certain of, however, is that as one''s physical capabilities grow, the numbers on one''s soul display increase, reflecting the improvements in body and skill. One study shows that for 77% of participants, a 3 to 4 times weekly regimen of calisthenics and weightlifting improved Constitution, Strength, Agility and in some rare cases even Dexterity. These gains were as much as three points over the course of the study. The outlying stat, Beauty, was not shown to be improved measurably by simple athletic training.
The studies he was referencing were footnoted, but as the book would was published in 1947, I expected there was probably more modern research that I could consult. My big take away was that if I started hitting the gym and training hard, I could increase my stats. Now, back in real life I probably could''ve done the same thing. If I¡¯d spent the time, I could have hit the gym and got buff. For a very obvious reason, it was much more appealing now that I knew I''d be able to see the numbers go up. Yet another thing to put on my TODO list. I''d seen a few gyms around town and I¡¯d have to find a good time to go. The next section was on mental stats, or rather, the lack of them on our soul display.
Many philosophers, myself included, have speculated as to the reason only raw physical attributes are reflected on our soul display. After all, is not our intellect the greatest gift God has given us? Why would it not be reflected in our soul? The answers are widely diverse with little agreement. The most popular opinion as of the time of writing is that mental stats are not reflected because they are largely immutable. There are no cases in recorded history of a man becoming more intelligent. Contrary to popular belief, going to school and obtaining an education does not accomplish this goal. Instead, it makes a man educated, but not more intelligent. Other mental attributes that are speculated to exist, such as wisdom, or perception, also may be thought of as immutable.
There were more footnotes sprinkled on this page, I assumed pointing to other tomes with different opinions. The next thing I was curious about was why skills and jobs needed money to advance. Specifically, they needed American dollars. The question was, why? Why not pesos or yen? The answer to that question was a bit weaselly but boiled down to the author didn¡¯t know. That was just the way it always had been. Depending on where you were, the currency would change.
One of the great social inequities of our world is the reliance on money to advance in our professions and skills. Without money earned either directly or with one degree of indirection, skills and jobs will not advance. That in itself seems unfair to many. The real injustice in my opinion, however, is the raw advantage the rich have over the poor when it comes to advancing skills. Sacrificing currency to advance skills, even at a ratio of five, ten or even fifteen to one is manifestly unjust and contributes greatly to the inequity in the world''s societies. In a fallen world such as ours, where the wealthy are inherently powerful this direct contribution to their power is unjust in the extreme.
That bit caught my attention. Sacrificing currency wasn''t footnoted, so I flipped to the index until I found an entry under sacrificing. It was only a few pages away from what I''d already read, and I flipped back to it.
Those skills that are difficult to associate earnings with directly, or with one degree of indirection, God has provided us with the ability to sacrifice currency directly and have it credited toward our advancement. To achieve this, one only needs to hold the money to be sacrificed in a hand and focus one¡¯s will on the intent to sacrifice to a specific skill. This is complicated by the conversion ratio, which varies depending upon the rarity of skills. As an example, an F ranked skill will convert at a ratio of 5 to 1. For every dollar of advancement five dollars must be sacrificed. Higher rarity skills have higher conversion ratios. Due to the secretive nature of people in our fallen world, this tome cannot provide comprehensive data on skill rarities and their associated ratios.
I set the book down on my lap. The world I''d landed in was Pay to Win, almost literally. Cash converted directly into experience when you earned it using your skill, but if you were rich you could simply use your excess money to level up. What that said to me, loud and clear, was fear rich people. Here, even more than I might have back in LA. There they might be able to have their goons beat you up or their lawyers sue you into bankruptcy. Here, the rich might be the equivalent of superheroes. What kind of skills did a high-level movie producer have? A skill that got starlets to want to bang you? I hoped to never find out personally. I had to try out the sacrifice. There was no way I couldn''t. I pulled out my roll and looked around to make sure no one was watching. For this experiment I found a bill I was willing to part with. $20. I put the rest back in my pocket and held the twenty in my hand. The book¡¯s instructions were vague¡ªsimply will it to happen, keeping the notion of sacrifice and the skill in mind. For this test, I chose my Customer Identification skill. Fast count was going up on its own, and with the small amounts I was handling it was already better than I needed. I checked the Earned number, leaving the skill display open for the experiment.
Customer Identification (F) Level 1/5
Every 60 seconds, determine with a 10% success rate if the person you are looking at is a likely customer for what you are selling.
Earned: $200.00/$500.00
I stared at the bill and focused intently. It was harder than you¡¯d think to keep that specific of an intent in mind, and my results showed that. Nothing happened for a long second, two, three and five. Finally something clicked and with a flash of green fire, the bill in my hand combusted without heat. It disappeared and left nothing behind, not even ash. I watched the earned number tick upward to $204.00/$500.00. I had spent $20 to gain $4 earned. Pay to Win, bitches. 1.14 - The Old Man and The Tag The rest of The Karmic Mirror was pretty unexciting. It was a lot of history and background, with the practical part being fairly minimal. Still, I''d learned some valuable stuff. The other tidbit I got out of the book was that Jobs and skills used the same rarity system, and that Mr. Sutherland was fairly certain that the highest rarity was A. He noted that there were rumors of tiers of rarity beyond that, but that he could not speculate on what they were. There had been a lot of that in the book, actually. Talk about how things were unknown, or secret. The book didn''t even mention specific examples of skills or jobs. That was another thing to put on the list to research. Was San Tadeo full of secret societies and sects, all of them hording hidden knowledge from the masses? Were there rare versions of light side classes that you could only get by going to the right university or joining the right fraternity? If I went into a hospital, would I see a Doctor showing "Elite Doctor (A1)" as their job? What I really needed was someone, a native, that I could just talk to and ask these questions. I stood up and walked back towards Practical Philosophy. My plan was to return the book and try to find something more recent, and maybe wring out a few more practical details. That plan was derailed by three young guys sitting at a table nearby. They looked like high schoolers, or first year university students. They were quietly talking, laughing, and ignoring the table full of open books in front of them. Reflexively, I used Customer ID, and to my great surprise it succeeded again. One of the three pinged as a customer. I set The Karmic Mirror down and started to walk towards the trio. I''d only got a few steps before an old man stepped in front of me. He blocked my way entirely and looked directly into my eyes. "You don''t want to do that in here, Mack," he said. I recognized the man. He had long gray hair and a thick but neatly groomed beard. His skin was like old mahogany, setting off his bright blue eyes.
"Old Pete"
Unlike the last time, this time I could see his name, since we were both in shadows. The homeless guy that had been talking to his gaming group. "Sorry, do what? Who are you?" I asked. He smiled, showing me bright white teeth with a few gaps where some had gone missing. "You know who I am, I felt you ID me. You also know what I''m talking about. I''ve seen that look in a young man''s eye before¡ªyou¡¯ve spotted a customer. It doesn''t take Sherlock Holmes level skills for me to figure out what you''re selling, either," Old Pete said. So many questions popped into my mind. He claimed that he felt me ID him. If that was true, then there was a skill, and me just randomly IDing people all the time might offend someone. Great, another thing to worry about. He''d been spot on about what I was doing, also. He was right, it didn''t take a lot of brains to deduce that the guy dressed like a marijuana clown might be selling marijuana. That was kind of the point, after all. "You got me, why not?" "You young guys always think the rules don''t apply to you; I know. I was you once. But they do, and neutral territory is an important one. Believe me, it''s not worth it. More importantly, you wouldn''t have got away with it. Look over my right shoulder." I did, and saw a middle-aged woman loitering at the end of one of the stacks, pretending to be busy. She was dressed in a long green skirt and blouse and her grey hair was up in a bun.
Janice Blythe, Junior Librarian (E2)
The nameplate was overkill, as almost anyone could tell from looking at her that she was a librarian. Why they all dressed in that same style, I couldn''t tell you. It might as well have been a uniform. Maybe that was the reason they wore it. "Janice over there has been watching you. The second she saw you sell you¡¯d be out the door and barred. I would not have held it against you, but others in the shadows might. The ladies that run this place are kind and forgiving of our lifestyles. They don''t have to be, and people abusing neutral ground can spoil this place for all of us." "The tragedy of the commons," I said. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. He smiled again. "Exactly right." "I didn''t know about the neutral territory thing," I said. "I''m new. I''m just having a hell of a time finding somewhere to sell. Everywhere has either got cops, or it''s some gang''s territory." "Ah, The life of young gangster. I''m glad that''s far behind me. Listen, why don''t you come sit down with me and we can chat. I know Janice will feel better. She has real work to do, and it''s not her job to watch you." I didn''t know Old Pete, and he didn''t know me. We could see each other''s names, but that was it. Maybe he was just the guy I needed. Someone I could be honest with, and not have to worry about that honesty impacting my new life here. What was he going to do, report me to the authorities for thinking I''d come from another world? Not that I was planning to tell him that, but I needed to ask someone a lot of stupid questions. Maybe he was the one to answer them. "Yeah, that sounds good," I replied. He led us to a small table with two comfy chairs, and Janice bustled off as soon as she saw old Pete take me in tow. "The librarians know you here, do they?" "I''ve been coming here for many years. The ladies trust me, and I do my best to maintain that trust." "Last time I was here I saw you; you were with a few other people. I overheard you talking about a game." "Did you? I would swear I''d never laid eyes on you before." I simply shrugged. I didn''t know what admitting that I''d been in the light at the time would do. Would that be enough to shatter the mirror? I didn''t think so but doing so didn''t seem wise. "Yes, I do run a group here. It''s my own system, a homebrew mix. Magic, orcs, elves, goblins that sort of thing. Do you play?" "I used to play D&D," I offered. "DND? I don''t know it," he said. "Dungeons & Dragons? Really?" "It sounds interesting. It must be new. I haven''t been into a game store in several years." I wrote that off as yet another difference between our worlds and didn''t push it. "You said that you¡¯re glad you don''t have to worry about stuff like territory anymore. That means you used to be a gangster?" I asked. "Long ago I was in the game. I''ve been retired for some years now." "Can you give me any tips? I need a place to sell that where I won''t get hassled." "Claimed territory is easy to avoid. Just look for the tags, and don''t sell there. It might seem like the whole city is claimed but trust me it is not. There are many spots the gangs have left fallow. They simply couldn¡¯t afford to claim the whole city." I thought about what he said. I couldn''t remember not seeing graffiti anywhere, except places like the college where they had armed security and maintenance crews painting over the graffiti. And what did he mean about not being able to afford it? Paint wasn''t that expensive. "That doesn''t make any sense. There are tags everywhere. How am I supposed to tell when it''s a gang tag, and when it was just some dipshit making a mess with a spray can?" "You really are new. A territory marker isn''t just paint, Mack. Paint is only one of the ways to mark your territory. Whatever marker is chosen, it needs to be imbued with the essence of the gang. If that essence has faded, the territorial claim is no longer valid." I boggled. More magic in my extensively technological game world. "Hold on, you''re saying that when they tag there''s some kind of magic energy in the paint? I''ve seen gang tags, they don''t glow or look like anything special. It''s just paint." "Kids these days, woefully uneducated. We are literally surrounded by knowledge of the world. Come with me." Old Pete stood up, and without checking to see if I was following him strode into the stacks. I blinked and hustled after him. Pete knew this library like the back of his hand and took me directly where he wanted to go. That was a small shelf of books with the title Urban Culture. He scanned the shelves, running his finger along the spines, muttering to himself. "Drat, it''s not here. There''s a better text, but this one will do you for now." He pulled a book free and handed it to me. A fairly thick hardcover, it was obviously a lot newer than The Karmic Mirror.
Tags and their significance in urban society by Lionel Washington Value: ???
"Read that. Take notes. Detailed notes. Read it like you''re taking a test on it, got me?" "Yeah. But why? Also, I haven''t got a notepad or anything." "This will help solve your problem. Read it, understand it, be able to take a test on it. The next time I see you, I might be able to help you further." He hadn''t really answered my question, at least not directly. I didn''t usually read non-fiction, but if he was right and it would help me figure out gang tags, I''d try it. "I''ve got to leave. Take this," Pete said, and handed over a mostly-used yellow legal notepad and a cheap blue pen. "Thanks," I said. "We meet here every Tuesday and Thursday night to play. I''m usually here a couple hours early to prepare. Feel free to come by and say hello. Good luck, kid." With that, he left me. I found a spot at a study desk and sat down. It had been a while since I''d studied intensely, but it came back to me quickly. The book was more interesting than I expected and time passed quickly as I read it closely and took notes, filling quite a few sheets of yellow lined paper. I was about three quarters of the way through the book, fully in the zone, when a pop-up interrupted me.
Skill Unlocked - Sense Territory Markers (E) Level 1/3
Allows you to sense if something is being used as a territory claim marker. With 30 seconds of concentration, the name of the claiming organization is known.
Earned: $0/$1,000
1.15 - The search for a new spot I had unlocked a skill while reading a book. Not some magical skill book either¡ªan ordinary book. There hadn''t been some magical upload of knowledge that I''d noticed. I''d read, taken notes and the system had rewarded me with a useful, tangible skill. It looked like earning with it was going to be a bitch since it wasn''t directly related to making money, but at least now Manny and I would be able to find territory that wasn''t claimed. It was at that moment that Manny found me and I realized how much time had passed. The clock on the wall said it was a little after five¡ªwell after school let out. "Hey, there you are," Manny said. "What are you doing here? Why weren''t you at the college? I went there and couldn''t find you. When I got home, Mom told me you called. What happened?" I explained to him briefly what happened. The sales, the confrontation with the campus cops, and my escape. "They kept the bag. There were only three dimes left in it, so all good." "Not exactly, Homes. If that spot doesn''t work, where are we going to sell?" "I think I can do something about that. Let''s go and I''ll show you." Manny grumbled, but followed me as we went to leave. Beside the checkout desk was a table full of old paperbacks the library was selling off. Every book was a dollar. "Hold up a second," I said, and glanced over the table. It was fiction of all sorts, but it was the sci-fi section that caught my eye. The paperbacks were worn from reading, but the covers were still bright and interesting. I found one with a promising-looking starship on the cover and handed a single to the librarian assistant manning the checkout desk. She was young and pretty, probably a university student, and smiled at me before going back to the senior citizen she was helping. We left the quiet calm of the library and emerged into the bright afternoon sunshine. Traffic was beginning to pick up even here in Maywood and Manny was parked down the block. "Can I see?" Manny asked. I handed him the paperback and he looked it over. "Looks cool," he said, and handed it back. "I need something to read at nights, it''s pretty dull at my Uncle''s. Not that I get much time to read, it''s lights out at nine." "What, he like literally turns off your bedroom lights at nine?" "Yeah. I''ve been busy enough that it hasn''t been that big a deal, but it sucks. I''ve got to find a better place to live." "No doubt, Bro. I''d invite you to stay with us, but our house is small and we''re pretty packed in already." "I know. Thanks anyway, man. I''ll figure it out." The paperback was the right size, so I slid it into one of the big pockets of my cargo shorts. Without the Internet and a smartphone, I had to return to the old-school ways to entertain myself. So far, my life as a drug dealer had been far too PG-13. I resolved to correct that as soon as I could. The wad of cash in my pocket felt like a good start. Five minutes later we were back on the road. I''d been giving where to find a spot some serious thought. If we were a gang like the Lyle Street Soldados, our territory might be our block. Somewhere nearby. But we weren''t in a gang and couldn''t claim territory. Setting up somewhere like the technical college would be fine if it weren''t for the fact that they had cops, a little gang of their own, to keep us away. If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. The other high-traffic spots in California were malls, and I knew they wouldn''t work either. Mall cops. No, what we needed was somewhere without its own security, and without gangs. I told Manny about my new skill and my plan to find unclaimed territory. "Let me get this straight. Some old, homeless guy in the library told you to read this book, and you just sat right down and did what he told you?" Manny asked, his voice a bit incredulous. "He was trying to help me out. Pete''s a nice guy. This skill is going to be gold for us, Manny." "Yeah, maybe. I mean, I''ve read about getting skills from books, but it never happened to me. You sure that book wasn''t special?" "I don''t think so. Hey, turn in here," I said, and pointed to a side street. Manny pulled off into a quiet residential area, slowing down. "Here? We need foot traffic, bro." "I know, just keep looking." Manny was right. I wasn''t expecting to find a good spot to sell in this neighborhood. Sure, if we found something, great. What I was doing was trying out my new skill. I was looking at every piece of graffiti and trying to get it to trigger. Finally, after looking at dozens of tags one felt different. "Stop," I instructed. There was a parking spot nearby and Manny pulled right in and put the Regal into park. I jumped out and walked over to the tag on the sidewalk that had caught my attention. I focused on it, and a moment later Manny was standing beside me looking down at it as well. "What, this? It looks just like random squiggles." I nodded, not speaking. I was keeping my concentration on the tag, hoping for something more than the vague feeling of difference it was giving me. My concentration kept lapsing, but finally, after what must''ve been almost two minutes, the skill clicked. Information appeared in front of me.
Territory Claim Marker Charlos Close Blades
"Yep, it''s a marker. Charlos Close Blades." "Shit, Bro. Blades territory? Let''s bounce." We hopped back in the Regal and Manny roared off, leaving the tag behind. "You know those guys? The Blades?" "That one in particular? Nah. The Blades are big time. We don''t want to fuck with them. There are hundreds of Blades cliques in San Tadeo, they''re all over Cali." "Like the Crips and Bloods?" I asked. "Who? Never heard of them." I let that rest for a minute. I didn''t know whether to be relieved or annoyed that even the gang names weren''t the same. I had to know, so I asked. "I forget, who are their big rivals again? Which one wears blue, and which one is red?" "Blades are red, of course. Gats are blue." The Blades and the Gats, red and blue just like back home. Good to know. I was happy that my new skill worked, even if it was a bit slow to give details. We still didn''t have a place to sell, and we needed to find one. Brass Lee wasn''t going to pay himself. "Slow down again, Manny. We''ve got to find a good spot that''s not claimed, I''ve got to be able to see the tags." Manny slowed down but kept driving. There were two more Blades tags before we left their small territory behind a couple blocks later. "You know, I bet if I get the right skill, we can claim our own territory. If we can find somewhere good to sell, we can claim it." "Nah, bro. Only gangs can make a claim, and we''re not one." I thought about that, but it didn''t make sense. "What do you mean? If we call ourselves a gang then we''re a gang. What, do you think we have to go to City Hall and get a permit?" "Nah, it''s not like that. Anyway, I don''t want to be in a gang. Hell, after Magnus I''m not sure I even want to be doing this anymore. You know that." I did and it worried me. If my only friend was going to bail out and leave me alone in this racket, that was intimidating. It felt wrong and cynical to think of Manny like that. To think of him as just a necessary cog in this organization I was building, but he was. At least for now. I needed to make some more friends. How did one go about making their own gang, anyway? I was about to ask Manny for more details on what the magical process for forming a gang was when I saw flash of green down the cross street to our left, a park. "Hold on, go down there," I said. Manny turned left and drove slowly while I looked for tags. There was no shortage of spray paint, but none of them gave me that special feeling. Moments later we were at the park, and it was pretty sad. The grass was patchy, more brown than green. A few trees gave shade here and there. In the center stood a steel swingset with one broken swing, one of those spinning carousel things for kids, and a dangerous-looking dome-shaped monkey bars that I thought had all disappeared in the 80s or 90s. Underneath the dome the ground was littered with trash¡ªdozens of beer bottles and discarded wrappers. The park was completely deserted. Crisscrossing the park were dirt trails, many feet having worn through the grass down to the bare earth. Paths of necessity. "Right here, Manny." "What, the park? There''s nobody here, bro." "There isn''t right now, but I bet there will be. Let''s do this," I said. 1.16 - Teens Gone Wild We set up on the corner under the largest tree. There was a comfy bench and from there we could see the park and all four cross streets. For the first thirty minutes, I felt like an idiot. Manny and I''d set up here, and we''d seen only a few people walking their dogs, returning home from work or whatever else it was they were doing. None of them pinged as customers to either of us, and we just sat there, ignored. Manny''s grumbling was getting a little louder when the first group of teens came into the park. There were only three of them¡ªtwo guys and a girl. They looked about our age, either in high school or just out of it. The girl was pretty, a slim white girl with long black hair and a dazzling smile. The two guys both looked pretty average, although one of them stood out by virtue of having added a purple streak to his blond hair. The other guy was just pretty unremarkable, only standing out because of a slightly surly expression on his face. They sat in the grass near the monkey bars, and broke out beers to start drinking. Both of the guys looked our way but they didn''t say anything. "Now what? This was your idea, Bro," Manny reminded me. "Let''s just try to use customer ID on them." Manny and I sat there spamming our terrible Customer Identification skill, trying to get it to work for a few minutes. "The kid with the purple hair isn''t interested," Manny reported. I''d been alternating my ID attempts between the group of three kids and the occasional person wandering by. I''d been failing over and over. I was about to go back to to straight up guessing and cold sales when I finally had a success. The girl with the long, black hair wanted some weed. "Girl''s a customer. Stay here and I''ll sell," I said to Manny. He nodded. I walked across the park, trying to seem non-threatening. I knew I had a head start on that since I was dressed like a weed clown and all. Even so, I was in the shadows so I couldn''t be sure how they''d react. As soon as I was within range I identified all three of them. The surly looking kid and the girl were related. Brother and sister?
"Juliette Louis", Student (F2)
"Harnett Louis", Student (F2)
Harnett and Juliette had both ranked up their student Jobs. I doubted you could earn much money as a student, so did that mean they had rich families? The kid with the purple streak in his hair was the odd man out, both with his Job level and not being a part of the family.
"Jason Dean", Learner (F1)
Their conversation stopped as they say me approaching. I made a point of not hurrying, relishing the awkwardness for some reason. When I got within fifteen feet, Harnett spoke up, his surly expression mostly under control. "What''s up, dude?" he asked, his voice polite, but firm. "Not much. I''m just here to sell some weed. It''s called green monster, and it''s fine. A smooth, mellow high with no paranoia. How much can I get for you guys?" Juliette squealed in delight. "Oh, I was so wanting to get high! Beer just doesn''t do it for me, you know that, Harnett." "Jules, you know you get stupid when you smoke." The kid with the purple hair, Jason, had been closely watching this exchange and spoke up. "How much for the weed?" "Fifty bucks a dime," I quoted. Harnett scoffed. "That''s ridiculous." "Come on, Harnett! I want to smoke. I''ve got papers in here," she said, patting the fashionable little purse on the grass next to her. "Please, Harnett? I didn''t bring any cash." Harnett was shaking his head, standing firm against his sister''s whining. "No, it''s way overpriced. If you want we can get some tomorrow from my regular guy." "But I want it now," she whined. It didn''t work on Harnett, but Jason was ready to help. "I''ll get us some weed, Jules." She squealed in joy and pounced on him, hugging him close. He smiled and looked a bit dazed. After she calmed and let him go, Jason turned to me. "Two bags, please." When he pulled out his wallet I was surprised to see just how much cash was in it. He pulled two fifty dollar bills free and barely made a dent in that stack. I took them from his hand and gave him two little vacuum packs. "Pleasure doing business with you. We''ll be here a while, and we''ll be back tomorrow. If you want some more, you know where to find us. Enjoy," I said. The next few hours were a blur. More and more teenagers came into the park in groups of two to four. They formed a rough ring around the monkey bars. They''d laugh, drink beer and toss the empties into the center. People would flit from group to group, talking. As the teenagers flooded in, so did our customers. That first group of three was our best advertisement. The strong smell of the marijuana filled the little park. The teens came over to us in ones and twos, buying and buying. Soon the party was roaring, dozens of buzzed teenagers enjoying life. Some of the heavy smokers even came back for seconds. "This is crazy," Manny said, under his voice. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. I could only agree. Manny had given me an ounce that morning and my pockets were feeling fairly empty. I was pretty sure I''d sold almost all of it. "If we keep on like this, when Leo comes to see us next week, we can just pay him outright." Manny shook his head, dumping cold water on my optimism. "Nah, Bro. It''s Friday night. These kids can''t legally drink, so they come out to party here in the park. Maybe it will be good tomorrow night too, but then Sunday''s a school night. It''s a good spot, but I''m thinking weekends only." It made sense to me. I''d been getting a little ahead of myself. Even so, a weekend spot this hopping was a good start. It wasn''t quite eight o''clock when I sold my last dime bag. Manny had run out ten minutes earlier. "That was my last one," I said, patting all my pockets to make sure. "I only brought a half ounce. I didn''t expect to sell even that much," Manny said. The wad of cash in my pocket was feeling heavy. I really wanted to count it, but it was too big for Fast Count and counting my money in the open didn''t feel right. I''d been feeling a tingling in the back of my head for a while now, and when I scratched at it, it showed me what I had expected to see.
Fast Count Leveled Up to 3/7
"A good day. I''m starving, man. What about you?" I asked. "Hell yeah, Bro. Let''s go get some food." We waved to the partying teens, who cheered at us, and whistled. I had to wonder what the people in the surrounding houses thought of this teenager party in the park, and our role in it. Luckily, no one had called the cops. Soon, we were back in the Regal and on our way. I started to count the take while we were driving, but the burger joint was close and before I''d even got halfway done we were pulling in to the lot. I looked up and laughed nervously when I saw the sign over the restaurant. The painted face of a clown stared down, his beady black eyes seeming to follow me. Bright red makeup was caked around his open mouth, the lips parted slightly. The clown was frozen in time, just about to take a bite of the oversized, double cheeseburger gripped in his white-gloved left hand. The perfect white of the glove was slightly stained by the red of what might have been ketchup. Over this horrific, fascinating example of branding was the name of the restaurant in a bold red and yellow font: "Bad Clown Burgers" I couldn''t take my eyes off of it. If you could take the image at face value it might have been innocent. After all, at one point in living memory clowns hadn''t been scary as shit. This could have been that kind of image, an echo of a more innocent time. It really didn''t feel like it, though. The black eyes, the red mouth and the lack of a natural expression were all super creepy. "Yo, we''re here. Let''s go," Manny said from beside the Regal, breaking my reverie. He''d already turned off the car and climbed out. "Seriously? We''re eating here?" I asked. I was still having a hard time believing this was a real thing. "Yeah man, these burgers are badass." Manny didn''t seem to find anything weird about this. Maybe on this world, clowns were still a source of laughter instead of horror. For myself, I''d never really thought of myself as afraid of clowns before, but seeing this one made me realize that I just hadn''t seen the right clown yet. I stuffed my cash back in a zippered pocket and climbed out of the car. I checked to make sure my pistol was still in place before squaring my shoulders and following Manny inside. The inside was almost disappointing. It wasn''t some horror show, instead it was just another fast food place. The restaurant was fairly busy, but the service was fast and efficient. In almost no time we''d ordered, paid our eight dollars each and been given a plastic stand with the number 19 on it to place on our table. I spotted a free booth on the other side of the room and we headed that way. "That was a hell of a good day, Bro," Manny said. I nodded my agreement, but I was distracted from the conversation by the reaction we were getting. The joint was full of families, all happily eating away. That is, until they saw us. The young kids would stare openly, until Mom or Dad stopped them. The adults generally avoided eye contact entirely. One family''s pretty, teenage daughter looked straight into my eyes for a few long seconds, until I smiled at her. Then she blushed and turned away. Manny was completely oblivious, continuing to talk as we got to our booth and sat down. "I thought for sure that park was going to be a waste of time, Bro. Nice work." I wrenched my attention back to our conversation. "Uh, yeah. It worked out, but I guess we''ll need another spot for the weekdays. We can hit that one again hard tomorrow, though." Manny looked a bit stricken. "Oh, shit, Bro. I forgot to tell you I can''t sell tomorrow. It''s my grandma''s 80th birthday, and I''ll be at my aunt''s house all day. Sorry!" "Your grandma''s birthday is an all day affair?" I asked. "Yeah, Bro. When she''s this old it sure is. The whole family''s going to be there. It''s a big deal when you''re Vietnamese, respect for your elders. My mom''s going to be there cooking with her sisters, and she''s told me my presence is not optional." "Okay, but how am I going to get some weed?" I asked. A young guy in a Bad Clown Burgers uniform set down two trays in front of us, smiled and hurried off. It smelled great, and I picked up the drink and took a sip of ice-cold cola. "I''ll try to get Mom to swing me by the Maximarket to drop some off. Call me in the morning and we can figure it out. You''ve really got to get a car, Bro." "Yeah, I know." We both dug into our food. The burger really was amazing, juicy and delicious. The fries were good too. I hadn''t really been eating that well lately, and that meal disappeared like water into a dry sponge. Manny was a little slower, so as he was still eating I pulled out my roll and did a quick count in my lap, out of sight. $1,540. I smiled. It really had been a good day. I didn''t even have to use my AK. Which was good, as I didn''t have one. Yet. Manny had slowed down, eating one of the last remaining fries and sipping on his drink. His burger had vanished. He gave a deep belch and smiled. "I love this place. You ready to go?" I was, so we got up and walked outside. Manny''s Buick was waiting and we were back on the road a minute later. The gun digging into my back reminded me of something. "Hey, did you talk to the shop teacher about gun lessons?" I asked. "Shit. Sorry, I forgot. I smoked some of the weed after I got to school and I was a little baked during shop class. My bad, Bro. I''ll ask one of my uncles tomorrow. They''ll know." "Alright. Hey, drop me about a block away from my house. I''ve got to get changed. My clothes are still in the trunk, right?" "Yep, still there." It didn''t take long to get back to Martin''s neighborhood as traffic was fairly light. Manny stopped a block away and I got out. I ran to a convenient, nearby phone booth and changed back into my jeans and t-shirt. The booth stunk of piss, but I wasn''t in there long. Before I exited I stepped back into the light and stuffed my weed-clown outfit into a plastic bag that had been rattling around in Manny''s trunk. My cash and keys got moved into my jeans, and I tucked the gun back into its familiar spot. Manny was leaning against the Regal nearby, waiting for me to finish. "You want me to hold on to the gun for you?" The smart answer to that question was ''Sure, Manny. You keep this gun where my uncle Martin will never be able to see it.'' That wasn''t the answer I gave. "Nah, I''ll keep it." A few times that day, I''d felt like I could have used it if I needed to. Like even if everything went sideways, I still had another option. That was a good feeling. "Cool. See you tomorrow, Bro." I gave Manny a bro-hug, and twenty seconds later he was gone. The Regal left with a squeal and a slight cloud of exhaust. This time, the lights were still on. It was a bit after nine o''clock, so I was still late. I entered the side door, and Martin was sitting at his coffee table, drinking something out of a coffee cup. "You''re still late, but better. Were you at work all this time?" he asked. "No, I hung out with my friend Minh after work." Martin nodded and pointed at the plastic bag with my weed outfit in it. "What have you got there?" "Oh this? It''s my uniform." "Feel free to use the laundry facilities if you need them. Well done on your first day. You''d better hit the sack, lights out in fifteen." I nodded, and went downstairs. I stashed my gun and cash and just had enough time to get undressed, lie down in bed and read the first few pages of my book when the lights went out. I sighed, set the book on the bedside table and went to sleep. 1.17 - Saturday Morning Breakfast Chicken I called Manny''s house what felt like far too early, but Manny''s mom answered and didn''t seem angry to do so. For some reason I had woken up even before Martin had turned all the lights on at 7 AM. My eyes had just snapped open at 6:41 am. "Hello?" "Hi, it''s Frank. I hope I''m not calling too early? May I speak to Minh?" "Hi Frank. No, you not too early. We are morning people here. Today is an important day, my mother is 80 years old. We will have big party, lots of good food. Do you want to come?" I was surprised to be invited. Touched, really. I almost said yes then and there, but in the end my business sense won out. This spot we''d found was only good on the weekends, and today was the last day that we could sell there. Plus, going to a gathering full of Manny''s family just didn''t seem right. What if none of them spoke English? Would I be the only non-Vietnamese there? It''d just be awkward. "Thank you, but no. I have to work today." "Work is good. Work hard, and your life will be good. I get Minh for you." I heard the phone being sat down, and Manny''s mom yelling in Vietnamese. "Minh! B?t ?i?n tho?i." Ten seconds later, Manny picked up. "I''ve got it, Mom," he yelled. There was a click as Manny''s mom hung up the other extension. "Hey, Bro. I can get my mom to stop at the Maximarket and drop me off for a little while. She''s going grocery shopping, but I won''t be able to stay long. Eight o''clock, okay?" He asked. "Yeah, but why can''t you just drive here yourself? You can meet her at your aunt''s, can''t you?" I asked. "Nah, Bro. That ride is registered to Manny, not me. You can''t mix that stuff, it''s real dangerous. I don''t have a car on the light side." That was an interesting twist, but I guess it made sense. If for the purposes of the law Minh and Manny were two separate entities than of course Minh couldn''t drive Manny''s car. At least, not without setting up an inconvenient link between his light and shadow sides. "Yeah, I guess. Eight o''clock." "Give or take a few minutes, Bro. I''ve gotta go help my mom get ready. Make sure you come in the light. I don''t need my mom seeing me hanging out with anybody walking in shadow. She thinks she''s dropping me to hang with Frank." "Got it, no problem." "Cool, Bro. Later," Manny said and we both hung up. I still had 40 minutes or so to kill, and Martin had finished his morning routine so I had a quick shower and put the same set of clothes back on. It felt really strange, not being able to walk through the house just wearing boxers or a towel, like I was living in some kind of weird boarding house with rules from another century. But Martin''s roof meant Martin''s rules. You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. While I had plenty of money in my pocket, I certainly didn''t want to have to spend it on a new place to live. At least, not until we paid off Brass Lee. That would be soon, and then before my thirty-day grace period was up I''d be bidding Martin a not so fond farewell. "Working today?" Martin asked. "Yeah," I replied. "Great. Should you be in your uniform?" He asked. "They have a changing room there," Martin nodded. "Good to see you working hard. I know fast food isn''t glamorous, but it''s money in your pocket. If you''re interested, I can put a good word with the Air Force recruiter for you." At one point when I was a kid, I had dreamt about flying helicopters and jets in the military. Somehow over time that desire had been extinguished. Sure, I''d love to be able to fly a helicopter on my own but doing it as a member of the military no longer held any appeal. Besides, enlisting in the Air Force didn''t mean you got to be a pilot. With my luck, I''d enlist, and they''d make me one of the guys that drives the fuel trucks. Or the guy that has to clean the vomit out of the cockpits. "Thanks. I''m good for now. I''ll let you know if that changes, sir."
Reputation Change: Martin McLean +1
New Reputation: Tolerated (16)
With that, I went back downstairs and gathered up what I would be bringing with me that day. The weed clown uniform had never left the plastic bag, so it stayed there. I would change in one of the phone booths. The gun I''d shoved under my mattress before I slept last night, and it was definitely coming. There was no way I was leaving it here. More and more the pistol was feeling like a piece of necessary equipment for my day-to-day life. I didn''t know whether that was something I should be alarmed about or not, but that''s the way it was. The only other issue was my cash. It felt good to have such a nice big roll, but taking it with me didn''t seem smart. What if I got robbed again? Not only would they get the weed, they get my entire bankroll as well. It wasn''t like I needed it to make change. With that in mind, I peeled off a few hundred in small bills and stuck it in my jeans pocket. The rest felt heavy in my hands, and I wondered where to put it. It wasn''t like I had a safe, and I didn''t want to explain to Martin how I''d gone from penniless to having $1500 in cash in a couple days while working a minimum wage fast food job. When I''d first met him, he had threatened regular inspections of my room. I''d been making my bed, just in case, but he hadn''t actually followed through with it as far as I could tell. At least, he hadn''t had any real comments. In a fit of paranoia, I stood on my bed and lifted up one of the drop ceiling tiles. Just above were the bare wooden rafters of the main floor, and a lot of dust covering various pipes and cables. I set the roll down in the shadows nearby, and carefully let the tile drop back into place. Ready to go and starving to death, I took my stuff and headed upstairs. "Martin, I''m headed out. See you later." I didn''t wait for an acknowledgment, opening the side door and stepping out onto the street. There was a bit of a chill this early in the morning, but the sun was bright, and the sky was blue as usual. You''ve got to love California. I headed north, crossing Florence Avenue toward the JMC. Chicken for breakfast again wasn''t exactly what I wanted, but food was fuel. I was disappointed see that Mindy wasn''t behind the counter this time. I ordered the usual breakfast menu, chicken, fries and a cola, and was happy when they immediately filled my tray and sent me on my way. Who knew that a chicken restaurant would be efficient during breakfast time? I sat down and ate, my thoughts drifting. It was times like this where I missed my smart phone and the Internet. The other thing that my phone had that I missed was a clock. I looked around the restaurant and found a clock on the wall. Eight was approaching quickly. I finished my breakfast and left the restaurant, not bothering to bus the tray. 1.18 - Whos that dude? About 15 minutes later I was starting to get annoyed, as Manny hadn''t shown up yet. It was just then that a blue minivan pulled into the parking lot, driven by an an older Asian lady. She looked me over and smiled at me, giving me a little wave. I smiled back tentatively and raised my hand as I identified her.
Thuy Nguyen, Senior Administrator (E3)
I didn''t recognize the name. Was this someone that the previous version of me had known? The sliding door on the passenger side of the van opened and a smartly-dressed young Asian man hopped out. He was wearing a light blue button-down shirt and khaki slacks, accented with matching black leather belt and shoes hopped out. He looked over at me and then back to the driver. "Great mom, see you in 20?" Whoever this kid was, he was making me nervous. He looked at me like he knew who I was. I''d never seen him before, and again I reflexively identified him.
Minh Nguyen, Student (F2)
Mother and son, obviously. The name didn''t seem familiar. I stood up and made sure that I could reach my gun if I needed it. The bulk of it in the small of my back felt reassuring. We were all in the light, but still. Minh grabbed a nice, brown leather satchel off the back seat of the van and slid the door closed. The woman driving the car leaned over the passenger seat to yell out the window. "Work hard today Frank. Come for dinner soon." With that said, she looked ahead and pulled out into traffic. I recognized the voice and the accent immediately. That was Manny''s mom. So if that was her, who was this stranger she was dropping off? One of Manny''s brothers? Minh walked over to me, a quizzical expression on his face. He was young, clean-cut and I didn''t feel any threat from him, but it was still weird when strangers approached you like they knew you or wanted something. "Hey, Bro. Sorry I''m late, we had to get gas. Mom always goes to the cheapest place and it''s a bit out of the way." Something about this guy''s voice tickled my brain. Like I should know who he was. I just didn''t. "Hey, do I know you?" "Seriously, Bro?" Minh asked, and then making sure no one else was nearby added. "It''s Manny."
Mirror Broken Minh Nguyen has relinquished the protection of the shadows. You will now be able to associate the Light and Shadow selves of Minh Nguyen/"Manny"
With that, everything that had happened in the last few minutes suddenly made sense. The woman driving the van was Manny''s mom, and of course I should''ve recognized her voice. The guy standing in front of me was obviously Manny, and always had been. His voice was the same and he didn''t even speak differently when he walked in the light. Hell, I even knew that his real name was Minh, but somehow didn''t connect that. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. "Shit, bro. What the hell? I was 100% sure we had done that already." I gripped my head as whatever magic the mirror employed put things right in my brain. It was disorienting, and I didn''t like it. "Trippy, isn''t it?" Minh said, grinning at me. I just nodded, shaking it off. "I''m just sorry I didn''t get a chance to say hi to your mom. She''s a nice lady. She invited me to your grandma''s party, but it seemed like it was more important that I sell today. Otherwise, I probably would''ve said yes. Would that have been cool?" I asked. "Hell yeah, Bro. She''s been bugging me to get you to come over for dinner since she found out about your dad. You should! When company comes, she pulls out all the stops and the food is amazing. She doesn''t always go to that much effort when she''s cooking for us, so the sooner the better." I laughed. "Sure, sounds good. So hey, is that my new bag?" He gripped it possessively. "Nah, Bro. This is mine. This one wasn''t cheap, so get your own. I''ve got your weed in here though." He lifted the satchel''s flap and pulled out a white, plastic grocery store bag. It was something I hadn''t seen in Los Angeles for some time, so either Manny''s family had a stash of them from before the ban, or here in San Tadeo they didn''t believe that forcing everyone to use shitty paper bags would save the environment. I hoped it was the latter. The bag was stuffed with dime bags of weed, and he handed it over. "Another ounce. With how you did yesterday, you might need it." "What if I don''t sell it all?" I asked. "We going to meet up later?" "Uh, we can, I guess. This party''s going to go late, but after I get back home I can probably sneak out and drive over here, or wherever. It''s going to be real late though. Maybe close to midnight. That can be cool with your curfew?" I was pretty sure that it wouldn''t be. But, despite my uncle''s harsh words on my first day, he hadn''t been some kind of insane martinet. It wasn''t like he searched my bags when I entered and left. As long as I didn''t leave the pot unattended in my room, it was unlikely he''d find it if there was any left over after I was done today. "No, it''s fine. I''ll hold onto it tonight." "We''ve got to get you a car, Bro." I nodded. "Maybe we should go see the Lyle Street Soldados when we get a chance. They said they could hook me up with a car." "Maybe. The guys I got mine from are total dicks, so it''s worth a shot." It didn''t feel good sitting there on the sidewalk with two plastic bags full of junk in my hands, so I excused myself to pop into the phone booth nearby and change. I''ll tell you, getting changed in a phone booth isn''t as easy as superheroes make it look. Unlike them, I couldn''t simply spin around really fast and exit in my new outfit. Still, I made it happen. This time I kept my running shoes on. The sandals completed the weed-clown look, but running in them sucked. If I had to do it again, I''d want my shoes. I left the sandals in the booth instead of keeping them. I took the opportunity to fill all my cargo short pockets with weed. They were more than enough to hold it, and for a moment I regretted not bringing my book. If it was quiet today, I was going to be bored. I put my light side clothes in one of the plastic bags and exited in shadows a minute later. "All right, you better get going. I don''t want my mom to see me hang out with somebody walking in shadow. She''s kind of like your uncle Martin that way. She thinks it''s sketchy." I nodded, totally understanding that. So far, she wasn''t wrong. I gave Manny a quick bro-hug and left him there to cross Florence Ave. I needed to get to the park, and without a car that was going to be painful. Taking the bus was an option, but I was done with those. At least, if I could help it. Screw buses. Without a smart phone and ride-sharing apps, it took me a minute to realize what I needed to do to get a taxi. Back to the old school once again. I ducked into another booth to call a cab. Luckily, I didn''t need to call directory assistance or find a phone book as the inside of the booth was plastered with stickers for services of all kinds. Lots of prostitutes, a fair number of locksmiths and a wide variety of taxi companies. I picked the one with the fanciest sticker, picked up the phone, inserted a quarter and dialed. I requested a taxi to the corner I was standing on and five minutes later, it pulled up. It seemed that even without the Internet''s tentacles in every aspect of life, some things could still be efficient. I hopped in. 1.19 - The Movies The driver, a well-dressed black man with the slight trace of an accent, was surprisingly good. It may have just been because I was in the shadows, but he didn''t try to engage me in pointless conversation about my day. He didn''t ask what I was doing or where I was going. He asked me for the address, I gave it to him, and he started driving. He didn''t even turn on the radio. It was great. My previous experience with taxis had been with rideshare drivers, who in LA seemed to think it was their duty to be entertaining and dynamic as they drove you around. Most of the time their antics made it to the annoying level, with the occasional jump to straight up infuriating. The perils of living in a town full of starving actors. It didn''t take long for the taxi to pull up in front of the park. The meter was at a hair over $35, so I handed him two twenties and told him to keep the change. He thanked me and I stepped out into the deserted park. And deserted it was. The pile of beer bottles under the dome had gotten quite a bit larger than it had been last I''d seen it, a visible reminder of the party that had been raging as we left. There was literally no one in sight, however. The streets, sidewalks and even the park itself were completely empty. I don''t know what I''d been thinking, coming to a park early Saturday morning to try to sell to partying teens. Hell, they probably wouldn''t even be getting out of bed for another four or five hours. Still, I tried to use my time productively. I sat under the tree and waited, using my Customer ID skill every time I saw someone, which was exactly three times. Two of those people were walking their dog, and one was driving by in their car. The only sounds I heard were distant lawnmowers, the hum of traffic and singing birds punctuated by the occasional barking dog. Finally, I''d had enough. There was no way I was going to wait there all day until evening, assuming the teens were even going to show up again. I picked a side street and started walking. I saw the occasional person in their front yard, doing yard work, washing their car or just sitting and soaking up the morning sunshine. Customer ID still stubbornly refused to work. In any case, I wasn''t expecting to be able to sell weed door to door. I was just walking, searching for amusement and a way to kill the time. That''s why was delighted when I got to the end of one block and saw the Garage Sale sign just down the sidewalk to my right. The garage in question was a two-door monster, both doors wide open. A double row of trestle tables extended from the middle like a tongue, covered in junk. And that''s what it was, really. That''s what you people sell at garage sales, don''t they? They sell their junk to other people. Is that easier than throwing it out? No, but sometimes people will actually pay money to take your garbage away. Now sure, I''m being cynical. I''m sure there are hidden gems in every garage sale, but there weren''t many here. A chaotic assortment of commemorative glasses and plates. Children''s books, including a copy of the Berenstein Bears that I remembered from my childhood. I picked it up and leafed through it, before putting it back down. In one corner was a beat-up golf bag with a set of golf clubs that looked like they''d seen better days. I didn''t know anything about golf, so I didn''t know if the $20 sticker price on the ancient looking bag was a good deal, or not. If I were following the rule of garage sales, it probably wasn''t. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. Several other people were browsing, all of them quiet and generally avoiding looking at me. I was starting to get used to it. It was like in LA, if you saw someone that was obviously a gang member, you didn''t give them any excuse to pay attention to you. That was only common sense. They didn''t know who I was¡ªwalking in the light they literally couldn''t know. For all they knew, I was heavily armed and a dangerous gangster. They''d be half right, anyway. I''d done a circuit of the tables and was just about to continue on my walk when I noticed several bicycles leaning up against the wall with price tags hanging from their handlebars. There was an old-school girl''s bike with a banana seat and tassels hanging from the handlebars, as well as a child''s BMX bike. The third bike was what got my attention. A normal mountain bike but with street tires. It looked a lot like the bike I used to have before it got stolen. It reminded me how nice it had been, to have the freedom to get around without having to bug my dad for a ride or spend some of my limited funds on a rideshare app. I looked it over. The tires were fully inflated, and everything seemed to be intact. There was even an air pump in a clip underneath the seat. The bike looked like it had been well taken care of, and the price tag said $50. "Are you interested?" A voice asked. I looked up and saw the older man who''d been hovering nearby. I thought he had just been browsing, but it seemed this was actually his sale. He was dressed in shorts and a t-shirt showing the logo of some business conference from 2003. His hair was neatly cut, but almost fully gray and he had thin, round wire-rimmed glasses on his face. Without thinking, I identified him.
"James Daymore", Principal Engineer (C4), Chief Technical Officer, Brightbond Technical Solutions
My eyes widened when I read his job and title. This unassuming older guy was a big deal. A fairly rare Job with a high level, and a job as a CTO. He probably made a fortune. What was he doing running a garage sale on a Saturday morning. If I were him I''d be out on my boat. He didn''t look like he was having a bad time though, so I had to assume this was what he wanted to do. I shook off my pondering to reply to him. "Yes, I guess I am. Do you have a lock?" There was no way I could go anywhere with a bike without a lock. It''d be gone about as fast as a dropped five-dollar bill. "I sure do," he said, and grabbed one up from the nearby table. It was a scratched, black metal u-lock with the keys dangling from it. I remembered that type well. I knew that while thieves could get through them, it took them longer. "How does sixty bucks sound for the lock and the bike?" he asked. I hesitated. It wasn''t like I couldn''t afford it. It was that I still wasn''t sure I wanted to buy a bicycle. Sure, it would give me something to do, but what kind of weed dealer rides around on his bicycle? I needed a car. Still, it wasn''t like I could buy one of those for fifty bucks at a garage sale. James sweetened his offer. "I''ve also got a tire puncture kit I can throw in. The bike, the lock and the kit for sixty bucks. Have we got a deal?" I pointed to a plain, black backpack on the table. "Throw in that backpack and we''ve got a deal." James grimaced but nodded his acceptance. I handed over the cash and minutes later I was on my way. There''d already been a mount for the lock on the bike frame, and it socketed right in. I was glad I didn''t have to carry it, or drape it over the handlebars. My other outfit that I''d been carrying around in the plastic bag got stuffed into the backpack and I felt relieved to get it out of my hands. The bike''s seat was not quite the right height, but it was close enough that I didn''t feel the need to adjust it. Riding down the deserted side streets felt great. Like I''d somehow returned to my childhood. The gentle breeze on my face and the feeling of freedom felt amazing. Not only that, now I had a form of transportation, even if it was slow. Screw the bus, forevermore. At first, I was worried that my holster was going to pop out, but it stayed there like it was nailed in place. The weed shirt was long enough that I didn''t need to worry about it riding up exposing the gun. I rode aimlessly for a while, just enjoying the process. There was only so much of that I could do, however. Even as a child when I''d went on bike rides I would always need a destination. Even if that destination was completely pointless, I needed to have one. Something like, ''I''m going to go here to feed the ducks. Then here to buy an ice cream." A destination. I pulled up at a major intersection and suddenly I knew where I was. Across Lakewood Boulevard in front of me was the massive Downey mall. More importantly, the mall contained the massive cineplex I''d whiled away many a Saturday at. I couldn''t think of a better way to kill the day. To the movies! 1.20 - An unexpected series of encounters The mall complex was just as I remembered it. Sure, all the shops were unfamiliar brands, but the structure of the place hadn''t changed. I never paid much attention to the shops here anyway. Well, with the exception of the movie theater. The giant, twelve-screen theater was right where I remembered it, surrounded by a sea of parking. It towered over me as I rode my bike up to the empty bike rack and locked it up. I was a bit nervous about leaving the bike there. I''d just got the thing, after all. I shook that off. I had a decent lock and the fact that the bike wasn''t expensive made me think it would be fine. I left it there and headed for the front doors. That early on a Saturday morning, the place wasn''t packed. I''d been one of those Saturday morning people back in LA. In my opinion, the best time to go to a new movie was first thing Saturday. There''d be less people, and generally it would be a better experience. The inside was different than I remembered. The automated ticket machines were completely gone, of course. Instead, there was a long line of old school ticket booths manned by actual humans. Back in LA, only the old people would use the ticket booths. Everyone else either bought online or from one of the machines. One wall was covered in movie posters and underneath each one was the theater it was showing in and the show times. The movies seemed to be about half sequels, but I didn''t recognize anything¡ªnone of the titles or even any of the actors. A large digital clock on the wall showed the current time, and I found a movie starting soon. The poster looked good, with two identical, burly men carrying guns. The title was "The Two Brothers Saga: Origins." I bought a ticket and was somewhat surprised that I couldn''t choose my seat. The ticket was general admission, just like in the old days. It wasn''t any cheaper, however. That part was thoroughly 2020. I spent another small fortune on a drink, a bag of chocolate peanuts and a popcorn. A few minutes later I was sitting in the mostly empty theater, munching on the buttery popcorn. It felt great to be in a comfortable, air-conditioned space for the first time in what seemed like forever. I shifted in my seat until the gun wasn''t digging painfully into my back and sat back to enjoy the show. The movie was insane. I''d seen a lot of movies back in LA. Who hadn''t? I''d never seen anything like The Two Brothers Saga. It was clearly a big-budget film, but the plot was really out there and hard to follow. The brothers were mercenaries or vigilantes or something. There was a cartoonishly evil real estate developer, a convent full of nuns with guns and a lot of explosions. Seriously, it was insane. The action and plot twists got more and more over the top until finally I was completely lost. Even so, it didn''t fail to be entertaining. I was smiling through most of the movie, either at the sheer ridiculousness of what I was watching or the great action sequences. Two hours passed in a flash, and I was back in the lobby of the movie theater. The place had filled up since I''d first arrived, with more groups buying tickets and refreshments and going to their movies. I went back to the wall of posters, looking for my second movie. It was at least another four hours before I thought it would be worth going back to the park. I wouldn''t mind killing that time watching crazy movies. The groups of teens around me gave me wary glances but didn''t bother me. One guy looked at me a little too long, and I met his gaze. He was a small, skinny man, with a pointed face and a nervous air. He had short brown hair and a hairline that was starting to recede. Without thinking, I IDed him.
"Rozzo"
I was surprised to see that he was in shadow as literally no one else here was. He looked away as I met his eyes. I looked back at the wall of posters, but my view was almost immediately blocked by a large man in a light blue security uniform. He was well over six feet and built like a linebacker. His face was broad, with close-cropped hair and a decidedly unfriendly expression.
Carl Jansen, Mall Cop (F1)
"There''ll be no smoking in this building, you understand? No selling, either," Carl said. I had almost forgotten that I was wearing my weed clown outfit. I smiled at him, trying to be disarming. "I''m just here to watch movies." "That better be true. I''ll be watching you, and if we catch you selling anything in here, or smoking up, were not going to just kick you out. We will call the police, got it?" "Is this because I''m in the shadows? What''s with the prejudice? I''m just expressing my First Amendment rights, man." "I bet. Enjoy the movie," Carl said and walked off. I hadn''t planned to sell in the theater anyway, and having Carl get in my face was a good reminder of why. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. I looked up at the ceiling and saw at least two security cameras pointed my way. They were big and bulky, looking like artifacts from the past. My world''s past, anyway. Long, beige boxes with a big black lens and a red light at one end, mounted on the ceiling. Somewhere in this monstrous building there was a roomful of monitors, and rent-a-cops watching them. They had obviously spotted me and had sent Carl to warn me. Either that, or he had just taken it upon himself to do so. I found the next movie I wanted to watch without any issues. A period piece with women in hoop skirts and men in dowdy suits, hats, and canes. Back in LA, Colin Firth would have been one of the stars. I''d always been a fan of that kind of movie. It was called "The Long Summer." I got a refill of my drink¡ªnot free of course¡ªand made my way to the cinema that was showing the next movie. A crowd of people were waiting outside the closed doors, blocked by a sign explaining that the theater was being cleaned. The waiting crowd was mostly women, with a good sprinkling of them being my age, and attractive. One group in particular caught my eye, and I stood nearby, sipping my drink. There were three of them, two fit blondes in the inimitable California style, and a pale, black haired beauty. It felt really weird to be able to know their names without them telling me, but I did it anyway. The blondes were Jane and Jennifer and the raven-haired girl was Lyra. The two blondes were students, but Lyra was the one that stood out.
Lyra Sullivan, Aesthetician (E2)
They were quietly talking among themselves, and I decided to barrel in. I''d been feeling more and more confident in myself, for some reason. Was this what happened you became a drug dealer? Did you get irrationally confident and then eventually get killed because of your hubris? I put that thought aside and opened my mouth instead. "Hey, you guys waiting for The Long Summer?" As soon as I spoke, I realized how idiotic that had been. Of course, they were waiting for the movie. They weren''t just loitering in the hallway outside. All three of them turned to me, the two blondes taking in my outfit and immediately dismissing me to return to their conversation. Lyra was the only one to reply, her face assuming a polite, neutral expression. "Yes, we are. You''re going to see it?" "Sure. I''ve got some time to kill, and I''m a big fan of these Jane Austen type movies. This one looks interesting." She looked puzzled. "Jane Austen? Who''s that?" I''d stepped in it. Of course, she didn''t know who Jane Austen was. This world might not have had a Jane Austen. Still, I knew how to wing this one. "Oh, you probably haven''t heard of her. She''s this obscure 18th-century author that wrote a lot of great books about the period." I felt a bit ashamed of myself for using the "you probably haven''t heard of them" gambit, but she bit. "Oh, what books?" The two blondes glanced over, but continued speaking to each other in low voices, not interrupting our conversation. "I''d say her best was Pride and Prejudice, but she also wrote Sense and Sensibility and five others. They''re all great books. You should give them a read." She turned to face me, turning away from her two friends. She opened her mouth, but Jane, one of the blondes, spoke first. "Lyra, why are you talking to this loser? Look at the way he''s dressed. He''s probably some kind of drug dealer." "Yeah, and he''s in shadows. What''s your name, stoner?" the other blonde asked. "I''m Mack," I replied. "Nice to meet you three." Jane made a dismissive clicking sound with her mouth and the two girls turned away again. "Sorry about my friends. Why are you dressed like that?" Lyra asked, looking a bit embarrassed. I didn''t have a good answer for her. It wasn''t like I could tell her the truth. "It''s a long story, but I lost a bet." She smiled with genuine good humor and it transformed her from attractive to a truly beautiful young woman. I couldn''t help but smile back, looking into her eyes. They were a deep, dark blue¡ªnearly violet. I felt lost in them for a long moment. "Lyra, let''s go," Jane said and the moment passed. A young woman wearing the uniform of the movie theater emerged from the cinema she had been cleaning, clicking the door into the open position and pulling the "Closed For Cleaning" sign out of the way. With that done, she simply walked away and the crowd of people waiting in front started to filter in. "Mack, come and sit with us. You can tell me about Jane Austen," Lyra said. "Sure, I''d love to." Jane looked a little annoyed, but neither of the blondes said anything. I couldn''t help but think that back in LA this would''ve gone differently. I followed the girls lead as they as Jane and Jennifer went directly for the dead center of the theater, without discussion. That was fine by me, although I generally preferred to sit a little closer. The next ten minutes was the best time I''d had that I could remember. I actually did know quite a lot about Jane Austen, and was happy to talk to Lyra about her, and the period Austen had lived in. Lyra knew her stuff as well, but unfortunately the authors she knew I''d never heard of. It made finding common references difficult, but even without that the conversation was flowing nicely. There''s just something energizing about being in the company of someone you found so incredibly attractive and having them return your interest. It didn''t last for long. The house lights dropped, and the trailers began to play. Like the Saga of Two Brothers, the movies they teased seemed crazy. They were in a style that Hollywood in my world had simply never entertained. Honestly, it made me want to watch all of them. Just the sheer divergence from what I thought of as normal was compelling. People were still filtering in and finding seats. Small groups of two, three and more holding their oversized drinks and popcorn. Usually this was a peaceful, quiet process. That''s why looked back when I heard a loud curse and the sound of an exploding drink container hitting the hard floor. "God damnit, you walked right into me. You''re going to pay for my dry cleaning!" A slightly built man that looked to be in his mid-thirties was soaked nearly head to foot in soda. I could even see the drops pattering down. Directly opposite him was a much larger guy, silhouetted against the light of the open door behind them both. Something about him looked familiar, and I IDed him.
"Zeke"
"Shit," I muttered. "What is it?" Lyra asked and looked back. "Oh, that poor man." Staying low in my seat, I looked around the rest of the theater but didn''t see any other Hip. Was Zeke being there just a coincidence? It didn''t matter if it was because as soon as he saw me, it would be on. "Get the fuck out of my way," Zeke said and shoved the soaked man who toppled over backward. The unfortunate guy sprawled out on the floor and Zeke stepped over him. There was a bit of muttering in the theater, but as Zeke was a big man and walking in shadow, no one stood up to confront him. He continued to walk down the aisle, scanning back and forth. I was pretty sure he was looking for me. 1.21 - A cornered animal I hopped over the seat in front of me, trying to stay low and unnoticed. "Mack? Where are you going?" Lyra asked, her voice full of confusion. "Sorry, gotta go," I whispered and scuttled down the empty row of seats toward the opposite aisle. Lyra had been a little louder than I would''ve liked, and Zeke heard her. "There you are, you fucker," he bellowed, his deep voice easily carrying across the noisy theater. I gave up any attempts at stealth and ran for the emergency exit in the corner on the left side of the massive movie screen. The glowing red letters of the sign called me, and I ran for them. I heard yells and squeaks of indignation behind me as Zeke came after me. Not daring to look behind me I sprinted for the exit. I had only a moment to read the sign which said "Emergency Exit Only¡ªAlarm Will Sound" before I slammed the bar down and was through into the plain white corridor beyond. A loud, old-fashioned bell began ringing behind me, but I ignored it. The corridor stretched both left and right, a boring, well-lit space with tiled white floors. Without thinking much about it, I ran left. I''d ran past two more closed exits from cinemas when I heard the clack of pursuing boot heels on the floor behind me. The corridor branched to my left and I took it, trying to lose him. If I could get out of sight long enough, I could switch back into the light. A door with an "Employees Only" sign appeared on the wall and without hesitating I twisted the knob and was surprised when it turned in my hand. While Zeke was a big man, he wasn''t slow. It sounded like he was right behind me, so I yanked the door open and rushed in. I was only somewhat surprised to find myself in a storage space, surrounded by boxes of candy and buckets of unidentifiable theater food supplies. It was a surprisingly large storage space, full of long shelves and dim lighting. The one thing I didn''t see was an exit. Without hesitating I rushed further in and ducked behind a fully-laden shelf out of sight just as Zeke barreled through the door. "I''ve got you now, rabbit. There''s nowhere left to run," he said, his deep voice filling the space. I was fairly sure Zeke couldn''t see me, but through a tiny gap in the goods on the shelf I was hiding behind I could see him. He wasn''t quite as imposing as Magnus, but there was definitely some sort of physical fitness requirement for the Fatally Hip. He was big¡ªimposing and muscular. He closed the door carefully behind him and drew a boxy black pistol from the small of his back. You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. He held it low in a practiced-looking grip and scanned the shelves. "Here''s how this is going to go, Mack. You and I are going to leave here, get in my car and we''ll go see Magnus. If you''re lucky you might even live to see another day." As he spoke, he was prowling forward, his boots not making a sound. If I hadn''t been able to see him, I would''ve been certain he hadn''t moved from the door. The shelf I was hiding behind was long, and completely loaded. He couldn''t see me, but with the way he was walking he would soon enough. I needed to move. I reached back and pulled my pistol free of the holster. Its weight felt comforting in my hands. Holding it up to my eyes in the dim light, I flicked the safety from S to F with my thumb. I crept down the shelf to my left, moving as quietly as I could, which still didn''t seem as quiet as Zeke in his work boots, for some reason. He wasn''t showing a job, but it seemed likely that his supernatural stealth might be due to a skill of some kind. Was there such a Job as Hipster Ninja? "I can hear you, Mack. Let''s not draw this out. I prefer to take you back to Magnus alive, but I don''t have to. He''ll be disappointed, but he''ll understand. If you waste any more of my time, I''m going to get angry." I ignored his bloviating threats and continued to move. Seconds later I reached the end of the shelf and ducked around it just in time. Through a tiny gap I saw Zeke emerge at the opposite end where I''d been less than a minute earlier. He looked left and right, the pistol low but ready to come up and fire. He held it like he knew what he was doing with it. Completely unlike me, who still had never fired a shot. I had really been hoping that Zeke would continue further on into the storage room and I could sneak out, but my hopes were dashed when he started to walk down the aisle toward me. He moved like a ghost, completely silent. His pace was deliberate as he stalked forward, scanning his surroundings with his mouth slightly parted. My hands were shaking as I used my left hand to reach into my pocket and extract a loose quarter. I was quite sure that simply sprinting for the exit wouldn''t work. He''d hear me and either shoot me before I got to the door, or catch me quickly. With that in mind it was time for the old ''distract the patrolling guard with the thrown coin'' trick. It was a total clich¨¦, but I''d used it quite successfully in several table-top campaigns. Maybe it would work in real life. If that''s what I was going to start calling my life in San Tadeo. It certainly was feeling pretty real right then. With a short, underhanded throw I winged the quarter toward the door I''d come in. The quarter smacked into a white five-gallon bucket, making a loud plastic clonk. I''d been watching Zeke the whole time and he immediately spun and rushed toward the other end of the shelf, showing me his back. My trick had worked, but without any way to escape it was time to get aggressive. I stepped out into the aisle and aimed the pistol directly at the center of Zeke''s back. Imitating what I''d seen in uncounted cop shows, I cupped my left hand around my right. My hands were still shaking, but both of them together and it felt like I was fairly steady. "Drop the gun, Zeke," I yelled. I thought I did a rather good job of keeping the panic out of my voice, but maybe he''d heard it anyway. He didn''t even hesitate. He spun back toward me, his black pistol coming up as he did. I panicked and pulled the trigger. The gun barked in my hands, but Zeke kept moving. I kept pulling the trigger, firing off what felt like dozens of shots. Zeke''s gun clattered to the floor, a hard, plastic sound. He fell to his knees, his left hand pressed on the rapidly growing bloodstain on the red and white flannel of his shirt. He coughed, weakly, and I could see a spray of blood fly through the air and drool down his chin. 1.22 - Interrogating Zeke My ears were ringing from the sound of the gunshots, the noise had been so loud it was painful. That wasn''t something you saw the movies. I shook it off and ran forward, keeping the gun pointed at the kneeling brute. I was hesitant to approach him but knew I had to. Zeke was still alive, and despite how many shots I''d fired it seemed I''d only hit him once. On the shelves to either side of him, bullets had bored holes through boxes, buckets and shrink-wrapped bottled drinks. Torrents of liquid ran down onto the floor. The lucky bullet had entered Zeke''s back around his right shoulder and exited through his chest. A pool of blood was slowly growing underneath him, mixing with the oil and multi-colored sodas in a strange display. Zeke was swaying on his knees and having trouble breathing. When he exhaled, I could hear a wet, sucking sound. Despite his condition I was wary of him and kept my weapon pointed at his head while I squatted down and snatched his gun off the floor nearby. Once I had it in my hands, I shuffled back a step. "You shot me. I can''t believe you shot me," Zeke muttered. The reality of the situation slammed home and without any warning my stomach rushed up into my throat. I turned away from Zeke and stumbled backward as I vomited up everything I had eaten over the last few hours on the floor between us. "First time, huh?" Zeke said, and chuckled. I looked him in the eye and saw his teeth were stained red with his own blood. I wiped my mouth with my left hand. My right hand was still shaking, but I kept the gun on him. I knew that I didn''t have long before we were disturbed. I had just fired a gun in a movie theater with its own security force, after all. I could only assume someone would have heard the shots. "Sure, and I''ll finish the job unless you tell me what I want to know, Zeke. How did you know I was here?" I asked. I had visions in my mind of how this scene usually went in the movies. I really didn''t have the stomach to do something like pressing my thumb into the bullet hole, to torture the information out of him. Even if I did, Zeke could snap me like a twig. It wasn''t like I had him tied to a chair. "Some little rat dropped a dime on you," Zeke said, and then coughed up some more blood. "He told us you were here, watching movies. He even told me which one you went into. That will keep happening. It''s just a matter of time before we get you, Mack." The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. "So far I''m the only one on the scoreboard, Zeke," I replied. Witty banter aside, as soon as he''d mentioned someone dropping a dime I knew who he was talking about. That rat-faced little shit I''d seen in the lobby, Rozzo. Staying in the shadows had a price to it, it seemed. I''d have to be smarter about that in the future. "Call an ambulance, Mack, please? I don''t want to bleed out here," Zeke said, his confidence leaking away with his blood. "Security will be here soon. They''ll get you a paramedic or whatever. The next time I see you, Zeke, I''m just going to shoot you in the face, you understand?" I''d been intending that as a bluff. My stomach was still jittery with adrenaline, and the thought of actually murdering someone set off all sorts of deep-seated alarm bells. But an even deeper, harder part of me meant it. "If you were going to kill me, you would have done it already. You''re soft. We''ll see each other again, Mack. Count on it." Now that just annoyed me. I pointed the gun between his eyes and stiffened up my posture, my finger tightening slightly on the trigger. I gritted my teeth, trying to control my anger. Zeke tensed up, waiting for my decision. He relaxed when I lowered my gun and stepped back. I stashed his pistol in one of my big pockets, holstered my own and ran for the exit. Despite what I''d been expecting, there wasn''t a whole platoon of security guards there waiting for me. I could hear commotion somewhere nearby, echoing down the halls. I immediately took that opportunity to reenter the light, leaving Mack behind to become Frank once again. I chose a direction and started trotting, looking for the exit. I met the responding security team seconds later. They rushed around the corner and stopped when they saw me. Carl was the one in the lead, and he dismissed me after quickly reading my identification. "Sir, please exit the building immediately," Carl ordered. "The exit is behind me." I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. It was still so strange to me how the mirror protected my identity. The security detail pushed past me, not concerning themselves with me any further. I found the exit Carl had mentioned and took it, emerging into the open air. Zeke''s gun felt hot and heavy in my front pocket, but I didn''t dare move it to my backpack out in the middle of a crowded mall parking lot. I slowly made my way back to where I''d left my bicycle. By the time I got there, four police cruisers and an ambulance were parked out front with their cherries lit up. I unlocked the bike and sat on it, ready to ride away. It didn''t feel like much of a getaway vehicle, but it made me feel better. While I sat there, I watched the paramedics emerge five minutes later pushing a gurney. Zeke was on it, wearing an oxygen mask. They loaded him into the back of the ambulance, and it roared off, sirens blaring and lights flashing. Our confrontation had disrupted the normal operation of the theater, as crowds of people were filing out. In that crowd I spotted the three girls, talking animatedly. Lyra was like a pale, beautiful flower next to the two blondes and really wished I could just go over and talk to her. That we could continue where we''d left off. There was just no way that was going to happen. It couldn''t, not any more. Not wanting to torture myself any longer, I stomped on my pedal and rode off, leaving the chaos behind. 1.23 - A New Friend The next few hours passed painfully slowly. I didn''t dare go back to the movie theater as I still had no idea how video cameras interacted with the mirror. For all I knew, cops were circulating a picture of me. Would that even work? Could they circulate a picture of me as Mack and identify me as Frank? That would seem like a rather obvious hole in the system, so I had to assume that the mirror protected me there as well, but I couldn''t chance it. Once I was clear of the mall I stopped and thought about what I needed to do. Did I really need to ditch the gun? I hadn''t actually killed Zeke, after all. Still, he might die. Even if he didn''t, if the cops stopped me and found the gun the ballistics would match. It really hurt, but I wiped the gun down thoroughly and then making sure no one was watching I dropped it into a storm drain before quickly riding off. The next step was my clothes. I stepped into a phone booth and back out in my jeans and t-shirt. The weed clown outfit I dumped in a trash can, pushing it down deep under the top layers of trash. It was way too distinct. I''d gotten kind of attached to all the pockets in the shorts, but I didn''t need to get arrested because of them. The dime bags of weed were safely rattling around in the bottom of the backpack. I took a look at the piece I''d taken from Zeke.
Glock 17 (E) Ammo (9mm Parabellum): 17/17
Handling: B Damage: D Serial: None
Penetration: D Accuracy: E Value: ???
A Glock, the gun every gangster loved. It was black, made of plastic and was quite a bit different than the gun I''d taken from Magnus. No manual safety, for one. I''d read that Glocks didn''t have a traditional safety but wasn''t quite sure what that meant. I just hoped the stupid thing wouldn''t go off accidentally. I holstered it and covered it with the tail of my t-shirt. With all that done, I felt safe. Or safer, anyway. I wasn''t a particularly unique looking guy and without the weed clown uniform to make me stand out I doubted any kind of description would help the cops pick me out. To kill time, I rode around the neighborhood, sat under trees and in the late afternoon teenagers began to filter back into the park. When they did, I rode a few blocks away to the nearest phone booth, changed back to shadows and returned to the park. Before today this process had seemed like a lot of fun. I was selling a product that made people happy and made me a bunch of money. Now it felt like something hazardous and stressful. Being out here as Mack meant that I was exposed. Anyone in the shadows nearby that knew the Hip were looking for me could sell me out. I didn''t know what kind of payoff they were offering, but it was obviously enough to get low level scumbags like Rozzo to call it in, to literally drop a dime. Well, a quarter these days but still. That fear kept me edgy the entire time, and it obviously showed. I was constantly looking around. At about 8 o''clock, Juliette entered the park, accompanied again by her brother and Jason Dean. There was a roar of recognition from the earlier teenagers, already partying. I had managed to sell a few dime bags, but things really hadn''t kicked off yet. My Customer ID skill had worked once, which was nice. It was leveling up crazily slowly, and I was hoping that the success chance would get significantly better at second level. What I really needed was to sell more weight with it. After all, it was about money earned, not number of sales made. Could the system be gamed? Could I find a customer that wanted to buy and then make them buy everything I had with money I loaned them? If this reality was a computer game, maybe that hole would still be here. But with how thorough and intelligent the mirror seemed to be I could only assume that those kinds of shenanigans wouldn''t work at all. No good dungeon master would let that kind of shit happen, after all. Juliette approached me a few minutes after entering the park, trailed by Jason, who I could only assume was the hopeful boyfriend-in-waiting. It didn''t look like he was getting a lot of traction, as she was nearly ignoring him. "Hey, it''s the Weed Man! I didn''t recognize you for a minute," she said, smiling at me. I gave a wry smile. I''d heard the nickname that some of the teenagers given had given me but wasn''t that fond of it. "What can I get you, Juliette?" I asked. She sat on the bench beside me, right next to me. So close that I could feel her body heat. After what had happened only hours before, it didn''t feel right. "You look so tense. And it''s Jules," she corrected, gently touching my left arm. Jason stood nearby watching and frowned at that. "Jules, then." "I want some of your weed of course, but what''s wrong? You look so tense." This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. "Yeah, it''s been a crazy day." "Well, Sir Weed Man, I will take three bags of your finest, what did you call it? Green something?" "Call me Mack, please. And it''s Green Monster." I pulled out three packets of the green and purple bud from one of my pockets and held it in my hand as she dug through her purse and produced a couple bills. I was braced for it and surprised when she didn''t try to get the price down. Strangely, after we made the transaction, she didn''t seem like she was in a hurry to leave. She sat back on the bench, digging a packet of papers out of her purse, and ripping open the first packet of weed. "Jules, you got the weed, let''s go," Jason said, standing near and looking impatient. Jules had just finished making her first joint, rolling it with consummate skill and speed. "I''m going to stay here a bit. Here, take this and I''ll come and join you in a little while," she said, and handed the first joint to him. Jason obviously wanted to protest, but didn''t dare. He took the joint and left, as ordered. I chuckled. "Are you always like that?" "Like what?" she asked, looking at me as her hands began to roll the second joint. Her motions were perfect and long practiced. "I don''t know, bossy? You just told him to piss off, and it''s clear he''s really into you." "No shit. Nah, Jason''s nice but I don''t think of him that way. Sometimes him hanging around gets on my nerves, you know? I just wanted a break, and figured I''d hang with you for a little while. Is that cool?" I didn''t have any objection, so I shrugged. So far, Jules had been pleasant company. She finished rolling the joint and put it in her mouth. She lit it and drew deep, holding the smoke in and then exhaling in two thick streams through her nose. "That truly is nice weed. You want a hit?" she asked, offering me the joint. "No, I don''t smoke." "Shit, really? You sell it but you don''t smoke it? No wonder you''re so tense. Seriously, have a drag, it''ll do you good." She offered me the joint again. I almost automatically declined again, but stopped myself as I examined my motivations. Back in LA, weed was pretty much commonplace. It was more likely that someone you encountered smoked weed then that then they smoked cigarettes if that helped put it in perspective. It wasn''t like I was under the impression that there was some kind of stigma, or that weed was really bad for you. I''d just never been that interested. The few people I''d met back in LA that smoked a lot tended to be kind of dumb, but it was clear that that didn''t have to be the case. Manny wasn''t, and neither was Jules. They didn''t fit the stoner stereotype, so maybe that stereotype was just like so many others¡ªwrong. She saw me hesitating and smiled wickedly, pushing the joint marginally closer and wiggling her eyebrows. "Fine," I said, giving in and taking the joint from her hand. I had never smoked anything before, not tobacco or weed, so my first try didn''t work out. I doubled over coughing, as my virgin lungs attempted to reject the smoke. Jules took the joint from my hand and pounded me on the back. "Damn, that really was your first time. Come on, cough it out and then you can try again. It''s not hard, I think you just psyched yourself out." I wasn''t particularly feeling like I needed to try again, but it seemed stupid to commit to doing it and then pussy out after my lungs had failed me. I took the joint back from her and this time it worked. I managed to inhale the smoke and hold it in my lungs for a couple seconds before exhaling it, only coughing slightly. "Great, your first hit," Jules said. "I''ve successfully popped another cherry and corrupted more of our youth." I laughed. "Is that something you do a lot, Jules?" "Damn right." She took another hit, savoring it for much longer than I had before exhaling a thin stream of smoke. She passed it back. "One more hit and then that''ll be enough for you. This stuff''s actually kinda strong." I wasn''t feeling anything, so I took a deeper hit and held it a bit longer before I exhaled. This time, I didn''t cough. I handed the joint to her and leaned into the wooden backrest of the bench, feeling odd. Whatever I had been expecting, it didn¡¯t happen. I didn''t start feeling like I was really drunk, or giggly or paranoid. Instead I just felt good. The stress of the day that had been sitting on my shoulders like an invisible gargoyle lightened and drifted away. The rough wood of the bench went from hard and uncomfortable to just fine. I was suddenly aware of the warmth of Jules leaning companionably against my left shoulder, and it felt good. Her face was close, watching me. I looked into her eyes and she smiled. I returned it without thinking. "Thanks, Jules. I do feel better." "Clearly! You want to talk about it?" I didn''t, and I hadn''t planned to but then I was. Something about the weed had loosened my tongue, without me even realizing it. It had made me feel like Jules was a good friend, and that of course I could confide in her. I was still in control enough that I didn''t tell her about my confrontation with Zeke, instead I told her about Lyra. About how we had connected, and then I''d had to leave the theater. "That''s rough. Why did you have to leave?" She asked. "This guy was in there looking for me, a bad guy. You know, life of a drug dealer and all that. It''s not always safe." "Damn, that sucks. A new love nipped in the bud. You should have given her your number or got hers." I nodded. "Yeah, I didn''t have the time." Our conversation was interrupted by another group of teenagers coming up to us, wanting to buy. I''d been neglecting my Customer ID skill, but it didn''t matter. When teenagers would arrive for the party, they''d smell the weed and ask where it came from, if they didn''t already know. The partiers would tell them to go see the Weed Man and point me out. I sold four more grams, and while I was doing that, Jules got up to leave. She gave me a hug, interrupting the deal. "Mack, I''m going to go hang with my brother and Jay. Sorry about your morning. Maybe you''ll meet her again. You never know, ST can be a small city." Jules returned to the party, and a couple minutes later I was finished my latest transaction. I thought about what she''d said. It''d never been my experience that Los Angeles had was a small city, but it wasn''t like I spent a lot of time in public in my old life. Most of my time had been spent at school, at home on the Internet, or playing tabletop games with a small group of friends. Maybe it really was a small city. Still, I doubted it. I continued to sell for a while but had to leave earlier than I wanted, with the party still raging. Martin''s curfew was coming up, and I estimated it would take thirty or forty minutes on my bicycle to come close to being on time for it. "Last call, I''m leaving in five minutes," I announced to the party. I made several more sales and got another level in Fast Count. Once it was clear there weren''t any more takers I got on my bike him and pedaled towards home, waving goodbye to the gathered partiers. They yelled "Weed Man!" and cheered as I left them behind. 1.24 - Curfew Riding a bicycle through the streets of LA isn''t always relaxing. Sorry, that was a joke. It never is. San Tadeo was no different. You had to stick to the side streets and avoid the major boulevards. Even then sometimes you were taking your life in your hands. Half the time people wouldn''t even see bicycles. At least that''s what they would claim after they hit one. I''d never gotten hit, but I''d seen it happen. Drivers often seemed angry if bicyclists tried to share the street with them. Careless or malevolent drivers would open their car doors and step out into the street without checking, dooring the bicycle rider as it was called. What it boiled down to was you needed to ride like everyone was trying to kill you. Still, even after falling back into that old habit, I had a lot of time to think about the day. I didn''t feel bad about shooting Zeke, but I was also glad that I didn''t kill him. If he had got his way, he would have killed me outright or brought me back to Magnus so that he could do it. Perhaps a lot slower than I would like. I''d done okay as far as sales went, having sold a bit over half of the ounce I started the day with. It wasn''t the roaring success of the previous day, but still a great result. Tomorrow I''d have to try to find somewhere new to sell, and I wasn''t looking forward to it. Time passed quickly while riding, and it wasn''t long before I was only a few blocks away from Martin''s house. I stopped and locked up my bike beside a phone booth, got inside and exited the shadows, stuffing the chain in my backpack with the remaining dime bags. For the first time I''d made it home before curfew, and the lights were still on. I wheeled the bike to the backyard and locked it to a gas pipe, just below the meter. The yard was small and dark, and I could only hope that no one would be too interested in spending the time required to saw through the lock and steel my bike. I''d grown quite fond of it. When I entered the house, I saw that Martin was sitting at the kitchen table, and he was smoking. The whole kitchen stank of it, a thick heavy smell that I hadn''t experienced much in my life. Smoking had gotten more and more out of fashion in Los Angeles to the point where smokers were almost complete social pariahs. But still, there he was¡ªsmoking. He looked up as I entered. "On time, that''s good. Come and join me," he said, picking up his coffee mug and taking a small sip before putting it down again. The ashtray in front of him was about half full, showing me that he''d been sitting there a while. "Okay, sure. I didn''t know you smoked, Martin." "An old habit I thought I''d kicked. Come, sit down." I shrugged off my backpack and sat in the chair opposite. Martin looked me directly in the eye. Where were you today, Francis?" Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. "It''s Frank. I told you, I was working." "Oh, at JMC?" he asked. The question felt like a trap, but I had to keep up the pretense. "Yes." "That''s funny, because I went in there today and the manager told me that you declined the position, and that he hadn''t seen you since." Martin took another drag of his cigarette and waited for my response, looking me in the eyes. "Yeah, about that," I started to say, desperately trying to think of a new lie. "So," Martin continued, rolling right over me. "After discovering this lie, I returned home and conducted a search of your quarters. What do I find, but this." He reached into his breast pocket with his right hand and pulled out a folded wad of cash, slapping it down on the table in front of him. "$1,240 in cash. You certainly didn''t make that working at JMC, now did you? What have you been doing to earn this money?" I started to answer, but he wasn''t finished talking. "Not anything legal, that''s for sure. Now you come home stinking of marijuana." I had no idea how he could smell that with the overpowering stench of cigarette smoke filling the room, but apparently, he could. "Sir, I," I started. "No more of your lies. I''m going to search your bag now." Martin stood up and before I could react had pulled my bag off the floor and was unzipping it. I surged to my feet and lunged for it, but he calmly deflected me and shoved me back a step. He was older than me by quite a lot, but also a lot stronger. The first thing he found was the chain, and his expression turned grim. "A shadow focus. What else do we have?" He looked in the bag and then upended it onto the table. Vacuum-sealed dime bags cascaded out, skittering across.
Reputation Change: Martin McLean -20
New Reputation: Neutral (-4)
I was surprised to see that notification. He disliked me so much I was no longer family, it seemed. "A drug dealer. You are a disgrace," he said, looking into my eyes. I could see the anger boiling behind them. "You have fifteen minutes to pack your things and vacate my property. Leave your keys on the table. You''re no longer welcome here," Martin said. I was resigned, but not particularly surprised. I had known the situation with Martin was by necessity a temporary one. It''d been damn inconvenient, actually, having to at least make a token effort to abide by his curfew. Now that he was kicking me out, I could find a place to live where I was treated like an adult, instead of a stupid kid at boarding school. "Fine." I reached out, extending my left hand for my backpack, and starting to gather the weed with my right. Martin stepped forward, pushing me away from the table and stopping me. "No, you''re not getting that back. None of that filthy drug money, either. Get your clothes from downstairs and get out." "Hold on, that''s my property and I''m not leaving without it. You can keep the shitty clothes, but I''m not leaving my cash or my product." "Really? Do you think you can intimidate me? I''ve dealt with little shits like you my whole career. You''re nothing, and while I won''t call the police, I won''t enable you becoming a criminal like your father." That was out of left field. He was always talking about Dean, that stranger who had supposedly been my father here in San Tadeo. This was the first time Martin had mentioned anything about him being a criminal. "What the hell are you talking about?" "Don''t tell me you didn''t know. Your father was criminal scum, just like you. I don''t know what happened to him when we were kids, but he went bad. I had hoped you wouldn''t take after him, but clearly I was wrong." "Listen, I don''t know what you''re talking about, but it doesn''t matter. I''m taking my stuff and leaving." I reached out for the wad of cash that he had left on the table, and almost touched it, but his left hand lashed out and shoved me backwards. "I told you, that money and your drugs are staying here." Something snapped inside me, and before I was aware that I was doing it, I had drawn my pistol and was pointing it at him. "Put the bag on the table and back away," I ordered, my voice cold. 1.25 - Nighttime in San Tadeo Nightime in San Tadeo Martin was frozen in shock for a long second or two, seeming to disbelieve what he was seeing. It didn''t last, and he spoke. "You''re armed? And you¡¯re pulling a pistol on your only living relative? It seems I''ve really misjudged you. Your father was a criminal, but at least he wasn''t a violent one." "You keep saying he was a criminal. What did he do?" I asked. "Like you don''t know. He stole, of course. It was a lot of money, and when his company finally realized it and he was charged, he took the coward''s way out. Don''t tell me you didn''t know that." I was starting to get the picture. Dean had embezzled, been caught and then committed suicide. "No, I didn''t. Now, like I said, put the bag on the table and back away. I''ll take what''s mine and then I''ll leave, and you''ll never see me again, Martin." I was a little worried that Martin would try to resist, but I was pleasantly surprised when he cooperated fully. He set the bag on the table and stepped backward three paces. Keeping the gun trained on him, I used my left hand to repack the bag and zipped it up. The wad of cash I shoved in my front jeans pocket with the rest. It made an uncomfortably large lump. I dropped the keys Martin had made for me on the table and backed away toward the door to the outside. "Stay inside for five minutes after I leave, Martin. If I see you come out that door before I am gone, I will not be happy." Martin sneered, and a hiss escaped through his front teeth, but he nodded. I left him there standing stock still in his kitchen as he watched me with eyes filled with hate. The screen door clacked shut after me and I hurried to the backyard, unlocking the bicycle. I got on the bike and rode for two blocks before stopping at one of the ubiquitous phone booths. My mind had been racing since I''d left Martin''s, turning over and over the implications of what I''d just done. Martin was a law-abiding man, and he''d most likely call the police on me. He''d said he wouldn''t, but that was before I pulled a gun on him. If he did, the cops would be looking for Frank, not Mack. That meant I''d be safer in the shadows. But then, the Hip and their network of informers were looking for Mack, so there was no safety there either. I needed help. After locking the bike up outside, I entered the booth, dropped a quarter and dialed Manny''s number. The phone rang and rang, and no one answered. Not even voicemail. "Fuck. Grandma," I muttered. I thought about my situation. I needed a place to stay that night. If Manny were going to be really late, I couldn''t count on him. He''d told me he didn''t have a place for me at his house anyway. I needed to find a motel. In Los Angeles, you''d usually need a credit card to check into a decent place. I knew that wasn''t the case with the lower-end joints though, and that was where I was going to need to go. I didn''t even have a driver''s license, much less a credit card. I needed a place where they took cash and asked no questions. Those areas weren''t places I''d usually gone to in Los Angeles, but I knew roughly where they were. The question was, how do I get there without unwelcome attention from one side of the mirror the other? The gamer in me quickly came up with the only solution that made sense. With what resources I had, it was all about timing. On the way there I needed to be invisible to the cops. That meant I needed to be in the shadows. Sure, one of the Hip''s informants might see me, but I''d be moving. Unless they started following me, I''d be fine. Once I found a promising motel, I would duck into a phone booth and change back into the light. Back in LA the people that lived in those motels were, let''s say, on the lower rungs of society. Here in San Tadeo I''d be willing to bet the majority of them were in the shadows. Criminals of some sort, or at least desperately poor. Exactly the kind of person most likely to finger me to Magnus for a big wad of cash as their reward. I''d need to check into the motel while walking in the light. With the plan in mind I closed the door, draped the chain around my neck and entered the shadows.
I''d been riding down side streets in the dark for an hour or so. I hadn''t been checking the time, not really that concerned. No one bothered me, I just had to make sure I didn''t get run over. I was desperately hungry. I''d eaten quite a bit at the movies, but then I''d vomited it all up. I was so hungry it felt like I couldn''t go on unless I had something to eat. I''d been planning on getting something to eat when I''d made it closer to the motels, but there was just no way. My destination was still too far away. San Tadeo just wasn''t made to be traversed on a bicycle. It was just too big, too spread out. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. I''d been paralleling a major street, and once resolved to get something to eat I pulled onto it, riding on the wide, unused sidewalk. The street was hopping, full of traffic at this time of night. On my right a restaurant set far back from the road caught my eye. An enormous, red hot dog mounted on top of a small building, dwarfed in its shadow. The sign said it was Doug''s Dogs, and the parking lot was full. People were sitting on and in their cars, contentedly munching away. The smell was good, and my stomach clenched, nearly in pain from hunger. I stopped and entered the parking lot, reflexively identifying almost everyone I set eyes on. The majority of people were in the light, and I relaxed as I saw that. The few in the shadows I saw were paying me no attention. This was one of those restaurants where there was no ''inside''. The building was the kitchen, and the order windows. There were a few concrete tables on the outside, and that was it. You were meant to eat there or take away and those were your only two choices. I got to the front and ordered like a starving man, a large drink, three hot dogs and French fries. I paid and a few minutes later my meal was ready. Turnover was fast, so I got lucky and found a spot to sit at a table covered in trash. I pushed the remains of previous customers'' meals out of the way and sat to eat, the bike leaning up against the table beside me. I watched the crowd as I ravenously devoured the first two dogs, punctuating the food with a sip of root beer, here and there. The food was delicious, but it spent so little time on my taste buds that I didn''t really appreciate it until I got to dog number three. Having placated the ravenous hunger, I slowed down and savored that one, continuing to people watch. It didn''t take long to pick out the guy at the edge of the crowd selling. He was a tall, skinny black guy wearing baggy jeans and the same basketball team jersey Manny liked to wear. I''d never been a sports guy, so I couldn''t tell you the name of the team. I couldn''t see his hair because he''d covered it up with a blue bandanna.
"The Sorce"
He wasn''t showing an affiliation, but that blue bandana probably meant he was with the Gats. And what did that name mean? Did he misspell Source? While I hadn''t seen any gang tags around, that didn''t mean they weren''t there. The Sorce was busy enough that he didn''t even look in my direction, only having eyes for his customers. While I watched he sold at least fifteen bags. Some of the bags he sold were larger than a gram. This was obviously a great spot. I wondered what you had to do to lock down a spot like this one. My legs and ass were aching from the large amount of time I spent on the bicycle that day, and I gratefully relaxed for a moment while I finished my meal. The stress of the day had been more than I''d ever experienced before in my life. I had trouble believing that me shooting Zeke wasn''t just some bad dream I''d had. I''d shot someone, and he might even die. Even if that scumbag had been trying to get me first, it felt bad. Then I''d pulled my gun on Martin. Sure, he was kind of a prick, but he didn''t deserve that. Well, maybe he did. He was trying to rob me, after all. I took the last bite of the hotdog and washed it down with root beer. I was thinking about getting up when something happened on the street in front of Doug''s. A beautiful white sports car began to pull into the lot and stopped short when a lanky black guy wearing baggy pants and a long, blue shirt stepped in front of the car. I recognized the car, actually. It was one of the few that I could without the system''s help, but I IDed it anyway.
2020 Audi R8 Ibis White 6YVU971
It was gorgeous, and I remembered them costing a fortune. The driver of the R8 leaned out of his window, yelling something angry at the man blocking his path. He was a middle-aged white guy, wearing a neat button-down shirt and tie, and his face was bright red as he yelled and gestured at the guy standing in his way. The dude blocking the car didn''t take that well. In a flash of movement, he''d pulled a gun and was at the driver''s side of the Audi. The piece was pointed directly at the driver''s face. Everyone around me was watching now, and it still felt strange to be seeing an event like this and no one was holding up their camera phone. How would these poor people prove it happened to their friends if they couldn''t post the video on Instagram or Facebook? I IDed the guy with the gun and was unsurprised at what I saw.
"Wycked"
His colors said he was another Gat. Wycked waved his piece and ordered the driver out of the car. I glanced over and saw The Sorce, the other Gat, watching with a smirk. The driver looked like he would do literally anything the gunman asked, and quickly piled out of the vehicle, leaving it running with the keys in the ignition. Wycked grabbed the driver by the neck and shoved him away. The driver stumbled and painfully ate the sidewalk. Then Wycked was in the R8, the door closed behind him. He revved the engine mercilessly, before reversing out into the street and peeling off in a cloud of smoke, grinding the gears once during a shift. The magnificent noise of the R8 engine faded into the distance as Wycked literally drove it like he''d stolen it. The hapless driver stood up, wiping dirt from the torn knees of his suit pants and looked sadly after his white R8 as it disappeared down the street, fading into the distance. With the entertainment over, everyone returned to their meals and conversations like nothing unusual had happened. I needed to go. The cops would arrive soon, I assumed. The guy had just been carjacked, after all. I really wondered what Wycked was going to do with the R8? It wasn''t like he could just keep it, was it? Was stealing a car like that a big pay day, or was he just planning to drive it for a while? I really needed to talk to the LSS guys about this some more. With one last sip of root beer I stood up, got on the bike and pedaled away into the darkness. 1.26 - The Highway Star I felt better after the meal, and the ride seemed easier. Closer to my destination, I pulled out back onto the boulevard as the motels began to appear. They lined both sides of the street, the old school type that were mostly parking lot. Two-story buildings with long walkways on the second floor and doors opening into the parking lot on the first. The traditional, American Motor Hotel. Unfortunately, the first five had their ''No Vacancy'' signs lit, their parking lots full up. At this time of night, they were beehives of activity. Prostitutes, Johns and junkies filed in and out of the rooms going about their business. A female voice called out to me as I passed one on the right side. "Hey honey, you looking for a good time?" I stopped the bike and turned to catch the eye of one of the largest women I''d ever seen squeezed into bright pink hot pants and a tube top. Pale flesh was overflowing everywhere it could as the fabric fought a losing battle to keep everything contained. Her makeup was thick and heavy, but she had a friendly smile. She walked a little closer and I IDed her.
"Jaz Diamond", Prostitute (F3)
"Er, no thanks," I called. "That''s all right, Mack, you know where to find me if you need some good loving. Jaz will take good care of you, honey." "Don''t you listen to that hoe," another woman called, from a bit farther back into the parking lot. She was a tall black girl, incredibly thin with long straight hair and animal print clothing. She came and stood beside Jaz.
"Stacy Clicqot", Whore (F2)
"Quiet, Stacy. Get your skinny ass away from my customer." "He''s not your customer, Jaz. Look, the kid doesn''t even want to be here. You going home, honey?" "No, just looking for a motel. I need a place to stay for the night." "You go two more blocks honey. These ones here are for working girls, they''re like our office. They''re pay by the hour. Go down to the Highway Star and tell Jimmy that Jaz sent you. He''ll get you a room." "Yeah, Jimmy''s good people," Stacy agreed. "Why you on a a bicycle, Mack?" "Don''t have a car, do I?" "I hear that. Go on honey, you''re scaring off my business," Jaz said and shooed me away. "Thanks, Jaz," I said, and rode off leaving the two ladies behind. Jaz had been right, the hotels for the next few blocks were mostly full of prostitutes and their customers. The Highway Star didn''t look that different, to be honest. A bit less busy, perhaps. It also had the No Vacancy sign lit up, but I resolved to try to talk to Jimmy anyway. I ducked into a nearby phone booth, entered the light and emerged as Frank. I wheeled the bike the last bit of distance to the Highway Star''s office. It was a small room divided by a scarred wooden desk. A simple sign on the wall behind the desk looked like it hadn''t changed in fifty years. The Highway Star Motel, it announced to the world in an antique font, the paint faded. The office was quiet, and empty. Directly opposite me a closed wooden door behind the desk led further in to the building. A bell sat on the desk in front of me and after looking around for a minute and waiting impatiently, I rang it. Nothing happened, so thirty seconds later I rang again. After the third time, I heard a thump from the back room. The door opened and a man emerged, his long gray hair sticking up in a halo around his balding head. I''d obviously just woken him. "What the hell do you-" he cursed, and then stopped himself as he realized I wasn''t who he had been expecting. "What can I do for you?" "I''m looking for a room. Are you Jimmy?" I asked. "Yeah, that''s me. You lost? Besides, the sign''s on. No vacancy." "Jaz told me I should say she sent me, and that you''d treat me right. Seriously, I just need a room for the night. Can you help me?" "You look like a nice kid. I don''t know how you know Jaz, but you really don''t want to stay here. Get back in your car, err, your bicycle, and go west about three miles. You''ll start seeing some hotels that way that are cheap enough. Not as cheap as us, but cheap." If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. "Yeah, I bet. I really just need a place that takes cash and doesn''t ask questions, Jimmy." Jimmy shrugged. "Okay, I tried. I can give you a room, I guess. I hold a few in reserve, for special clients. That will be fifty bucks for the night. Don''t smoke in the room, please." I nodded. "I don''t smoke," I replied. I handed over the fifty bucks, and he handed back a key. "I would recommend you don''t talk to any of your neighbors. They see you walking in the light, they''re going to smell blood. Lock your door, leave in the morning and you''ll be good. You got me kid? Cops don''t come here, so if you get robbed, that''s it." I thought about what he said. Did the cops really not come here? Or did he just mean they took forever? The latter I could believe, but the former might be true as well. Maybe for hotels like this where everyone was walking in shadow, they just didn''t show up. "Thanks Jimmy. I''ll be out of your hair in the morning," I said. He gave me a dismissive wave and turned back to the partially open door behind him. Before I''d exited the office, it was closed, and I had assumed he went back to his sleep. I''d been given room number 26, and looking at the numbers I could see that it was going to be on the ground floor. I walked through the parking lot towards the opposite end of the motel, watching the numbers. Mine wasn''t quite right at the end of the row, but it was close. The parking lot was full, people sitting on chairs outside their front doors, or on the hoods of cars parked in front of their rooms. They were drinking beer, smoking and occasionally even playing dice against the wall of the hotel. They would occasionally look up and look me over, and although I reflexively tried to ID them, they were all in the shadows. As I was walking in the light, I got nothing but that shadowed feeling. I felt vulnerable and exposed being on this side of it. I was almost to my room when the first of them made a run at me. "Hey, kid. You need something? Weed, heroin, meth, what you poison? You need it, I get for you," the man said, getting right up next to me, uncomfortably close. He had short, greasy hair and a pointed face with yellowed teeth, many of them missing. His smell was quite impressive. He was skinny enough that I didn''t feel like he was a threat, but for all I knew he was strapped and and/or willing to stab me if I provoked him. I shook my head, hoping my lack of engagement would discourage him. "Come on, you want girls? I can get you girls, the best. Models, some of them are even actresses. You can fuck this beautiful girl and then go see her on the big screen the next day. You up for that, Frank?" I gritted my teeth as he used my name. That was one part of the mirror I found hard to adjust to. The idea that when I was in the light anyone would know my name and my job just by looking at me. I much preferred the shadow for that, at least there I could hide everything but my name. "No, I''m good" I replied. "He speaks! Okay, now that we''re on a speaking basis, Frank, why don''t you tell me what you do want? You''re obviously not here for the luxurious accommodation, so why are you? Slumming, huh? trying to fulfill that special taste, are you?" I shook my head, continuing to walk toward the room which seemed to be approaching very slowly indeed. The man, I still didn''t know his name, followed me right to my door. I couldn''t think of any way to tell him to fuck off without potentially starting a fight, so I just ignored him while he continued to spiel at me. I inserted the key in the lock and opened the door. On the other was what you would expect, a double bed with two night tables, a small CRT TV mounted on a dresser at the foot of the bed, and on the opposite wall, the door to a simple bathroom. Your typical motel room. I wheeled the bicycle in and parked it under the window beside the bed, ignoring the man behind me. That finally got on his nerves. "Hey, pay attention, Frank. I''m trying to help you out here. Didn''t your mother teach you not to ignore people?" I was now standing in my room, and Skinny Dude was right in my face, just outside. With both my hands free I now felt a little bit better. "Didn''t anybody tell you it''s rude to not take a hint? I don''t need anything. Thank you, goodbye." I stepped back and closed the door in his face, flicking the deadbolt shut. On the other side of the door, he spluttered in anger, kicked the door and walked off. I sighed in relief, having avoided yet another confrontation. I sat down on the bed, shrugging off the backpack. Even though it was mostly empty, I was really tired of wearing it. I stretched and thought wistfully about a long, hot shower to wash the day away. That was when the door rattled in its frame. Skinny Dude had returned and was pounding on it. "Frank, come on, open up. Look, I''m sorry that we got off on the wrong foot. I can help you. You got cash, I''ve got goods and services. Trust me, I''m a good guy to know." I ignored him, and it only took about ten seconds of silence before he snapped. He began kicking the door, rattling the cheap wood in the frame and making a lot of noise. "You open the fucking door right now, you little shit. Nobody ignores me, especially a little punk like you. You think you can fucking close a door in my face? I''ll show you, open the fucking door," he screamed, every word passing through the thin wood and the wide glass window beside it. I saw his face dimly through the curtains as he leaned over to look in. "I can see you in there, Frank! Open the fucking door," I felt a heavy weight settle on my shoulders once again. I stood up, drawing my pistol with my right hand and reaching for the door with my left. I couldn''t go into the shadows, even if I did have a private place to do it. Skinny Dude was exactly the sort of guy I didn''t want to know Mack was here. I couldn''t let him think I was his victim either. If the cops never truly came here, I didn''t have to worry about what would happen next. My left hand had closed on the deadbolt twist and I was just about to open the door when I heard Jimmy''s voice outside. "Juice, what the hell are you doing? I told you not to hassle my guests. This is your last warning. Do this again and you are out, you get me?" "Jimmy, it''s not like that. I''m trying to help the kid," Juice protested. "Like hell. Get the fuck away from that door. I see you there again, you''re done here, get me? You think any of these other hotels are going to take you in after your shit? This is your last chance, keep it together or you''re out." Juice mumbled something I couldn''t hear, and the noise outside stopped. Peeking out the window I saw Juice/Skinny Dude walking away. I pulled shut the blackout shades of the big window by the door, giving myself as much privacy as I could. The dresser with the TV on it in I set in front of the door, and then leaned the bicycle against that as well. It wouldn''t keep someone determined out but would give me enough of a warning to sleep. With the room secured I had a cold shower¡ªno hot water¡ªlay on the bed and was immediately asleep. 1.27 - Donuts and Despair My eyes snapped open of their own accord and I was alarmed for a moment, but everything was quiet and calm. I''d woken several times in the night¡ªthe Highway Star motel was far from a quiet place to sleep. After Jimmy had told off Juice in front of my door, no one else had bothered me. That was good, I had needed the sleep. My room was dark, with a tiny bit of purple light peeking in around the blackout curtains. I concentrated my intent, needing to know the time. The mirror rewarded me.
San Tadeo, California, 06:10 Sunday March 08, 2020 Highway Star Motel, Room 26 Walking in the Light
I turned on the light beside my bed and looked around the room. It was just as dingy and unimpressive as it was when I''d gone to sleep. There was a faint smell in the air, something like mildew crossed with dust. It was a little early, but I was done sleeping. What I really needed was some coffee and a little later I''d call Manny. The luxurious Highway Star didn''t boast phones in the rooms as one of its amenities. I sat up and got dressed in my dirty clothes. It felt a little gross, but I''d sort that later. There was a coffee and donut place across the street from the Highway Star and I wondered if they would be open this early. It was worth a shot. It was still a little too early to call Manny''s house, so I needed to kill some time. It was going to be a busy day. I felt better after I splashed water on my face and gave it a quick scrub. My teeth were feeling furry, but I couldn''t do much about that without a toothbrush. Another thing to add to the list. When I was sure I hadn''t forgotten anything in the room, I moved my barricade out of the way. Despite my undisturbed rest and the utter silence outside, I still peeked out the window and was fairly certain no one was waiting outside before I opened the door. The parking lot outside was deserted, completely quiet this time of morning. The sky above was a bright purple and rapidly lightening as the sun came up. Wheeling my bike over to the office I was unsurprised to find that it was locked up and dark. I dropped my keys into the drop off slot and silently thanked Jimmy for the port in my storm. It turned out the donut place, Pat''s Donuts, was open. I sat down with a couple of treats and a large coffee. I was still in the light, as that seemed safest for now. In the cold light of day, it didn''t seem likely the cops were looking for me. I hadn''t really done anything to Martin. Nothing criminal, anyway. I''d pointed my gun at him and taken my stuff back. No, what I had to worry about were people in the shadows. It was a lot riskier to be Mack than it was to be Frank right then. The two chocolate eclairs disappeared quickly, with the coffee following nearly as fast. I stared out the window at the gradually increasing traffic, nursing my mediocre coffee until it was time to call Manny. I ventured outside to the phone booth attached to the donut shop, dropped my quarter and dialed Manny''s number. Shortly after one ring, Manny''s mom answered. "Hello?" "Hi there, it''s Frank. Can I talk to Minh?" "Frank, you missed a good party. I get Minh," she said. She set the phone down and I heard her yell. Manny picked up the phone a few seconds later. "Mom, I got it," I heard him yell and a second later I heard the click of Thuy hanging up. "Hey man," I said. "Hey, Bro. What''s up? How''d you do yesterday?" "Yeah, okay. Lots happened. I need you to come get me, and help me out today. I''ll tell you what''s going on when you get here, alright?" "Uh, sure. I guess. Meet you at the Maximarket?" "Nah, I''m not there. I''m at a Pat''s Donuts on Western Avenue, just south of Redondo Beach boulevard. It''s across from the Highway Star motel. You can''t miss it." Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. "Damn, bro. What you doing way out in the hood? All right, when I finish my breakfast, I''ll come get you," Manny said. "Thanks, man. Oh, wait. Bring all the cash, alright?" "Sure, Bro. See you soon," he said, and hung up. Back inside Pat''s, the people behind the counter had been giving me the evil eye as I sat there with an empty cup of coffee and no food. I was sure they thought I was one of the local homeless, so when I reentered the shop I ordered a new round of donuts and coffee. Manny showed up forty minutes later, his Regal pulling smoothly into one of the parking spots. He entered the donut shop and spotted me quickly, hustling over to sit down opposite me in the booth. "Bro, what you doing in the light? I told you, it''s not good to mix them." There was no one around us, so I felt free to fill him in. "One of the guys from the Hip ambushed me yesterday at the movie theater. I had to shoot him. I don''t think I can be Mack right now. They''ve got a reward for my location. Probably yours too, man." Manny sputtered, taking it in. "Shit. Wait, hold on, Bro." Manny looked around before continuing in a whisper, completely pointless but understandable. "You shot somebody? Who, Magnus? Did you kill them?" "Nah, it was one of his guys. Zeke. I think he''s still alive. I saw the paramedics load him into an ambulance and he was still good. I don''t know though, maybe he died later." "Jesus," Manny said. He took a moment to compose himself and began again, lowering his volume. "You stuck around for the ambulance? What the hell is wrong with you? Did you at least ditch the gun?" "Yeah, I wiped it down and tossed it in a storm drain. I''ve got Zeke''s now." Manny looked a little mollified. "Okay, that''s not so bad. If they don''t catch you with the gun in your possession, they can''t really pin that shooting on you. Not unless Zeke testifies which I doubt he would." I nodded in agreement. Without the gun they didn''t have shit on me. I hoped I was right on that one. "What you doing out here anyway?" Manny asked. "You just have a hankering for donuts or what?" "That''s the other problem. Martin found the cash I stashed at home, and he figured out I wasn''t working at JMC. We got into it and he found the pot in my backpack. It was a whole thing. Anyway, he kicked me out and tried to rob me. I pointed my gun at him and got my stuff back." Manny rubbed his hand down his face, disbelieving. "You got into it with your uncle, too? Pointed your gun at him? Shit, Bro, who the hell are you? You shoot some guy and threaten your uncle on the same day. What the fuck, Bro?" "I know, it was a fucked-up day. In my defense, he was trying to rob me" "Still. He''s your only family, Bro. No brothers, no sisters, and no parents. Just him. How could you do that your blood?" I could see where he was coming from, but the truth didn''t work here. I couldn''t tell him that up until less than a week ago I''d never met Martin before. "Yeah, not everybody gets along with their family like you, Manny. Martin hated me even before our falling out. He was just looking for an excuse to get me out of there." Manny shook his head sadly. "That sucks, Bro." I left it at that, changing the subject. I hoped to never see Martin again, to be quite honest. Telling Manny that didn''t seem like the best way to get him on side, so I didn''t. "Anyway, Manny, what we really have to worry about are The Hip. They''re offering a decent amount of cash for our locations. Somebody ratted me out at the movies the other day, and for all we know somebody is already calling and telling them that you''re here now. I don''t know what we can do about that, but we''ve got to do something." Manny didn''t answer, seeming to chew something over. After a moment, he spoke up. "How much did you sell yesterday, Bro?" That was a weird change of subject, but I rolled with it. "I don''t know, about half the ounce, something like that. I went back to the park after the movies and did some good business there. It was dead for that." "Damn, Bro. You shoot some guy and then you go back to the park and sell like it''s no big? You got balls of steel or what?" "Nobody saw me shoot him, except Zeke. I didn''t have the gun anymore, and I even ditched the outfit. How were the cops going to connect me? It''d have to be someone in shadow that saw me and snitched." "Nah, Bro. Not true. A cop with the right skill can see your shadow name, you know that." Shit. That was news to me. Of course, it should have been obvious. The other side would have counters, skill-based or not, for the protections of the shadows. It was just good game balance. "Do only cops have that skill? What about security guards?" "What, mall cops? Fuck, no, Bro." I let out the breath I''d been holding. Carl didn''t ID me, so as long as there hadn''t been an undercover cop nearby with the right skill, I was golden. I hoped. "Why''d you ask about the sales, anyway?" I asked. Manny looked away. "I''ve been thinking about our situation. You''re born for the shit, Bro. That thing with Magnus, and now you shoot some guy. It doesn''t even seem like it''s a big deal to you." He paused, looking me in the eyes. I thought of objecting, telling him that of course it was but I didn''t. It didn''t seem like I''d had any other options, but I was tired of justifying my actions, so I said nothing. Manny continued. "You are, but I''m not. This shit with Brass Lee and those hipster fucks is eating at my guts. I want out. So, I''ve got a deal for you. I''ll give you the rest of the weed, as much cash as I can and my car. In exchange you will take sole responsibility for our debt. I''ll walk into the light and never think about the shadows ever again. Lee and those hipsters will never find me or my family." I seriously thought about it for a good ten seconds. It really was a generous offer. With all the money in my pocket, plus the cash we''d taken from Magnus and whatever Manny had we were probably pretty close to being able to pay Lee off completely. That would leave most of the weed still unsold. With the added bonus of Manny''s Regal on top, it was a killer deal. There was one big problem with it. I''d be losing my only real friend and ally in this world. My partner. I just couldn''t do it. I grasped for a wispy, uncertain possibility that had been in the back of my mind and held it tight. "Hey, hold on. Don''t bail on me yet. I have an idea that might help us out of this. Let''s go talk to Big El." 1.28 - The Tedz Connection Since we were about to leave I ducked into the nearby booth and entered the shadows. Manny helped me load my bicycle into the backseat of his Regal. He muttered something about his interior, but his heart wasn''t in it. The seats back there were faded and cracked vinyl, my bike wouldn''t make much of a difference. I even took a moment to use my lock to secure the front wheel to the base of the driver''s seat. "Alright, bicycle''s in the back. Now tell me what you think Big El is going to do for us, Bro?" "Let''s call it a hunch. He''s a fixer, right?" "What, so you think he''s just going to fix this thing with the Hip? No way, Bro." "No, nothing like that. It usually means that he connects people, doesn''t it? He knows where to find things, and who to talk to, to get shit done. I figure he''s the best guy to get on our side here. Can you just trust me on this?" Manny shrugged, and I continued. "Also, I really need to get some new clothes. I threw away the weed shirt and shorts, and all I''ve got left is what I''m wearing." "Shit, Bro. You should have mentioned that, I could''ve brought some clothes with me. So, you''re homeless now, huh?" "Yeah, I guess so. I slept there last night," I said, pointing to the Highway Star just across the road. "You slept in that shithole? Damn, Bro. You''re lucky you didn''t get robbed." "I had the gun, but yeah I think someone was going to try." We got in the car, and Manny started it up. "Well, you can''t stay with us, you know that. I do know somebody though. He''s kind of sketchy, but he mentioned he was looking for a house mate. He was one of the few customers I had that wasn''t a student." "Great, let''s do that later after we talk to Big El." The early morning traffic was light and the drive was pleasant, and I spent the time filling Manny in on the details. I didn''t hold anything back. He was my partner, and he deserved to know. What I''d done might blow back on him, after all. "Damn, you literally shot him in the movie theater. That''s crazy, Bro." "Yeah, I fucked up and he managed to corner me. These guys are crazy." I regretted saying that nearly immediately, as I saw Manny''s face tense up. Reiterating just how badass the guys that wanted to kill us were wasn''t a good strategy, so I changed the subject. "The park was great though. I sold a lot, and you''re remember that cute girl, Juliette?" "Yeah, what about her?" "She bought some more, and she shared a joint with me." I didn''t mention that it was my first time, since for all I knew the previous version of me was a big pothead that smoked up with Manny on the regular. "Whoa, she bought your pot and then she shared it with you. Score, Bro. She''s into you." I shrugged. "I don''t know. She said she was just taking a break from that other guy with them." "Yeah, I get it." Each of us dropped into silence for a few seconds there, thinking. "Hey, Manny. If we were to hook up with one of these chicks, how would that even work? I could only date her when I was walking in the shadows?" "Way of the outlaw, Bro. If you break the mirror with her, what happens when she thinks you''re cheating on her? Maybe she goes and tells all her friends who you are in the light and really fucks you over." "What, really? She can just break the mirror like that?" I asked. "Nah, not just by telling them. If she''s with someone, they both see you, and then she tells them who you are on the other side, the mirror would break. Well, it would if that person knew you on the other side." I gulped. So that was something that could actually happen. I''d suspected it, but it hadn''t been clear until now. My secret identity was more fragile than I''d hoped. All it would take is one person blabbing in the wrong circumstances and it would be gone. "That''s scary, man." "No shit, Bro. Yeah, don''t tell your girlfriend who you are on the light side. Don''t break that mirror. Hell, I''ve read that some outlaws don''t even break it with their wives." A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. I nodded, seeing the logic in it. Simply not revealing yourself to your wife, ever, seemed crazy on the surface. But only on the surface. If you were going to live your life in the shadows, as any kind of criminal, you were handing a lot of power to anyone that you broke the mirror with. If I could rewind time, I would never have done it with Manny. I pulled up the debt screen, checking to see when we''d meet with Brass Lee or one of the turtle brothers again to pay our vig.
Loans - "Mack"
None
Debts - "Mack"
Creditor: "Brass Lee" Amount: $6,000 Vig: 3.0%/7 days
Other responsible debtor(s): "Manny"
Next payment of $180 due in 4 days.
Not long now. I was sure we were close to having the money to pay off the debt completely. Not long after we pulled into the parking lot in front of Terminator fashions. It was still ridiculously early on a Sunday morning, and the parking lot was empty. "Hey, are they meant to be open?" I reached for my non-existent phone to check the time before exerting my will to make the world tell me instead.
San Tadeo, California, 08:49 Sunday March 08, 2020 E Manchester Boulevard and S Hillcrest Boulevard Walking in the Shadows
"Shit, I don''t know, Bro. I''ve never been here this early Sunday morning. They should be?" We pulled into the spot directly in front of the doors and could easily see the closed sign just above the sticker with the hours. On Sundays they opened up at 9am. "Great, 10 minutes," I said. Manny leaned back in his seat, turning up the music a little. It was a little early in the day for me for gangster rap, but I was finding it helpful to my mindset. If I was going to be a gangster, I wanted to be a proper one. Not just some suburban D&D nerd LARPing. Since I''d already shot my first rival and sold a bunch of drugs, it felt like I was already a few steps down that path. A few minutes later a car pulled up beside us, something foreign and old looking. It was beautiful, and I vaguely recognized seeing it in a few movies, a silvery gray aerodynamic shape. I Identified it.
1974 Citroen DS 21 Silver 7AWS256
The man that stepped out of the car was quite small, dressed immaculately in a black button-down shirt with matching slacks and shoes. His pale white skin stood out under his dark brown hair, curly but artfully coifed. He wore a tasteful gold bracelet and rings on his right hand. In his left he carried a chunky key ring which he spun idly as he walked to the front of the store. In profile, I was amazed at just how large his nose was. It was like the beak of a raptor and rather than diminishing him made him look powerful, despite his size. I identified him.
"Tedz"
He looked over his shoulder at us as he unlocked the doors. "You''re early. Five minutes and we will be open." Tedz''s voice was tinged with a faint accent, but I didn''t quite recognize it. He disappeared into the shop and a few minutes later the sign changed from closed to open and we were right there waiting. Terminator fashions looked just as I recalled, although the atmosphere seemed different somehow. I realized it was because instead of music playing in the background, it was completely silent and relatively warm since Tedz had just now turned on the air conditioning. Tedz was walking away from the door we had just entered, and turned to greet us. "My, you are eager. How can I help you gentlemen?" I finally placed his accent, it was French. Much faded into a hybrid Californian/French accent, but still there. Manny looked at me, and I stepped forward. "I need to speak to Big El." Tedz''s raised an eyebrow. "It is first thing Sunday morning. My employer does not work in the shop on Sundays. I''m sure I can help you find whatever you need." I wasn''t ready to give up just yet. "It''s not about something in the shop. Big El is a fixer and we need his services." Tedz looked mildly surprised, looking us both over. I was wearing my slightly smelly jeans and T-shirt, while Manny was decked out in another variation of his wannabe gangster outfit, most of it probably bought right in the shop. Tedz didn''t seem impressed. "I''m sorry, but I don''t believe you to be the kind of clients that my employer serves. In any case, those services normally require an appointment. You do not have one. I must ask you to purchase something or leave the store." Manny reached out a hand to grab me on my right shoulder. "Let''s go, Bro." I shook him off. "Not just yet. Listen, Tedz. I know we don''t look like much, but we are the kind of client that Big El serves." I reached in my right pocket and pulled out my roll. It looked thick and impressive with the hundreds wrapped around the outside but was really only $2,058 dollars. I held it up in front of my face. "Not only that, we have done business with Big El before. I''d like to ask you to get him on the phone and let me speak to him. I''m sure he''ll want to make some time for us." I returned Tedz''s gaze silently as he considered. He didn''t even look at Manny, just me, and the seconds stretched. "Very well, I will call him. If you have misjudged, be aware that my employer is not above barring you from the premises permanently." I nodded, keeping a poker face. "That''s fine, it won''t come to that." Tedz crossed the store and went behind the counter to pick up a cordless phone. I heard two beeps and Tedz watched us with the phone to his ear, waiting. When the person on the other end answered, Tedz spoke into the phone in a low voice. I heard my name, and a few words but nothing in English. After a short conversation, Tedz put the phone down on the counter. "Mack, Big El would like to speak with you." I walked across the shop and picked up the phone. "Hello." "Mack, it''s Sunday morning. I''m in my pajamas and I''m about to have breakfast with my family. This had better be good," Big El said, his voice unmistakable. Tedz watched closely just across the counter. "I need your services, and I need you to sell me some equipment to hide my and Manny''s shadow names." There was a long silence on the other end. Big El was just not speaking, as I could hear in the background plates and cutlery clinking, and people talking. After what seemed like an awfully long time, he spoke again. "How do you know about that? Who told you?" 1.29 - The Deal "Honestly, it was just a guess. You mentioned you had a holster that can hide my gun from a skill, and I just figured you had a lot more you weren''t showing us." Big El snorted. "You guessed. That''s why you called me on a Sunday morning? You''ve got some balls, Mack." "I''ve heard that before. Sorry for interrupting your breakfast." "It''s not ready yet, so you''re not interrupting. And you won''t be. Hand the phone back to Tedz." I handed the phone back to the man who''d been watching my conversation with a raised eyebrow. He spoke quietly into the phone in French, quietly enough that I didn''t hear much of anything. He hung up with a beep and set the phone back down on the charger behind the counter. "Mack, Manny, come with me please. My employer has asked me to give you a seat in our private waiting area. There you will be unobserved by any future customers, which I believe is what you want, yes?" I nodded as Manny said, "Yes." We followed Tedz across the store to a door set in the back wall, a non-descript steel door with an "Employees Only" sign. Tedz unlocked it with a key on his ring and gestured us both inside. The room beyond was just large enough for one L-shaped couch and a square wooden table covered with magazines. On the opposite wall an identical steel door led further in. Despite the small size it was well appointed and comfortable. The walls were a tasteful off-white, the lighting provided by several sconces. The couch was a puffy, thick black leather job and the coffee table was solid, thick dark wood. Underneath our feet was a deep shag carpet in a cream color. "Have a seat and make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen. My employer has said that he will join you when he is done his breakfast." "Thanks," I said, but Tedz wasn''t done. "You should be aware just how unusual this is. I expect that you will find my employer''s services today to be very costly." I didn''t have a chance to respond before Tedz left the room, closing the door behind him. I heard the click of the door locking. "Oh shit," I said, and stepped over the door, turning the handle. It really was locked. I pounded on the door. "Tedz!" Ten seconds later the door opened again and Tedz peered in, looking annoyed. "Yes, do you want something?" "You''re locking us in?" "It is for your protection, and the protection of our VIP customer area. Please, relax yourselves and wait." He closed the door in my face again. The bolt clicked audibly back into place as Tedz locked it again. Manny had already sat down and put his feet up on the table. "Don''t worry too much, Bro. Big El''s a good guy." I was keyed up, the tension of the last few days seeming to return. I sat down but immediately stood back up and started pacing. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. "Chill, bro. This is good. I''d heard that there was a secret shop that Big El ran, but I didn''t ever expect to get access to it. It''s for real gangsters only." "Yeah, I''m just worried I might have pissed Big El off." "Like I said, Big El''s chill. He''s a good guy, Bro. You don''t have to worry." "I don''t know man, he''s a fixer. For all we know he might be making a deal with the Hip right now." "Well shit, Bro. Now that you say it like that," Manny said, trailing off. He sat up. "Did you bring your piece?" I asked. "Yeah, I''ve always got it on now, like you. At least when I''m in the shadows." I kept pacing. The carpet absorbed all of the sound, like the room itself seemed to. Manny and I were in utter silence, the only sounds being the ones we ourselves made. It was unnerving. Time passed so painfully slowly while we were waiting in that room. Even Manny was feeling it, despite his earlier relaxed demeanor. I had put the fear into him, and he was unable to peacefully sit and read. We chatted a little bit about inconsequential things, but even that conversation had quickly died. I had just managed to sit down for a couple of nervous minutes when I heard keys rattle outside rear door as someone unlocked it. I shot to my feet, my hand around the grip of my pistol, ready to draw. I had a terrifying vision of the door opening and Magnus and his goons pouring in. Manny stood as well, his hands at his sides. With a final click of the lock disengaging the door opened, and a little bit of the tension left me as Big El stepped in. He was dressed slightly more casually this time around. Instead of his immaculately tailored black and white suit, he was wearing khaki slacks and a polo shirt. Less gold, as well. "Manny, Mack. It''s good to see you both," he said, looking us both over. He took in my stance and as he did, I realized I was still holding the gun and let go. "Caution is good, Mack. Despite your early morning call, I bear you no ill will. I will never sell out one of my customers without cause." "See, I told you he''s good people, Bro." "Thank you, Manny." "Big El, we''re in a bit of a situation, and we need" I started, but Big El cut me off. "I know about your situation with the Fatally Hip. For someone so new to the game, you have made enemies very quickly, Mack. One of Magnus''s shooters is in the hospital, I''ve heard. Was that you?" I opened my mouth to answer, either to deny or admit it, I wasn''t sure. Whatever it was, he cut me off again. "No, don''t tell me. Consider that a rhetorical question. Now, you''ve gained temporary access to this room because you made me curious. You made a big play, and I respect boldness. I can see, however, that both of you are still small fish. Normally, this space is only for those that are invited. People known to me or referred by respected members of our community. You are neither of those, so why should I let you have access to our restricted wares?" I pulled my roll out and held it up. "We can pay. We are doing pretty well." "Cash? Everyone can pay. I''m not a charity. While cash is required, it is not sufficient. Give me a better reason." I should''ve known it wouldn''t be that easy. I racked my brain, trying to come up with some way to sell them, but I drew a blank. I decided to try something radical, the truth. "You''re right, Big El. I made at least one really nasty enemy in the last few days, and I regret that. I just didn''t see any other way. Best case, we would''ve both ended up in the hospital. We fucked up, but we didn''t deserve that." "Agreed, Magnus and his gang are not known for being forgiving. This is not a reason." "All right, here''s the reason then. I fucked up and my friend Manny here is paying for it. We need your help to hide from those psychos until we can defend ourselves, or maybe forever. I know that''s not a good reason either, charity. So I''ve got one last reason for you. We''re small fish now but we''re not going to be forever. I''m going to be a big fish¡ªmaybe the biggest. When I do, my friends are coming with me. Manny, and maybe you too, Big El." "I''ve heard that from young men before. Most of whom are now dead, or in prison." "Wait a second, Big El. Mack here''s born for this shit. My bro''s got balls of steel, and twice now he''s come out on top versus the Hip. Doesn''t that count for something? He got the Brass Dragon tong to give us a loan for 6K. I believe him. If we can just survive this shit with the Hip, my boy here is going straight up." Big El seemed to weigh that seriously. "Still, I don''t believe you can afford the equipment you want. If I take a risk on you and you die, I will lose my investment. I''m not in the business of losing money." The hope that had been building in my chest dropped out, and I gritted my teeth against the disappointment. "I understand," I said, unable to keep the disappointment out of my voice. "That said, I have been known to gamble from time to time. Even the occasional longshot, like you, Mack. Let''s see if we can make a deal." 1.30 - Whats In The Box? Big El let us through the door he''d entered from, further into the guts of Terminator Fashions. Directly outside that door a long corridor stretched to the left and right, lined with doors on both sides. On each end was a steel door with a glowing, red exit sign above it. "Follow me, gentlemen," Big El said, and led us to the left. He stopped at the first door on his right, an unmarked steel door like all of them in this hallway. He unlocked it, opening it for us and ushering us inside. I wasn''t sure what I had been expecting. Whatever it had been, behind that door was a surprise. I''d only seen rooms like that in the movies¡ªthose scenes where the hero goes to a high-end tailor to get a new suit and loaded out with high-tech gadgets. On the far end of the room was an alcove, and in that alcove a slightly-raised pedestal surrounded by mirrors. Lining the walls of the room were shelves with artfully arranged shoes, belts, watches and other accessories. In the center of the room was a fat, round leather couch, of a type I''d never seen before. The room looked and even smelled expensive¡ªa heady mix of high end leather and wood. "Normally, one of our tailors would be on duty, but as it Sunday and we had no appointments, he has the day off. As I normally do." "Sorry," I said, again. "It''s fine, Mack. I still had my breakfast. Our meeting will be brief, and then I will return to my family. Come, what you need is over here." He walked over to one of the shelves on the left wall, pulling open a drawer. Manny and I followed, keeping a respectful distance. Big El reached in and pulled out two small, wooden boxes. They were made of a dark, shining wood with each corner was rounded and smooth. He held one easily in each palm as they were only about ten inches long and four inches deep and tall. Printed on the top in an elegant black script was ''Sunshroud''. He handed a box to each of us. I took mine gingerly, respecting the sheer workmanship of what Big El was handing us. I was a bit worried actually¡ªusually only crazily expensive things came in boxes like this. "Please, open them and take a look." The wooden box in my hands had a near invisible seam along the sides, and after I saw that it was a simple matter to smoothly slide the top off. Inside, nestled in a perfectly shaped cocoon of red velvet was a pair of sunglasses in a style I''d only ever seen in a classic John Carpenter movie called "They Live." I pulled the sunglasses free, carefully, setting the empty box and lid down on a nearby shelf beside a very fancy looking belt. The glasses didn''t feel special my hands, a little heavier than I was expecting, but normal. I identified them.
Sunshroud Sunglasses
These luxurious sunglasses will protect your privacy while walking in the shadows by concealing your name.
Charge: $100/$500 Value: $3000
Manny had obviously IDed them at the exact same time because he and I both made surprised noises at the same time. This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. "Damn, Big El. These are serious," Manny said. Manny was right. I winced when I read the value. I could almost afford it, but not quite. I wasn''t sure that Manny could either. The effect was just what we needed, but the price was brutal. The thing with charge was also a little concerning, but that wasn''t at the top of my list of things to worry about right at the moment. "I''m not sure we can afford these, Big El," I said. "Oh, I know. One of my skills is the ability to tell someone''s net worth, at least roughly. I can see that this would be a financial hardship for you. Plus, those glasses are not the only thing you need." "What do you mean? Some other piece of equipment?" I asked. "No, not equipment. You''ve been reckless, Mack." I started to object, but he waved me down. "It''s to be expected with a young man finding his place in our world. You just need to temper that boldness, that recklessness, and take the proper precautions. I will give you a referral to Hector Rodriguez, a gifted attorney. That way, when the cops pick you up, and have no fear, they eventually will, you will be ready. Without him on retainer, you will spend far longer in jail than you would like." That was unexpected. A lawyer. Not body armor, or some other piece of magic equipment, but a lawyer. I guess it made sense. "I don''t think we can afford to put a lawyer on retainer. At least not until we sell some more." "It doesn''t have to be today. In fact, there is no way Hector is in his office today, he will most likely be out on his yacht. I will give you the referral, and you make an appointment. Pay him his retainer, and then hope you never need him." "Big El, Mack is right," Manny said. "I can''t afford these glasses. I mean, I could, but I''d have to break into my college fund and I can''t really do that." "Understood, Manny. As I said, this is somewhat of a gamble for me. Here''s my proposal. I will sell both pairs for $4000 and you, Mack, will owe me a solid favor." I did the math in my head. We could afford it, but it would be a big hit. We would go from just about ready to pay off Brass Lee to nearly back to square one. "You mind if I talk to my partner about this?" I asked Big El. "Of course," Big El said. He walked across to the other side of the room, leaving us there in relative privacy. "What do you think, Manny?" "I guess we have the money, but it''s a lot. You sure about this? That deal I proposed is still on the table, Bro. I give it all to you and you worry about it. Then I don''t need the glasses." I struggled with the emotions of what I wanted to say to him. A whole bunch of lousy, manipulative shit came to mind and I pushed it aside. Manny had been nothing but a good friend to me¡ªbetter than I deserved. I''d gotten him into so much shit, and he''d rolled with it and had my back. It felt selfish, but I didn''t want that to end. "Manny, I need you buddy. I really don''t want to do this by myself." "Ugh, bro. Shit, I don''t want to leave you hanging, but these fuckers are serious." "Yeah, they are. They''re not gods though. They''re just guys, psychotic fucking hipsters. With the sunglasses their little snitches won¡¯t be able to find us anymore. We''ll be fine until we''re ready to deal with them." "Deal with them?" Manny asked, sounding a bit alarmed. "You know, have a sit down and hash out our differences, or whatever." The whatever part, of course, was the route where we would kill them all and take their stuff. The gamer in me wanted that to be the route we went. Manny looked relieved. "All right, Bro. I''m going to follow your lead on this one. You have my back, I have yours, okay?" I nodded. "Always, brother." We had a bro hug and there was some real emotion in it. It was nice to have real friends. I''d forgotten how much I''d missed that, back in Los Angeles. Big El had been watching from the other side of the room, and spoke up. "So, do we have an agreement?" "Yeah, we do," I replied. 1.31 - A Precious Peach After a bit of moving cash from Manny''s roll to mine, we each put $2k in a pile. We handed over the cash, a mixed pile of all denominations, and Big El held it in his hand for a moment he nodded with satisfaction. Fast Count in action. "Now that''s out of the way, the favor." I nodded, and concentrated my will on offering a favor to Big El.
You are offering a solid favor to "Big El"
In exchange for: $2000 discount on purchase Personal referral to Hector Rodriguez
Confirm?
It seemed it was a two way process or the system automatically filled in the details, as I hadn''t tried to do any of that. I''d just concentrated on a solid favor to Big El, and it had done the rest. I held my intent on the accept in the same way I''d had to with the loan agreement and after a few seconds the screen disappeared. I felt slightly different for a moment, so I brought up my favor screen.
Favors - Frank McLean
Favors - "Mack"
"Mack" OWES a solid favor to "Big El"
Big El pulled out a fat, black leather wallet and carefully extracted a shining card. "Take this. You''ll need to go in person to make the appointment, and when you do just present the card. His secretary will give you a slot. He''s a busy man, so like me his services as an attorney are referral only these days." I nodded, accepting the card he handed me. It was shiny, a thin piece of metal in the shape of a business card. Etched into the surface was the Terminator Fashions logo and the number 22. It seemed far too simple, but it became clear it wasn''t just a piece of metal when I IDed it.
Big El''s Referral #22 Value: ???
"Thanks a lot. I won''t disappoint you," I promised. "Yeah, thanks, Big El. This is a load off my mind," Manny said. "You''re welcome, guys. Now go, I want my Sunday back. Oh, and don''t forget to keep those glasses charged." "I meant to ask you how that worked," I said. "Items like this need fuel. The more times it protects you, the more charge it will use." "And to charge it costs money? That means every time someone tries to ID us, it cost us money?" I asked. "If you''re wearing the glasses, and the person trying to ID you is also walking in shadow, yes." "Cool. I''d heard of items like that," Manny said. "How much per ID?" I asked. "And doesn''t that mean someone can just spam ID at us until they run us out of cash?" "Spam? The canned meat?" Big El asked, looking confused. "Sorry. I mean rapidly try over and over until they run us out of money." "No. It''s per person per day. An item with such an obvious vulnerability wouldn''t be that useful." "Now, I was serious, I need to go. My children are waiting for me. Manny¡ªdon''t forget to get rid of your car. The Hip have included it and your license plate in their description." If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. "Shit. I can''t afford a new car." Manny cursed. Big El was ushering us toward the closest exit door with our wooden boxes in one hand and sunglasses in the other. "I can''t help you there," Big El said. "We''ll go see the LSS guys, Manny." At the exit door, Big El stopped. "Good luck and be smart. I expect that favor to be worth a fortune someday, Mack." I extended my right hand and shook his, feeling real gratitude towards the man. "Thank you, Big El. You won''t regret it." Big El turned to Manny, and just got a bro hug, instead of the more formal handshake I had offered. "Thanks, Big El. You the man." With that, we put on our sunglasses and pushed through the exit door. It clunked close behind us, leaving us on the sidewalk beside the strip mall. We walked back out front to our car. The parking lot was still almost empty, only two other cars there. Tedz''s Citroen, and a battered 70''s Chevette that made Manny''s Regal look like a luxury car. It was parked quite far away, backed into a spot on the street side of the mall parking lot, and the driver was sitting in the car with the windows down, music playing faintly. I could only see a little bit of her face behind the glare of glass, but she was a white woman with large glasses and stringy brown hair. I didn''t recognize her, but she stared right at us. I IDed her.
"Precious Peach"
"Check it out, Bro. That chick just tried to ID us. I lost five bucks of charge on the glasses. Shit, what a name. Precious Peach." With a thought I got my own glasses panel to appear.
Sunshroud Sunglasses
These luxurious sunglasses will protect your privacy while walking in the shadows by concealing your name.
Charge: $95/$500 Value: $3000
"Yeah, me too. Let''s go, she might have already called them." We hurried over to the car and piled in. After Manny started the engine I heard the wheezy noise of the Chevette engine turning over and coming to life. "Shit, she''s gonna follow us. Don''t worry, Bro, I got this. I can lose her." I had a vision of Manny driving the speed limit, maybe five or ten miles an hour over, and trying to lose this chick in the Chevette for the rest of the day. Either that, or he''d drive crazy and we''d crash. A car wreck was not on my agenda for the day. "Nah, hold on. Drive like we''re leaving, but go that direction, and stop the car right in front of her. Block her in," I instructed. Manny pulled out and the Regal''s engine roared as it crossed the short distance and the tires squealed as he slammed to a halt, his driver''s door almost touching the front bumper of the pathetic brown Chevette. I opened the door, drew my pistol and dashed to the Chevette''s driver''s side door. As soon as I was around Manny''s Regal I brought the gun up. If she was armed, I didn''t want her to have a chance to shoot me. She freaked out as she saw me coming, fumbling with the gearshift before finally stopping when I tapped on the door frame beside her head with the muzzle of my pistol. Shrill, yappy little barks came out of the open window from a tiny dog on the passenger seat. I didn''t recognize the breed, it was some useless little yap dog. She was using her right hand to keep it from leaping to attack me. I turned my attention back to Precious Peach. "Howdy." "What? I''m not doing nothing." "That''s bullshit and you know it. Keys, now." I extended my left hand, palm up and kept the gun in my right pointed at Peach''s head. Now that I was close and could see her, it was rather sad. The back of the Chevette was filled with junk¡ªboxes and a bedroll. The interior of the car smelled like both of them were living in it, a heady mix of body odor and dog shit. Trash from fast food places and grocery store ready meals littered the foot well on the passenger side, along with a few empty cans of dog food. It was horrifying. "What, why?" she sputtered. "Give them to me. Don''t worry, you''ll get them back. I''ll drop them on the sidewalk two blocks north on Hillcrest." With a trembling left hand she awkwardly reached down and turned off the car, pulling the keys free. It was a small collection, the keychain a miniature, ragged teddy bear. She placed them gingerly into my hand. "Great. Now, if I see you again, I''m going to shoot you, Peach." I backed away, keeping the gun low but ready to bring back up if she went for a gun hidden somewhere in the trash heap that was her car. She didn''t seem in a hurry to do anything aggressive, and a few seconds later I was back in the passenger seat and we were rolling. "Go north on Hillcrest two blocks, I''ve got to drop these keys. I don''t want her to lose the only keys to what''s basically her house." Manny nodded, his jaw tight. Two blocks up he pulled over and I tossed the keys into the middle of the broad, white concrete of the empty sidewalk. With luck, Peach would get here before some random scavenger came by and scooped them up. There was no one in sight, so I expected she would. With that done, Manny gunned the engine and we were rolling again. "Shit, Bro. It seems like your first answer these days is the gun. What''s up with that?" I thought about it, was it? The gun certainly felt like the best answer a lot of the time. In this case though, that wasn''t the reason. "Nah, not always. I just wanted to avoid a long drawn out car chase. We''ve got shit to do today." "Alright, Bro," Manny said. He sounded skeptical, and I couldn''t really blame him. 1.32 - Lyle Street "Great, there''s no one following us. Let''s go to Lyle street and see if we can get you a new car. You know where it is?" I asked. "Shit, Bro, I thought you did. Nah, I''ve never heard of it. Check the glove box, I have an atlas in there." I didn''t know what he meant. What use would an atlas be? I dug it out anyway. It was a thick red book, a 2010 vintage road atlas of San Tadeo and San Tadeo County. I leafed through it, seeing page after page of map sections. This must have been what people used before Google maps. I went to the index and eventually found an entry for Lyle street, with a few page numbers and map references beside it. Manny pulled over while I looked through it. "If you''ve got a map coordinate just open up the big map in the middle, so we can see what neighborhood it''s in." In the center of the book was a large, foldout map, the entirety of San Tadeo in one place. I found D8 on the map. Compton. "Shit, that''s really in the hood, Bro. You sure about this?" "You saw what just happened back there. You can''t drive this thing anymore. They don''t know who we are with these glasses on, but it''d be pretty obvious to anybody looking for the car who we were. Even if they can''t see our names." "Yeah, you''re right, Bro. I''ll head that way. Give me directions as we get closer." Back in the 90s, the hey-days of gangsta rap, Compton had been majority black. In present-day LA, those neighborhoods were majority Latino. I wondered what it was like here in San Tadeo. The last part of their name was the Soldados, after all. It did seem weird¡ªtwo black dudes with a Spanish gang name? Manny knew where he was going, and I didn''t need to give him any directions until we got quite close. "Right turn just up there, Manny." "Got it. Hold on, I need to stop." In a smooth movement he pulled into a convenience store parking lot, killing the engine. "I''m starving, Bro. I had to skip out on breakfast to come get you, I need some snacks. You want anything?" "Yeah, just a Coke," I said. Manny laughed. "Shit, Bro. They don''t sell that shit in convenience stores. What the hell?" "Sorry, brain fart. Get me a cola or whatever." Manny went into the convenience store and came back out a few minutes later with a big bag of beef jerky and two colas. It was a brand I''d had before, acceptable enough. Brown, fizzy liquid with a big caffeine hit. What else was there to it? I really needed to learn what this world''s equivalents of Coke and Pepsi were to avoid that kind of fuck up in the future. Like back in LA, the big brands were there but there were tons of small ones too. I was fairly sure the one I was drinking wasn''t one of the big guys. Manny started up the car and offered me his open bag of jerky. I took some and began chewing. It was tough but delicious. It was nice to get something else in my stomach other than donuts. We were soon back on our way. Lyle street wasn''t long, by Los Angeles standards. Only a couple of miles. The first few blocks were houses, the typical Pueblo style single-story jobs that I was used to in South LA. Stucco fortresses with bars on the doors and windows, and either pavement or gravel instead of grass. After that, it became kind of an industrial area with clusters of auto shops, car washes and a sprinkling of fast food restaurants. It was there that I finally spotted what we were looking for. "Hold up, I think I saw it. Back up." Some of the industrial businesses there were set back from the road with large yards, fences and gates closing them in. We''d passed one a second ago and I caught a glint, just a tiny flash, of Big Bad Orange. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Manny reversed slowly until we were back in front of the gate. It was one of those sliding, metal types. Dented, scarred, and painted green. The sign over the entrance looked nearly as old as the gate and said, "Gonzalez Automotive Restoration." The gate was closed, but through the tiny gap between the gate and the fence Big Bad Orange was clearly visible now that we were stopped. I moved my head around and caught tiny slices of the AMC Javelin on the other side, parked in the yard. On the fence beside the gate, down near the sidewalk I spotted a tag. Even before I invoked my skill, I could see what it was. LSS.
Territory Claim Marker Lyle Street Soldados
"This is the place," I said. Manny parked on the street and we walked to the gate. There was no bell and it was locked tight. I pounded on the metal, my fist making a loud hollow banging noise. "Shit, Bro. Don''t knock like you''re the cops." "What else am I going to do? There''s no doorbell." Nothing happened, so I tried to knock a little more politely the second time. A noise I''d been hearing the whole time suddenly cut off. It''d been a high-pitched screeching noise. I didn¡¯t recognize it¡ªthe sound of some power tool. Now that it was gone, it was obvious that it had been coming from inside the yard. I pounded again, louder this time. "Bro," Manny objected. "Hondo, Flattop, you guys in there?" I yelled. I heard some movement behind the gate, a door opening and feet walking across gravel. Then, a voice. "Who is that?" "Hey, my name is Mack. We met at Mesotonic Technical. I brought my friend. We want to talk about getting a new car." An eyeball appeared in the gap between the gate in the fence post, looking us over. "Shit, it is you, white boy. You ditched that weed shirt, good call," the voice said. I thought I recognized it as Hondo, and that thought was confirmed when he unlocked and slid the gate open. He stood there in greasy, faded blue jeans and a white muscle top, with safety goggles pushed up onto his forehead. His hands and arms were covered in grease stains. "Hey, come on in. Don''t stand out here." He waved us in, but I stopped him. "Actually, we need to get the car off the street. Can we park it in here?" I asked. "Uh, Sure." Manny ran back to the Regal, started it up and a minute later was easing it through the gate, which Hondo closed behind him. I looked around, taking in the yard. It wasn''t huge, maybe a hundred feet wide and the same deep, before ending in the flat, grey metal wall of an industrial building with one giant sliding door, repurposed into a garage. Beside that sliding door, a single, heavy metal door in a human size was gaping open. Lining the walls of the yard were neatly stacked body parts in all colors and several towers of black rubber tires. Crouched in the middle of the yard like a predatory animal was the AMC Javelin, shining in the sun. "Cool car, Bro." "Thanks," Honda replied, smiling. "I restored her myself, with my dad. It''s not mine though, it''s Flattop''s car. " "Still, cool." Hondo nodded, accepting the praise. "Listen, if you guys are here to do business, I''ve got to get Flattop. I''m working on a project, and he''s the one handles the business side." "Sure," I agreed. Hondo returned to the garage, picked up a phone just inside the door and dialed. After a quick chat he hung up and returned to us. "He''s on the way. It''ll be a few minutes," he said. "Hey, why can''t I ID you two? I can''t even get your names. You''re not in the light." Before I could make up some kind of convincing lie, Manny was talking. "It''s the sunglasses. Sweet, right?" He pushed the sunglasses on to the top of his head. "Try now." Hondo looked at him and smiled when his ID worked. "Nice. Don''t show that shit around here though. Just the fact that people can''t see your name is going to make them want to rob you. They''ll want whatever it is that you got." I thought about that, and of course it was true. We''d gone from being exposed to snitches to becoming a target for ambitious robbers. Great. "Shit. Manny, we have got to hit that gun range soon." Hondo laughed. "Hell yeah, you do." "Damn, Bro. Yeah, you''re right. My uncle told me about one he likes. We''ll go there, it''s pretty cheap and you can bring your own guns." There was a pounding at the gate, and Hondo went over to let Flattop in. He was dressed much the same as the last time I''d seen him, and looked actually surprised and glad to see me. "Hey, glad you decided to come by. Did you decide you need a ride?" He came in and shook my hand, pulling me close in a version of the bro hug. "Yeah, we need to get rid of Manny''s car and get a new one. Can you help out with that?" I asked. "This piece of shit? We can sell it for scrap, but that''s about it." Hondo said. "Hey, Bro! That''s my baby." Hondo just snorted. Manny looked a little offended, but it passed quickly. Flattop shook his head, grimacing. "Hondo. Yeah, we can get rid of the car. There won''t be much money in it. It can''t be entered into the light system, and nobody cares about Regal parts. No self-respecting gangster is going to want to drive that. Why you getting rid of it?" "The Hip have it in their description of us." Flattop nodded, but I noticed he gave my glasses a look over. "I think we can help you. Come on in the garage and we''ll show you what we''ve got." 1.33 - Quest for Wheels We followed Flattop and Hondo into the large garage, the smells of gasoline, oil and paint filling the space, along with the burnt smell of ground metal. When my eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, I could see the inside was large. The back of the shop was filled with machining tools. In front were three cars. One was the car you''d always see undercover cops driving, complete with a push bar on the front and mismatched blue and grey body panels. The second was under a tarp, and the third was up on a hydraulic lift. The car on the lift was missing every single body panel and all four wheels, a mere skeleton of a car. "Wow, this is a full-on auto shop," I said. "Hell yeah. When my dad was still here, we did a lot of custom work. Now it''s mostly chop jobs. I just don''t have the same skills as my dad," Hondo said, a note of sadness in his voice. "What happened to your dad?" Manny asked. Flattop answered for him. "He''s in prison. Hondo and me are all that''s left of the Lyle Street Soldados. The rest are in prison or dead." It was a good reminder. Despite how carefree my life here in the last few days had seemed, the cops were still present. If you weren''t careful, even with the protection of the shadows, they would get you. "Really? It''s just you and Hondo now?" I asked. "Yeah. We''re just barely hanging onto this last bit of turf. Anyway, that''s our problem not yours," Flattop said. "What''s that up on the lift?" I asked. "That''s a Camry," Hondo supplied. "They''re pretty much cash on wheels." "What do you mean?" Manny asked. "You ever seen one of those shows about traditional hunters, like the native Americans back in the day?" Flattop asked. "Ah shit, not this again," Hondo said. "Hear me out," Flattop said, getting into it. "We''re just like those cats. I go out into the wilds, hunting. I find myself a juicy Camry and bring it back to our cave here. Hondo here turns it into parts. Just like those guys, we use every part of the kill. Nothing goes to waste. We even siphon off the gas and burn it in the Javelin." "Such a stupid metaphor," Hondo complained. "It is not. Totally apt metaphor. Anyway, back to the cars. We can''t sell you the Camry, because Hondo''s already halfway done butchering it for our little tribe here. That leaves the Crown Vic and-" Flattop said, but Hondo cut him off. "Just the Crown Vic. You know the other one''s not for sale." "Right, not for sale," Flattop said, not missing a beat. "You can see the Crown Vic there. It''s a good car if a bit ugly. They''re fast, they have enormous trunks, and they''re really reliable." I didn''t know what they meant about the Crown Vic, but it became clear when I IDed what I thought of as the cop car parked nearby.
1996 Ford Crown Victoria Mixed blue and grey NONE
"What''s the car under the tarp?" Manny asked. "That''s not for sale, that''s a project," Hondo said. "Man, you can''t hang onto that thing forever," Flattop protested. "Not forever. She''s not even finished." "You know that beast has been finished for months now. You just don''t want to let go. Sell it or drive it, one or the other. It doesn''t do anybody any good sitting in this garage." Hondo grumbled. "Whatever." "Can I see it?" Manny asked. Hondo looked at Manny with suspicion. "I told you, it''s not for sale." "Yeah, Bro. I know. Still, I''d love to check it out. If it''s anything like that beast out front it''s got to be cool." Hondo seemed mollified and nodded. He walked over to the car and carefully removed the tarp, revealing it foot by foot. Shining, cherry red curves were slowly revealed. The hood seemed like it was ten feet long. The car crouched low to the ground, smooth and aerodynamic. It was a convertible, with the top up and the windows closed. It was gorgeous, a sports car from an era when I''d been just a kid. Once the tarp was clear I identified it.
1994 Jaguar XJS Red NONE
Hondo was talking. "This started as a bog standard 1994 XJS, but my dad planned to use this as his daily driver. We got rid of the British powertrain and replaced it with the drive train from a vette. We pretty much replaced all the wiring as well¡ªit was flaky as shit in these cars." "I don''t know what that means, but sounds sweet, Bro." Hondo smiled. "Yeah, she''s a sweet ride." "And if Hondo gets his way, no one will ever drive her," Flattop added. Hondo didn''t bother to reply, just sneering at Flattop a bit. "Why''s that? A car like this, you should be driving it, Bro." I agreed, but I was starting to get a sense of what the deal was with this car and didn''t speak up. "Nah, I don''t drive. Besides, this is my dad''s ride. If anyone is going to drive it, it should be him." "Hondo, you know your dad''s never getting out." "Fuck you, man. His lawyer told me that his next appeal has some promise." "That lawyer is a piece of shit that just wants to get as much of your money as he possibly can. You know that, cuz. I''m sorry, but that''s just the way it is." As much as this argument felt like one that they''d had quite a few times, I still felt awkward witnessing it. "Whatever. You don''t know shit, man." With that, Hondo stomped off to the rear of the shop, lowering his goggles back over his eyes. Soon a flurry of sparks went up from the grinder he was using, and the garage was filled with the deafening noise. Flattop waved us back out of the space, wincing. He closed the door behind us, cutting off some of the racket. "Sorry about that, his dad''s in for 25 to life. I was hoping maybe to convince him to let go of that car. It looks like that''s not going to happen this time." "No worries man, we don''t need anything fancy," I said. Manny nodded, but slowly. "It is a beautiful car." "Yeah, it is. Totally wasted sitting in our garage. A giant chunk of cash we''ll never see. Anyway, that''s my problem, not yours. The Camry is a collection of parts. I didn''t expect he''d have done that already, so it''s out. All we''ve got left is the Crown Vic. You interested? $2500 and it''s yours." I winced. I was fairly sure that even between us we didn''t have that much. I saw Manny''s face the same realization. "We don''t have it," I said. "Not unless we can get a big chunk of cash for the Regal." "Sorry, it''s not worth much. A couple hundred bucks for scrap and that''s it. Like I said, it''s only good in the shadows right now, and no banger wants to drive something that old and clapped out." Manny looked pained but didn''t say anything. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. "Shit. I''m sorry we wasted your time, Flattop. Any ideas where we can go to get something we can afford?" I asked. "Hold on, I''ve got another idea. You guys are strapped, right? Word on the street is you put one of Magnus''s boys in the hospital." I nodded. "Yeah, we are strapped. I''ve heard that rumor too, about Zeke." Flattop smiled slyly. "Smart. Anyway, if you two can handle yourself than maybe we can work together. I''ve got a job that needs a couple more guys, and those Sunshrouds you''ve got are perfect." I was a bit alarmed by that. He hadn''t been there when Manny had blabbed about the sunglasses, so how did he know? "My sunglasses? What about them?" I asked, playing dumb. Flattop just ignored that. "They''re pricey, but it makes sense with the Hip''s bounty on you. Anyway, like I said those are perfect for what we need to do. If you two can handle yourselves we''re golden." "What do you mean handle ourselves, Bro? I''m not looking to shoot anybody," Manny protested. Flattop shook his head. "Me neither. You¡¯d be helping us steal a car, a real valuable one. It might be guarded, but if it is it''ll just be one or two guys. I don''t want to shoot anybody either, that''s how Gato went to prison." "Gato? Who''s that?" "Hondo''s dad. He was a real hard ass. He''d never back down, for nobody. He got into it with some people, killed them, and left some witnesses. Two of our guys there with him went down as accessories. That left just Hondo and me." Manny gave me a look, and it was like I was reading his mind. I frowned back at him. That wasn''t me. "What are you proposing?" I asked. "Hold on, before we go any further, I''ve got to bring Hondo back in on this conversation. Stay here a bit, would you?" I nodded, and Flattop returned to the garage. When Flattop was out of earshot, Manny turned to me. "What the hell, Bro? We''re going to start stealing cars now?" "What''s our option? We keep driving in the Regal until the Hip catch up with us? We can''t do that, man. This is perfect. They need our help¡ªwe need their car. Let''s listen to what they have to say. If it''s not too crazy and the payoff is good, we should do it." The noise the noise of the grinder inside the garage stopped. "I don''t know, Bro. It seems like every time I follow your lead I get deeper in." I was a little angry when he said that, and I spoke without thinking. "Screw that, man. I wasn''t the one that took us to the Fatally Hip''s turf to sell, that was you. No, I was the one that saved your ass from what would have been at best a severe fucking beating. For all you know, those fuckers would''ve left you dead in the street." Manny recoiled a bit, seeming surprised. "Bro," he started. I felt bad immediately after saying that, despite how true it was. Manny didn''t deserve that. "I''m sorry, man," I said. "I''ve had a rough couple of days. I''m trying my best to get us out of this, and this seems like our best shot. We help these guys and they help us. They already tried to warn me at Mesotonic, and I should''ve listened then. Can we at least hear what they have to say?" Manny deflated a bit. "Yeah, sure. I''m sorry, Bro. You''re right, you did save my ass and I''ve been doing nothing but bitching about it since. My bad. We''re both still alive, there''s a lot to be said for that." That felt good, and a second later we hugged it out. "Thanks, Manny. Hey, they''re coming back." We separated and stood like two grown men who hadn''t just been hugging. Flattop and Hondo emerged, walking across the gravel of the yard. Hondo still looked a little pissed off, but he was there. "Alright, let me lay it out. Before we talk about specifics, let''s talk in general. We would need you two to drive, using those Sunshrouds. That way, there''ll be no witnesses in the neighborhood that can ID you. If there are any guards, we need you to use those guns and help us subdue them. If we do this right there''ll be no shooting. That''s important to me¡ªI don''t want to go to jail. If this gets violent, we bug out, got it?" I nodded, carefully studying Manny''s face. "Manny, does that sound good to you?" "Yeah. I guess I can point the gun at somebody, but I don''t know if I could pull the trigger, even if I had to." Flattop looked sympathetic. "I get it. We''re not all killers. In fact, I think most people aren''t. I''m sure not. We just need to look convincing." "All right, say we agree. What''s the deal?" I asked. "You guys join us for this job. We get in and get the car. One of you drives it where it needs to go¡ªwhich is the port¡ªand then we get a big payday. Not right away, but in about a week. Hondo and I will split that cash with you guys 50-50." "That''s great and all, but we need a car." Manny said. "Yeah, we''ll owe you about $25k for your half, so Hondo and I are happy to give you the Crown Vic afterward as a small down payment. That cool?" Flattop asked. The number was astounding. 50% of a stolen car was going to be $25K? I was in the wrong business, it seemed. With that money, we could easily pay off our debt to Brass Lee and have plenty left over. Manny could leave the shadows behind if he wanted and have a nice big nest egg for his college. To be fair though, even that amount wouldn''t be enough with prices in California. "That''s a lot of money, Bro. What the hell are you guys stealing?" Flattop didn''t answer. "Are you in? If you''re not, we''re all just wasting our time here." I looked at Manny, studying his face. He looked conflicted, but finally he nodded. "We''re in." The four of us went back into the garage to the far corner where a 10'' x 10'' box had been carved out of the space and turned into what could generously be called an office. It had walls, a door, and a window, but no ceiling. On the back wall a corkboard was covered in diagrams and photos. Glossy photos of cars, and a salvage yard much like the one we were standing in. In the center of the board was a thing of beauty. A Mercedes, but not the kind you saw rich douchebags in suits driving. Long, low, and fast with silver-white paint, shining chrome, and big fat tires. It was built for speed. "This is our target, a 2020 Mercedes AMG GTS. This one has been customized for performance, and I guess it cost the original owner just about $200,000," Flattop said, pointing to the photo. "Holy shit," I said. "It has changed hands a few times since then. Whoever the original owner was, he doesn''t have it anymore. This garage is used as a holding area for cars that are about to be sold on. We''ve been watching this car for over a week now, and we think that they might move it out tomorrow. Today is our last chance to take it," Flattop said. "Why have you left it so long?" I asked. "We haven''t been able to find anybody to come in on this with us. Nobody wants to chance getting IDed as they leave. We¡¯ve got balaclavas for the job itself, but on the drive across the city we can''t be wearing them, or the cops will pull us over for sure. That''s where you guys come in, with those Sunshrouds. You''ll be driving." "Balaclavas? How do Greek pastries help us?" I asked. Flattop looked at me strangely, as if unsure if I was serious. I let him off the hook. "A joke. But seriously, how do they help?" He walked over to the desk in the corner covered with stacks of paper and reached into one of the drawers, pulling out a black ski mask. He came back and handed it to me. It looked like what I thought, your typical ski-mask type thing you''d see bank robbers wear. I identified it.
Robber''s Balaclava When activated hides wearer''s shadow name for one hour before becoming inert. Value: ???
"Hey, that''s cool," I said, and passed it back. "They don''t come cheap, but they''re perfect for something like this. We don''t want any of these guys knowing who we are." "Why? Who will we be pissing off?" Manny asked. "That''s the thing, we don''t know. The garage is run by this Russian guy calls himself Nick the Red. He''s no joke, but he''s not who we have to worry about. We''ll really be stealing from whoever put that car there. Nick might end up paying them some cash, but the gang that put the car in with him eats the real loss." "This is beginning to sound like a really bad idea," Manny said. "That''s the game," Hondo said. "No one''s going to hand you $50k. There''s risk involved." "Still, it could be anyone. We could be pissing off some real gangsters with this," Manny said. He looked worried. "You a chicken shit, Manny?" Hondo said. "Hondo, stop," Flattop interceded. "Manny''s right. Let''s be clear about this. If you fuck up and get IDed by the wrong person, you''re probably dead. This is enough money to greenlight all of us. Like Hondo said, there''s risk involved. In this case, there''s a big reward at the end to weigh against it." Manny didn''t look convinced. "You said you need both of us to drive? How does that work?" I asked. "Simple," Flattop said. "The four of us will go there in a van, with one of you driving. When we''re close everybody masks up. Then we''ll break-in and neutralize the guard if there is one. Hondo here will handle any immobilizers or tracking devices on the Mercedes, while we provide cover. Then, one of you has to drive the Mercedes to the port while the rest of us follow in the van." "Wait, let me get this right," I said. "You''ve been planning this and waiting for your chance for a week now. Today''s the last day you can possibly do this, and it also happens to be the day that Manny and I come over, having just bought the exact equipment needed to fill the empty spots in your plan. Does that all sound right?" If I were still back in Los Angeles, I could have convinced myself that this was just one gigantic coincidence. After all, what else could it have been? Here in San Tadeo I just didn''t believe it. This was a quest¡ªclearly the work of a higher power, a Game Master. Flattop saw it differently. "What can I say, God is great. When you put your faith in Him, He rewards it." "Amen," Hondo supplied. I wasn''t a Christian, and I didn''t know about Manny, but I thought most Vietnamese were probably Buddhists. Neither of us joined in. I was fairly sure it was a GM, and not God. Maybe here that was the same thing. "All right, so that''s the skeleton of our plan," Flattop said. "We''ve got no time to add any more detail as our window is closing fast. That yard is closed on Sundays, which works well for us. Do you have any other questions, are we good?" "Who''s going to drive the car?" Manny asked. "That depends," Hondo said. "She''s a beast and If you''re being followed by someone¡ªsome little snitch or a gang enforcer, you''re going to have to drive that car damn fast and ditch it." "That''s right. Which one of you is the better driver?" Flattop asked. I knew the answer to that. Despite my making fun of Manny''s driving, at least he had some experience. I had my driver''s license, but that was about it. I''d had a few practice sessions in the Driver''s Ed car. I''d taken the tests and driven my dad''s car a few times, but that was the sum total of my experience. Manny looked at me and I could see a hopeful expression on his face, but what he was hoping for I couldn''t tell. "It''s Manny. I can drive, but I don''t have a lot of practice," I said. "You''ll be the driver then, Manny. You''ll drive the Merc," Flattop said. Manny looked a little green. "Really? I mean, I can do it, but what do I do if the cops are after me?" "Just what you were going to do with Precious Peach, man," I said. "Drive. Lose them and then ditch the car." Flattop nodded. "She''s got a ton of horsepower and I bet she''ll handle like a dream. Drive fast and don''t panic. As long as you get under cover before they send a helicopter after you, you''ll be good. You can lose a squad car pretty easy. Just go for underground parking, or a structure. Once you''re in there and they can''t see you, you ditch the car and book it. Seriously though, I hope that doesn''t happen. We need the cash." Manny was silent for a moment. This was his chance to back out. His shoulders gradually went back as he straightened up, steel entering his spine. "Alright, I''ll do it." 1.34 - Lets Do This I smiled and slapped Manny on the shoulder. He grinned back. "Right on, let''s do this," Flattop said. "I''ll go get a van. Hondo, can you make me a plate?" Hondo nodded and walked over to a workbench on the wall where he rummaged through a small cardboard box. After a bit of metallic clinking he found what he wanted and pulled it free¡ªa California license plate. He set it down on the bench in front of him and reached into his front pocket. "What''s he doing?" I asked Flattop. "We''re going to need this van for a few hours, so I''ll need to swap the plates, or the cops will pull me over after it''s reported stolen." I wondered how that worked. In a world with computers, the cops could type the plate into their computer to run it, or in some places they even had plate recognition cameras. If it was just a bogus plate, the LAPD would know. Here in San Tadeo they couldn''t do that, so how did they know? I was strongly tempted to ask but kept my mouth shut. I didn''t want to screw up our new opportunity by showing my ignorance yet again. Having searched his pockets, Hondo pulled out a small wad of bills and counted them. He turned back to us. "Yo, I need another two hundred." "Fine," Flattop said, pulling out his roll and peeling off some cash. He walked over and slapped a couple of bills on the bench beside the plate. "Hurry up, I''ve got to go. It might take me a while to find something." "Yeah, yeah," Hondo said. He combined the cash on the bench with the money he already had and picked up the plate with his left hand. Flattop stood back, impatient, while Manny and I simply watched. Hondo seemed to concentrate on the plate in front of his eyes, and as we watched the cash in his right hand burst into green flames and disappeared. Without missing a beat, Hondo handed the plate to Flattop. "Don''t forget the screwdriver this time." "I won''t. I''ve got one in the glove box now," Flattop replied. "Get these guys set up, I''ll try to be back within an hour." He hurried out of the garage and we heard the throaty burble of the Javelin starting up out in the yard. Hondo returned to us. "All right, you guys are both strapped right now, yeah?" "Sure," I agreed. Manny just nodded. "Great. Mack, you''re fine. Your clothes are pretty forgettable. Manny though, you''ve got to lose all of that. Where did you get that chain anyway, a Halloween store? That shit gaudy, yo." "Hey! It''s got great stats," Manny objected. "Whatever. Have you got something you can wear instead of that Jersey? You''ve got to look like you didn''t just steal the thing." "Not here, Bro. I''d have to go home and get something." "Never mind, I''ll find you something. Remember, nobody will see your name but without a mask they can still see your face. Anything that might be a distinguishing mark we''ve got to hide. I don''t see any tattoos on either of you, so we''re good there." Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. I was impressed, as it seemed like they had thought this out. If there were people in the neighborhood watching the place when we rolled up, they''d be able to ID Manny just by his ridiculous chain. If we changed out his shirt and hid the chain, he''d be a lot less unique. Hondo dug through one of the drawers in the desk until he came up with an oversized T-shirt, formerly a light gray. It was heavily stained with oil, looking like someone had used it as a rag. "Shit," Hondo muttered, looking it over. "I can''t wear that, man," Manny protested. "I know. Hold on, I''ve got something else here." He tossed the shirt/rag into a corner and moved to another, larger drawer. It was stuffed full of files bursting with papers. He had emptied about half the drawer, forming a precarious tower of files on the top of the desk before he found what he wanted. "Got it, I knew this shit was still in here," Hondo said. With a grunt of effort Hondo pulled the plastic-wrapped rectangle free from the bottom of the drawer and tossed it to Manny. Nestled in the protective plastic it had come in was a button-down shirt in a deep burgundy color. "I''ll want that back. My moms bought me that a few years back in case I ever needed to wear a clean shirt for a customer while I was here." "I guess you didn''t need it then," I said. "It didn''t come up, no." Manny took off his jersey, exposing his skinny chest and arms. Like me, he wasn''t exactly a built dude. The chain went on first and the burgundy shirt covered it up nicely. It was way too big for him, as Hondo was a broad-shouldered dude and Manny was anything but. It fit him like a tent, but he looked like a different person without the jersey and chain, and that was good. "Both of you, take these," Hondo said, and handed each of us a black and white bandanna. I stuffed it in my front pocket. "Tie them over your face like a mask. Just during the heist, not when you''re driving. Like I said, if the cops see somebody with a mask driving, they''ll definitely pull you over." The next few minutes we went over the pictures of the compound. It was quite a lot like the one we are in, although a bit larger. A large fence clad with metal surrounded the whole yard, and barbed wire protected the top. The car was in the garage, and we''d have to cut open the lock on the gate, as well as any locks on the garage before we could drive it out. Hondo produced a pair of bolt cutters, beefy and long, earmarked for this job. In short, the plan really was simple. Break in, get the car, and drive it away to the port where Manny would produce the documents and hand it off to the right guy. The garage didn''t normally have any guards, but If there were any, we''d put a gun on them, zip tie their hands and leave them there. No shooting, and definitely no killing. With the plan gone over we relaxed in the office, waiting for Flattop. Manny and Hondo talked about cars. Hondo about what he liked to build, and Manny about what he''d like to drive. Despite their earlier friction, they seem to bond a bit on that subject. Their mutual love of cars drew them together. Twenty minutes later there was a horn outside the gate. Hondo rushed out to open the gate, and we followed. A plain white van with Flattop behind the wheel pulled in beside Manny''s regal. The van was what I''d always thought of as an electrician or plumber''s van. White, with a sealed rear compartment only accessible by the rear doors, and no windows on the back or sides. When Flattop opened the rear doors, it seemed that that was exactly what it was. Shelves lined the walls, full of coils of wire, and various electrical parts. "Jackpot! Help me unload this, guys," Hondo said, grabbing a box and hustling it into the garage. "What the fuck are you doing, Hondo? We''ve got to go," Flattop protested. "You think I''m leaving this free money in the back? Fuck no," Hondo said, dumping the box just inside the garage and running back for another. Despite Flattop''s protestations, it only took a few minutes for us to clean out the back of the van. When that was done, we gathered by the van. "You''re up, Mack. You know the address. Me and Hondo will ride in the back. When you''re a couple blocks out your masks need to be on if there are no cops to see. It''s an industrial area, so you should see any cruisers a long way off," Flattop said. "Got it," I said. "Once we''re there everybody but Mack will get out. Hondo will get the gate open and you drive the van into the yard. It might take us a few minutes to get into the garage, and we don''t need that van to be seen on the street while we''re doing that. Got it?" I nodded. Flattop was just repeating the plan we''d already went over with Hondo in some detail, but it seemed like he needed to repeat himself. "I already told them all of this shit," Hondo said, less patient with his friend. "Fine," Flattop said. "Any questions before we go? Anybody gotta piss? No? Then let''s go." I drove the van out of the yard, waited while Hondo closed the gate. A minute later, we were on the road to our first major heist. 1.35 - The Heist It felt weird to be driving. The only other times I''d done it, either my dad or a driving instructor had been in the passenger seat. "You know how to get there, Bro?" Manny asked. "No, not really." "It''s cool, I''ll navigate. Keep going straight, I''ll tell you when to turn," Manny supplied. "Thanks, Manny. You''re really okay with this?" I asked. "I don''t have much choice, do I? I''ve got to be okay with it," Manny said. "That''s not true, man. We could''ve walked. Sure, it would''ve been tougher, but we could''ve done it." "It ain''t no thing, Bro. It''s been weird, these last few days with you. It''s like you''re this whirlpool, sucking everything in. It wasn''t like that with you before. I was always the one getting us deeper in the shit. What''s changed?" I was a little surprised at Manny''s poetic turn of phrase. A little worried too. Was I really like that? In the movies, it never turned out well for the ships that found whirlpools. "I don''t know, man. I guess with my dad dying, I feel like I''ve got a new start. I can become somebody important. You know how it is. First you make the money, then you get the power, then you get the women." Manny raised an eyebrow but didn''t say comment on me paraphrasing Scarface. "I swear, Bro, you''re like a different guy. Your dad dying really changed you." "Yeah, I guess so," I agreed. Our conversation was interrupted as Manny directed me to take a quick left and then right in heavy traffic. We drove a few more minutes, and then a voice came from behind me through the solid wall of the van. "How far out?" Flattop asked, his voice carrying clearly. I glanced over my shoulder and saw his eyes looking through a two-inch high slit in the back wall of the vans cab. I felt a bit embarrassed, as I''m sure the two of them back there had heard every word of our conversation. "I don''t know. Manny?" I asked. "Fifteen minutes?" Manny said, sounding a bit unsure. "Don''t forget the masks. You need to be ready to put them on," Flattop said. It was still in my pocket, so at the next stoplight I took it out and tied it around my neck. When it was needed, I''d be able to just hook it over my nose and I''d look like an old school bandito. Combined with the sunglasses no one would be able to ID me. Traffic was heavier than normal, and we were moving slowly. My gut clenched as not once but twice as STPD cruisers passed us by, not even giving us a second glance. Whatever Hondo had done to the plate, it was working. My curiosity wouldn''t let it lie any longer. "Hondo, what did you do to the plate on this van, anyway?" I asked, directing my voice through the slit. "It''s a skill I have. Now when the cops ID the car, it shows as properly registered to a shadow entity. I could''ve registered it to you, but that would have defeated the point of using the masks. So instead it''s going to show as registered to this little snitch I know. It''ll last about three hours. Plenty of time." That told me that the cops had some kind of skill where they could run a plate without computers. It made sense, really. "Cool. That must come in handy," Manny said through the slit. "Sure does. I got another one here for the Merc," Hondo said, his voice faint. "Come on, we can talk later," Flattop said. "Keep your eyes open and your mouths shut, we''ve got work to do." With Flattop''s reminder, Manny and I stopped our casual conversation and concentrated on the drive. "The yard should be a couple blocks down there," Manny said, pointing to our right. The street we turned down was wide and lined with industrial buildings. It was basically deserted on a quiet Sunday afternoon. "No cops? Then masks on," Flattop said from the back. There were no cruisers in sight, so I pulled the mask up over my nose and Manny did the same. A minute later we were pulling off the street and up to the gate of the unmarked yard that held the Mercedes. As soon as I pressed on the brakes and came to a complete stop, I heard the rear doors open and the Soldados piled out. Manny wasn''t far behind. All three of them ran to the gate, the LSS wearing the black balaclavas and Manny with the Sunshrouds and the mask. Flattop was holding a pistol in his right hand, keeping it low and close to his thigh while he scanned the street. Manny had his .38 held awkwardly in his left hand as well, looking around nervously. With those two sentries standing watch Hondo stepped up, opening the jaws of the bolt cutters and clamping them down on the thick padlock holding the gate closed. It hit the ground with a heavy metallic clunk and a moment later the gates slid open. The three of them rushed in, guns coming up to cover the yard, but it was empty. That was until a black German Shepherd charged out of the shadows of the garage and pelted across the yard, barking and growling. Hondo backpedaled rapidly, raising the bolt cutters above his head with both hands like a club. Manny and Flattop stood their ground, neither of them shooting. The dog stopped about six feet in front of them, showing a full mouth of sharp white teeth. It snapped, barked and growled at them but didn''t seem in a hurry to actually attack the two grown men. "Jesus, shoot that fucking monster. You know I feel about dogs," Hondo said. "No, wait. Hold on," Manny said. He reached into one of his pockets and pulled out the half-full bag of beef jerky from earlier. He squatted down, setting the bag in front of him and pulling a long piece of dried meat free. He held it out to the barking dog, who stopped barking for a moment, but kept growling. "Good doggy. Come on, we''re your friends. You want some of this, huh? Come on, come and get some jerky. We don''t want to hurt you, come on boy," Manny said. We were in an awkward position with the van hanging halfway out the open gate while we confronted an aggressive guard dog. Anyone passing by would see the tableau¡ªfour men in masks, two of them openly armed. The cops would be here before we knew it. "Come on, we''ve got to get off the street," I said out the window. "I can''t just shoot it. The gunshot will bring the cops too," Flattop protested. While Manny''s negotiation with the dog might eventually pay off there was no way I could wait. I cranked the wheel hard to the left and squeezed the van into the gap between him and the fence, entering the yard completely. I was so hard up against the fence that I had to climb through the passenger door, but the van was in. Walking slowly past Manny and the dog, I reached the gate and Hondo and I pulled it closed. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Manny shuffled forward a step, still extending the beef jerky in front of him. His gun hung forgotten in his left hand. "Come on, you know you want this," he said. The dog disagreed, backing up and starting to bark again. "Manny, that things going to eat you," I said. "Nah, Bro. If he was going to attack us he would''ve done that already. I got this, Bro." "Fucking dogs," Hondo said, eying the dog with suspicion. The bolt cutters were gripped tight in his hands, and his stance told me he''d brain the dog if it came close to him. "Let''s leave Manny to that, we''ve got to get you started," I said. "Flattop, you got Manny''s back?" "Yeah, I''ll shoot if it attacks him. Go get that Merc ready," he said, not taking his eyes off Manny and the dog. I pulled my pistol free, still thinking that there might be a guard. With all the barking and the empty yard it no longer seemed likely, but caution seemed like the better approach. Hondo and I jogged across the yard to the human-sized door, a very similar layout set up to the LSS garage. The thick steel door was closed, and the knob didn''t turn it all¡ªlocked up tight. "Shit. Yeah, this won''t do much good on a door like that," Hondo said, hefting the bolt cutters. "I''ll go see if I can open the slider." While Hondo tried to find some way to open the sliding door, I was still eyeing the door in front of me, wondering if I could shoot out the lock. Was that really a thing? I was sure there''d been a MythBusters about it, but I''d never watched it. Not even the TL;DR version on YouTube. It seemed like I was more likely to shoot myself in the foot than open the lock. Movies were bullshit so much of the time. I didn''t spend long reflecting on that before the door slammed open, almost smashing me in the face. The man that came through the door was short and stocky with a large beer belly, messy looking brown hair, and tanned skin. He was carrying a black pump-action shotgun with a pistol grip in his right hand, dangling carelessly with the muzzle pointed at the floor. He was rubbing his face with his left hand, squinting at the bright light. "What the fuck are you barking at, you stupid dog," the man yelled. Without hesitation, I raised my gun and pointed it directly at his head. "Stop right there," I said. I felt a tingling sensation in my brain, something similar to the one I felt when a skill leveled up, but I ignored it. Now wasn''t the time. "What the fuck," the man said. He began to raise the shotgun, but I tightened up my grip on the pistol and successfully conveyed to him with my body language that I was going to shoot him. He stopped moving. "Drop it," I instructed. He hesitated, then it slapped down into the loose gravel at his feet. "Do you know who you''re robbing?" He asked, not turning his head to look at me. "No, and I don''t care. Turn around," I ordered. He did as I ordered, shuffling slowly. By this time, Hondo had returned. The bolt cutters were in his left hand, and in his right he''d pulled free one of the thick, white zip ties he had looped on his belt. "Hands behind your back," he ordered. "You know the fucking drill." While Hondo was doing that, I IDed the man standing in front of us.
"Bunny"
"Bunny, really?" I asked, chuckling. Bunny glared at me but said nothing. Hondo slipped the zip tie around Bunny''s wrists and with a hard yank pulled it tight. He grabbed up the shotgun and tossed it in the back of the van. "Anybody else in there?" I asked. "Fuck you," Bunny replied. "Hey, I''m only asking because if there is, they will be shooting you first," I said. I wrapped my left hand around the back of his neck and pushed him forward with the muzzle of my gun pressed into his back. Keeping close to him, I pushed him back into the garage. We left the bright sunlight behind for the cool dimness of the garage interior. I was pretty happy when no one shot at me, human shield or not. The interior looked a lot like the LSS garage, only with two lifts instead of one and a little cleaner. The only vehicle parked inside was the Mercedes that we were looking for.
2020 Mercedes AMG GTS Silver NONE
The pictures hadn''t done it justice. It looked like speed incarnate, but not just speed. It somehow managed to look fast, and classy at the same time. It was beautiful, and I only wished I could afford something so nice. I made a vow that one day I would. Maybe it wouldn''t be this exact car, but one day I would have something this beautiful, or even better. After Bunny and I stood in the door for a bit and no one shot us, I was fairly certain that the garage was empty. There was no way to know for sure, without searching it, but there weren''t many places to hide. I started to say his name, then realized how dumb that would be, and quickly came up with a substitute. "Err, H. Cover this guy while I make sure the place is empty." Next time we needed code names. I''d be Mr Black. Hondo nodded. He had produced a chunky revolver from somewhere, a kind I hadn''t seen before. It was large and mean looking, and nothing like the little .38 that Manny carried. He stood outside in the sunlight with his gun pointed at Bunny. I pushed Bunny forward a bit further into the garage. "Get on your knees. If you move, my friend here is going to shoot you. Got it?" "You stupid fucks. Yeah, I got it," he said, and knelt on the hard concrete. Before I started searching, I glanced back out the door and saw the dog was no longer growling and barking. Instead he seemed more open to the idea of maybe accepting some beef jerky. Flattop stood nearby with his gun still trained on the dog. He looked over his shoulder toward us, and caught my eye. "Go, get it done." I nodded and returned to the garage. Dredging the depths of my memory, I channeled every cop and spy movie I''d ever seen as I moved carefully through the garage. I took cover as often as I could and peeked around corners in what I thought was a pretty ''tactical'' way. I''m sure I looked ridiculous¡ªI certainly felt it. It didn''t matter, a few minutes of searching revealed that no one else was hiding in the garage. Or if they were, they were doing it so well I couldn''t find them. "It''s clear," I yelled from the back. "Come and help me with this guy," Hondo yelled back. I covered Hondo while he used more zip ties to secure the guys feet and then to secure him to the steel leg of one of the shelving units along the wall. Bunny was a strong guy and probably would be able to break free eventually, but we wouldn''t have to worry about him for the immediate future. Hondo got to work on the Merc, popping the hood and looking under it with a flashlight, mumbling to himself. I went out into the yard and met Flattop as he was coming in. "He''s made a new friend," Flattop said, gesturing back to Manny. I nodded. It seemed like he had. The dog was now happily eating out of his hand and accepting Manny''s pets. Manny looked up at us, his face still hidden behind the mask and sunglasses. "I''ve always wanted a dog. Look at how skinny this guy is. They must not be feeding him much here." He slowly but surely fed every piece of jerky to the dog, giving it plenty of affection as he did so. The dog soaked both up gratefully. Things went smoothly for a while. Hondo found an immobilizer and either removed it or neutralized it, I wasn''t sure which. If there was a tracking device, he didn''t find it. It wasn''t like my world, where you could buy a GPS tracker on Amazon for $20. Since this car had already been stolen at least once it seemed like a fair bet that if it had a tracker before it didn''t have one anymore. He put the new plate on it and checked that it didn''t have any obvious issues that would cause it to break down on the way. Finally, he pronounced it ready. The garage doors opened easily from the inside. The Merc started with a throaty bellow and Flattop drove it out of the garage and stopped in the middle of the yard. He left it running and stepped out, looking it over with a wistful expression. "Damn, I wish I could drive that baby. So, so sweet." He looked over to Manny standing nearby. "She''s all yours." "Great," Manny said. He seemed nervous, although it was hard to tell with the mask and the sunglasses in the way. The dog sat, silent and attentive, at his feet. "Take this," Flattop said, handing over a thick packet of paperwork. "When you get to the gate, show this to the guard and he''ll let you know where to go inside the port. Once you deliver the car, make sure you get a signed receipt. Got it? We don''t get paid without that receipt." "Got it," Manny said. "Good, let''s go," Flattop said. Manny walked toward the open door of the Mercedes and the dog followed, his head up and watching intently. Manny looked down and started to say something, but whatever it was it didn''t matter. As soon as it became obvious where Manny was going, the dog made his move. He darted ahead and into the Mercedes, skipping across the driver''s seat and settling elegantly in the passenger seat, looking back out at Manny as if to say, "come on, what''s keeping you?" Flattop and I broke out into laughter. "You''ve been adopted," Flattop said. "That animal is going to fuck up the leather," Hondo muttered. "Chill, Bro. It''ll be fine. He''s a good boy. I can''t leave him here¡ªthese assholes don''t even feed him," Manny said. "Manny, take the dog or leave it here," Flattop said, squashing the argument. "Whatever you''re going to do, do it now. We need to get out of here. Remember, masks for the first couple of blocks, then drop them." Manny got into the car, closing the door behind him. It seemed the dog would make the escape with us. Hondo and Flattop opened the gate to let Manny out before they jumped into the back of the van, closing the doors behind them. The burbling sound of the Merc''s turbocharged V-8 was wonderful, and the car jerkily moved forward as Manny got used to the touchy vehicle. "I hope your boy''s going to be all right. It''s not simple driving a car like that," Flattop said from the back. "It''s nothing like that Buick of his." I didn''t doubt that, but I also didn''t doubt Manny. He was smart, capable and I knew he could do it. He proved me right seconds later when he smoothly pulled out of the yard and onto the street, driving the Mercedes like he''d been born to it. I followed him in the van, much less confident. Two blocks later, the masks came off and we were on our way. 1.36 - Road Rage I made sure to stay a few cars behind Manny, which wasn''t difficult. Manny was driving as he usually did¡ªlike the star pupil of the Driver''s Ed teacher. He''d indicate every lane change, keep under the speed limit, and of course he''d never run a yellow light. The drive south to the port would take a while as we were nowhere near. The first thirty minutes or so were quite relaxing, actually. At least for me. I didn''t know how Manny was doing, but I hoped he was enjoying the experience of driving his first supercar. Once the adrenaline of getting away clean from the first part of our heist had faded, I thought to check the tingling in my head. I poked at it and a notification popped up.
Job Unlocked - Soldado (E) (Shadow)
Requirements Met:
  • Deal with an enemy
  • Solve a problem with a weapon five times
Accept this Job? WARNING: This will replace Dealer. Unlocked Job-exclusive skills will remain available but will no longer Earn.
I''d finally unlocked a second job. It wasn''t that rare or even hard to get¡ªthe requirements made that clear. Just point a gun at enough different people and you''d unlock it. That and ''Deal with an enemy,'' which I had to assume was fulfilled when I shot Zeke. I declined and the UI disappeared. Manny had been pretty clear when he told me that I wasn''t tied down to my Dealer job but changing while driving just out of curiosity seemed like a bad idea. I''d do it later when it wasn''t possible something could go catastrophically wrong. Our drive continued peacefully, although there was a butt-clenching moment when we were cruising down a wide boulevard toward the 110 and a cruiser pulled out in front of us. It crept up around the traffic and slotted in behind Manny in the Mercedes. Flattop was watching through the slit and spoke up. "Don''t worry, Hondo''s plates are good. They''ll hold." "Unless whoever that snitch is has a warrant," I said. "Just relax, we''re good," Flattop said. The cop hung behind the Mercedes for what I thought was an obnoxiously long time. Eventually the cop changed lanes and passed Manny, his check complete. "See, I told you. The plates are good. We''ll have a nice drive to the port, and then we''ll all get some beer to celebrate," Flattop said. I internally cringed at Flattop jinxing us, but I was hoping that was just me and my gamer superstitions. Of course, that was wrong. Traffic got heavier as we approached the on ramp to the 110 ahead, and I was still sticking to the space a few cars back from Manny when things went wrong. Manny had stopped for a yellow, blithely ignoring the angry honking of the driver behind him. I knew from experience that Manny was totally immune to those. It was like he didn''t even notice them¡ªhe''d drive properly and fuck everyone else''s opinion. We were a few cars back from him when I heard the tinkling crunch of an impact breaking glass and denting a fender. A powerful engine revved and I looked in the side mirror in time to see a shiny black SUV force its way into the mostly-empty left turn lane beside me. A chorus of angry horns greeted this action. I recognized the SUV immediately as a Suburban, favorite of government agents and narcos alike. This one had fully blacked out windows and I couldn''t see who was driving. It roared past me and screeched to a halt just behind the one occupant of the turn lane, a bright red Volkswagen bug. The passenger door opened and a bald man in a bright red tracksuit and spotless white sneakers jumped out. In his right hand he was carrying a jagged-looking machine pistol. He dashed toward Manny in the Mercedes. "Oh, shit," I cursed, and reached for my gun and the door handle. I was terrified for Manny, but I shouldn''t have been. He wasn''t being stupid. He was paying attention to everything. He''d seen that Suburban, and he''d seen the gangster in the tracksuit jump out. Still, Manny surprised me. Before the goon had gotten halfway there the Merc''s engine roared and Manny laid a long streak of rubber. The silver Mercedes shot like a bullet through the red light. Manny dodged crossing traffic like he did it every day and the engine howled a crescendo as he left the intersection behind. The gangster raised his gun as if to fire at the escaping Mercedes, then thought better of it and yelled a curse in what I could only assume was Russian. He dashed back to the SUV instead, and I IDed him.
"Baraban"
"Shit!" Flattop was yelling from the back. "Wait, Mack, I''m coming up there." "What?" I yelled, confused. I had my gun half drawn but everything was moving so fast. In front of us, Baraban was back in the Suburban. The big truck clipped the bug, smashing the tiny car out of the way as they took off in pursuit of Manny. Before I''d even formed a full question, Flattop was opening my door and pushing me into the passenger seat. He was wearing the balaclava and didn''t spare the muscle. I slammed into the opposite door, bruising my shoulder. Hondo in the back just had time to close the rear doors before Flattop stomped the accelerator. He expertly weaved between stopped cars to chase the Suburban. The white van slalomed around the crashed bug, into the intersection and expertly through the course of stopped and still-moving traffic disrupted by Manny and Baraban. Flattop made it look effortless. "What the hell, man?" I asked, flopping around the cabin, and trying to brace myself. "Russians! You missed the fucking tracker, Hondo," he yelled. "I did not," Hondo yelled back. "Why are you up here, wearing that mask? Won''t we get pulled over?" I asked. "I''m a Wheelman. Without my skills we have no chance of catching those two in this piece of shit. Even with them, we might not." "Manny''s got a good head start and that Merc is fast," I said. "There''s no way they''ll catch him." "Sure, if we were on a racetrack. If he gets caught in traffic though, he''s fucked. We''ve got to try to get them off of him." "What about the mask, then?" I asked. "Fuck the cops, you really don''t want these Russians knowing your name. You should put yours up." I took his advice, and also buckled myself in. Flattop chuckled. "Don''t worry, I''m not going to crash," he assured me. Of course, immediately after he said that we passed a minivan so closely I think they could count our eyebrow hairs. I got a brief glimpse of an entire family screaming in terror and then they were behind us. We were rapidly approaching the 110 on-ramp and could just barely see Manny in front of us, Baraban''s Suburban lagging quite a way behind. Manny took the on-ramp at speed, dodging slower moving traffic by riding on the soft shoulder and weaving when needed. I was impressed, to say the least. Flattop, not so much. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. "What the fuck is he doing? He''s supposed to get somewhere and ditch the car, not get on the goddamn freeway." "Freeway''s a lot more like a racetrack than the city, isn''t it? He can outrun them." "Maybe. We''ll see," Flattop said. In order to get us on to the offramp without slowing, Flattop drove like a crazy person for the last little bit. He screeched left across three lanes and then back across to the right to hit the on-ramp, threading a moving needle with our contractor van. Hondo thumped around in the back like an abused basketball, and a stream of curses came to us through the slit. "Well fucking hold on then!" Flattop yelled back, not taking his eyes off the road. Whatever his skills did, it was working. We were gaining on the SUV, and the little underpowered white van seemed faster and more agile than it ever had when I was driving it. Flattop seemed to know exactly where to go to find a clear route through traffic without having to stop. Whether that was his skills, or sheer experience, I didn''t know. Our original plan had been to take the 110 south to the port. It looked like Manny, rather than ditching the car, was sticking to the plan. The highway was as clear as could be hoped for on a Sunday, but that meant there were still a lot of cars. We roared up the on-ramp and merged with traffic, doing at least 120 miles an hour. I was surprised our little van could even do that much. When I looked at the speedometer, the needle was almost at the end of its travel. Going by the engine sounds it seemed like the van had a little more to give if Flattop needed it. System magic once again. We weaved aggressively through the traffic, never slowing, or at least not much. We crept closer to the Suburban as Flattop''s skills made the difference. Manny wasn''t getting much farther ahead though, as although the Merc was a lot faster than either of our vehicles, his driving skill just wasn''t up to it. Either that, or maybe he was driving more cautiously than he should have been. I didn''t fault him, if he crashed the car not only would that be bad for him and his dog, we''d lose our payday. I hoped he could see us back here, trying to get the pursuers off of him. When we got around thirty feet away from the Suburban''s rear bumper, Flattop spoke urgently. "Mack. That pistol, you any good with it?" "No, why?" "Fuck. Try anyway. I''ll get near and you shoot out the left rear tire." "You want me to shoot at another car on the highway?" "Yes. Alright, here we go. Take the shot!" Flattop swerved to the left of the Suburban and gave me a decent view of the left rear tire twenty or thirty feet away. I raised my pistol and gripped it with both hands before I stuck it out the open window. The buffeting of the wind did exactly what I''d hoped it wouldn''t and shoved the gun around in my hands. I clamped down as hard as I could, lined up the sights and pulled the trigger. The gun barked in my hands, and a spark flashed as the bullet hit the asphalt underneath the Suburban, ricocheting God knows where. "No good, keep firing," Flattop said. The next three shots were nowhere near, not even visible as sparks. Traffic around us had responded to the gunshots. The cars around us dropped back, some slamming on their brakes. I heard the crunch of accidents behind us. If this had been back in LA, we would have at least one or two following us with their mobile phones out, streaming live to the Internet. I was glad it wasn''t back home, once again. "Shit, you weren''t lying. You really are terrible with that thing. Put it away," Flattop instructed. Despite me not actually hitting the Suburban, they now knew we were there. The rear door passenger window went down, and another bald gangster in a green tracksuit leaned out to point a submachine gun at us. Flattop immediately reacted, braking, and drifted directly behind the Suburban. The wind noise diminished as we drafted the big vehicle. The traffic ahead was starting to thicken, and I could see the Mercedes getting closer as Manny was forced to slow down. "Shit, we''re out of time," Flattop cursed. "I''m going to use a trick I know, but if this goes badly, we''re fucked. Be ready with that gun." The Suburban was now aggressively trying to give the shooter on the passenger''s side a shot at us. The big SUV weaved back and forth, but Flattop was sticking directly behind, making it look easy. There was the clatter of automatic weapons fire as the gunman fired a burst at us and missed. "Hang on, I''m going to do the pit maneuver. If I screw this up, we''ll need to shoot our way out. Be ready," Flattop said. I had no idea what the pit maneuver was, but Flattop showed me a second later. He feinted left quickly and then slalomed right, stomping on the gas pedal. The little van''s engine strained the hardest it could, and we shot forward about half the length of the Suburban. The gangster in green seemed surprised at the less than a second opening we gave him. That gave Flattop just enough time to crank the wheel left and crunch the full weight of our van into rear quarter of the Suburban. The Suburban spun violently, and the gunman in green velvet toppled but sprayed the front of the van. Bullet holes stitched the windshield and I felt the passage of air and the spray of powdered glass as bullets impacted the seat I was sitting on and the wall behind me. Time seemed to slow down as Flattop struggled to retain control of the van. The Suburban continued its spin out to the right while we kept left. Then time sped up and we were past, the Suburban spinning to a stop and then being hit by traffic that hadn''t fallen back quite far enough. Flattop didn''t let up on the accelerator, continuing to dodge traffic. Manny was a little farther ahead than he had been, a large screen of vehicles between us and him. Once we were clear of the crashed Suburban, Flattop tore off his balaclava and tossed it into the foot well on my side. "Masks off, now." I pulled mine down. "We¡¯ve got to get off the highway. We can''t follow Manny anymore. He wasn''t involved in the shooting, so the cops shouldn''t be looking for him. They will be looking for this van, though." "What? How could they?" I asked. "I didn''t see any cameras." In my world, of course there would have been cameras covering every inch of this freeway way up on poles. Those didn''t seem to be a thing here, so I didn''t understand how the cops would know anything happened without a cop actually seeing something. "Someone behind us will have stopped at one of the emergency call booths and called it in. Happens every time. We need to get the hell off the freeway before they send a ton of cars and the helicopter over here." "Who were those guys in the Suburban, anyway?" I asked. "They must be the Russians that own the garage. I don''t know them. I didn''t think they would come in that heavy, even if we did miss a tracker," he said, raising his voice to just under a yell at the end. "I didn''t miss a fucking tracker," Hondo yelled back. "They must have marked it." I''d forgotten about Hondo, and all of a sudden, I was worried. In the separating wall behind us were quite a few bullet holes. "You alright back there, Hondo?" I asked. "No new holes if that''s what you''re asking. I did smack my head though. Thanks for that." "You''ve got a hard head," Flattop replied. We took the next exit, flying down the ramp. As soon as we were off the highway, Flattop slowed down and began to look for a place to park. "We don''t need anything too fancy. Just somewhere to park where the van won''t be immediately visible." We found what we needed soon after¡ªan alley between two rows of shops. Without slowing much at all, Flattop pulled off the street, into the alley and slammed to a halt in a small notch that would hide most of the van from passing traffic. I bailed out, moving around to the back. Hondo opened the doors and staggered out; his shirt spotted with blood from a cut on his forehead. It didn''t look deep, but it was bleeding quite a bit. He looked unsteady on his feet as well. "That doesn''t look good," I said. Flattop looked him over. "Yeah. Take this, hold it on the wound," he said, offering his balaclava. Hondo took it without comment and pressed it on the cut. "We''ve got to get away from this van," I said. "If the cops are coming, they''ll be looking for it." "Yeah, let''s go. We''ll get a few blocks away and call a cab," Flattop agreed. "Wait. Bunny''s shotgun is in the back. We should take that," Hondo said. None of us had anything to carry a shotgun in and walking with it in hand didn''t seem like a good idea. "We can''t. I''ll wipe it down and we''ll leave it," I said. Hondo protested about leaving free money, but not too hard. I found the shotgun wedged under one of the shelves and wiped it down with my t-shirt. When I was done, I set it back down, climbed out and closed the rear doors. "Let''s go," I said. We moved as quickly as we could away from the van and the roads leading from the freeway. We heard lots of sirens in the distance, but no cruisers came by to eyeball us. I wasn''t sure what they''d make of the three of us walking in shadows, one of us with a head wound. Whatever it was, it wouldn''t be good. Hondo got steadier on his feet, but still needed support now and then. "You might have a concussion, Hondo," I said. "I don''t know, maybe? I''ll walk it off." A few blocks of walking later, we were far enough away and stopped near a phone booth. I ducked inside, found a number stuck to the wall and dialed. Since I had no idea where we were, I willed the system to show me.
Harbor City, California, 13:21 Sunday March 08, 2020 255th Street West and Dodge Avenue Walking in the Shadows
When the taxi dispatcher answered, I read our address off the screen in front of me. They acknowledged and I hung up. "On their way," I reported. Flattop nodded but was distracted looking around for cruisers and occasionally sneaking a concerned glance at his cousin Hondo. Hondo was sitting on the curb, still holding the balaclava to the cut on his head. He didn''t seem inclined to close his eyes, and as that was the only thing I remembered about concussions¡ªdon''t let them sleep¡ªI thought everything was probably fine. The taxi showed up ten minutes later. The cabdriver complained about the blood, but when Hondo showed him the bleeding had stopped and we gave him an extra $20, everything was fine. Flattop gave him a corner two blocks away from the LSS shop as our destination, and we were on our way. As we drove, I wondered how Manny was doing. I was fairly sure he had been in the clear, but it was up to him. I felt bad leaving him without backup, but I had faith that he would come through for us. 1.37 - Buds and Brews The walk back to the LSS garage was short, and it showed me a bit of the neighborhood. Me and Manny had driven through it on our way there earlier in the day, but hadn''t really had a chance to look around. We passed busy auto shops and restaurants. The owners all seemed to know the two Soldados. They waved or came out and exchanged quick hellos as we walked by. "Friendly neighborhood," I commented. "It is if it''s your neighborhood. Don''t get too used to this, white boy," Hondo said, wincing as he spoke. "They''re good people, we protect our own here." The yard had been left undisturbed while we were gone, and Hondo produced a key to open the padlock. Once it was unlocked, he slid the gate open just enough to admit us and I closed it when I came through. Manny''s regal sat alone in the yard, reminding me that we still needed to get rid of it. From the looks of the neighborhood, it didn''t seem likely that anyone would snatch to the hip that the L SS boys had the car they were looking for in the yard, but who knew. People were desperate when they were poor. "You want a beer?" Flattop asked me. "Yeah, sure," I agreed. The two boys got busy, and a few minutes later they had pulled out a folding table and chairs and set them up in the sunlit yard. Three tall, cold beers got produced from a fridge in the garage and sat down on the table. Hondo used a bottle opener on his keychain to open mine and passed it over. I took a drink, and although I could appreciate the taste of beer, my anxiety about Manny was making it hard to relax. It seemed Flattop and Hondo were feeling the same way, as neither of them drank much either. Hondo wasn''t even drinking and just used his unopened beer to cool his abused forehead. "I''m sure your boy is going to be all right. We''ll just wait here until he gets back," Flattop said. "Yeah, you''re right," I agreed. Each of us sat with our thoughts for a good ten minutes, nursing the single beer. I wasn''t expecting Manny to be that close behind us, obviously. He''d still had to make it to the port and get through the gates to find where he would deliver the Mercedes. Who knew how long that would take? "Hey, I unlocked a new job when we were in the yard," I said. "Oh, what job?" Flattop asked. "Soldado," I said. "Really? That''s surprising. I saw how shit you were with that gun. Did you switch to it?" Hondo, who had been uninterested in our conversation, got up and walked toward the garage. "Hey, cuz, don''t lie down. You can''t sleep, remember?" Flattop said. "Yeah, yeah. I''m not going to sleep. If you need me, I''ll be working back here. I got to finish this Camry, remember?" He entered the garage and closed the door behind him. A minute later the grinder fired up again, the noise thankfully muted by the closed door between us. Our conversation resumed. "No, I haven''t switched yet. I''m not sure how I even do that since the prompt is gone now." "Just concentrate on your job and will it to switch. It''s pretty simple." It really was. I concentrated my intent on the idea of my job, and that I wanted it to switch, and a UI popped up.
Jobs Available (Shadow)
  • Corner Boy (Dealer (F1)) (Current)
  • Recruit (Soldado (E1))
Choose one to switch to. WARNING: After switch, switching is restricted for 15 minutes.
I willed myself to switch to Soldado, and as soon as I did a shower of new UIs appeared.
Skill Unlocked - Intimidation (F) Level 1/3
Enhances your natural aura of intimidation by 30% when used for 5 minutes. 3 hour cooldown.
Earned: $0/$500
Skill Unlocked - Threat Assessment (F) Level 1/4
25% of the time when used, gives a color coded assessment of the target''s threat level. Does not convey target intentions. 60 second cooldown.
Earned: $0/$1,000
"What was your job before? Dealer?" Flattop asked, finishing the last of his beer. "Yeah. You said you''re a wheelman? Is that actually a job, or just what you do?" Hondo had left his unopened beer on the table, so Flattop picked it up, opened it and took a sip. If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. "It''s a job. It''s not made for stealing cars exactly, more for a getaway driver. Still, the money I earn counts towards my advancement. I''ll probably level up when we get paid for the Mercedes." "You certainly can drive. Is there a job specifically for stealing cars?" I asked. "Yeah, I got that one unlocked too, but I don''t use it much." "It seems like the skills Soldado unlocked are pretty useless to me," I said. "They sure are if you make your money dealing drugs. The second level skill is the one you want anyway. It''s called Unstoppable¡ªHondo''s dad has it. Basically, it makes you hard to kill. You can take a bullet and depending on how high leveled the skill is you can ignore the damage for a while. I saw him use it once, that shit was scary." I put my half-empty beer down. I was done drinking, for now. The conversation had distracted me, but I was still worried about Manny. "How did those Russians find the Mercedes anyway?" "Like I said, Hondo probably missed a tracker. It happens." "He said that he didn''t, though. What did he mean when he said it was probably marked?" "That''s bullshit. Street legend." I gave him a questioning expression, mentally exhorting him to continue. "Fine. Supposedly there''s a rare skill that lets you mark a particularly valuable piece of your property so that you can track it. Kind of like a radio tracker, but skill based. Personally, I think it''s bullshit. Every time I''ve heard somebody say the car they boosted was marked, it turned out somebody in their crew had flipped, or they''d missed a really well-hidden radio tracker." "If Manny delivers it to the guy at the port with the tracker still on it, do we get paid?" "Yeah, don''t worry about that. Those guys at the port don''t fuck around. Once it''s theirs, it is theirs. Nobody will fuck with them." Flattop excused himself to reenter the garage. He said he was going to get another beer, but with how long he was in there, I knew he was checking on his cousin. He came out with two more beers, setting one in front of me, despite the unfinished bottle I already had. "Thanks. I''m not really feeling like drinking. I''m worried about Manny." "He''ll be fine. I was surprised at how well he drove, actually. If you put most people behind the wheel of car like that and made them drive fast in traffic, they''d just wreck." I couldn''t help but agree. Manny had really come through with the driving. When the cooldown for switching jobs was up, I returned to being a Dealer once again. Maybe at some point I would try to level Soldado to get myself the Unstoppable skill that Flattop had mentioned, but not anytime soon. Forty minutes later, I was pacing back and forth in the yard and was just about to demand that we get in the Crown Vic and go get Manny out of whatever trouble he was in when someone pounded loudly on the metal gate. "Hey, let me in," Manny said. I rushed over to the gate, unlatched it and slid it open. Manny stood there, no worse for wear and with the dog sitting patiently by his side. He had it on a leash, a makeshift one made out of faded blue-and-white rope. He smiled broadly as he saw me. The worry I''d been holding in vanished upon seeing him intact. I gave him a big hug and pulled him inside, the dog following along. Flattop slapped him on the back and closed the gate behind them. "Killer driving, Manny. What did you do with the Merc?" Manny lifted his shirt, the oversized burgundy tent he''d borrowed from Hondo, and pulled a packet of papers out of his waistband. He slapped them into Flattop''s hands. "Delivered the bitch." After Flattop made sure that everything was in order the celebration really kicked off. Hondo stopped working and started drinking. The four of us sat around the table, enjoying our beers in the late afternoon sunshine. Flattop made a call, and fifteen minutes later a large bag of tacos and burritos from the place just up the road was delivered by a young dude wearing an apron. All of us dug in, the spicy meat going well with the light Mexican beer. Manny had named the dog Buddy, which struck all of us as the least-imaginative dog name ever. Still, the dog seemed to like it. He also really liked the meat inside the tacos. Also the cheese and the shells. The paper it had been wrapped in. Basically, the dog had been starving. The four of us fed him until he stopped looking quite so hungry and laid down, content. He still watched Manny closely, adoration in his little doggy eyes. "He''s a good boy. My mom''s going to be pissed, but I couldn''t leave him behind," Manny said. Manny told us the story from his point of view, how he''d never relaxed even once driving the car. He''d always been scanning his mirrors and watching everyone around him. When the Suburban had rolled up and Baraban had jumped out he hadn''t even hesitated. "Shit, you''re a natural, Manny. Maybe you should be a wheelman?" Flattop said. "Yeah, maybe. Driving that car was a hell of a rush. I was sad to let her go at the end." "You can dry your tears with the big stack of cash, once we get paid," Hondo said, laughing. After our meal and the excitement of the day, not to mention the beers, I think we were all feeling pretty close to one another. We started talking about business. Specifically, our problem with not having a territory to sell in. "You need that," Flattop said. "If you sell in neutral territory, all it takes is someone noticing and slapping down a territory marker. Then it''s not your spot anymore, it''s theirs. They are justified to run you off of it, however they want." "That doesn''t make sense. What, do they sue us?" I asked. "Just because it''s the street, don''t mean it don''t have no laws," Hondo said. "You break those laws, there will be consequences. Isn''t that how you got into it with the Hip in the first place?" I nodded. "Yeah, we made a mistake and sold on their turf." "Rule of turf," Manny said, like it was self-evident. "I just don''t understand what the big deal is. So, we sold on their turf, so what? It''s not like it cost them anything." "Sure, you did," Hondo said. "Those territory markers aren''t free, they cost money. Every day. Tick. Tick. Tick. When someone else does business in your territory, it costs more. When that money runs out, it''s not yours anymore." "Yeah. It''s like I told you earlier¡ªwe''re just barely holding what we''ve got here. It''s just this block now, but it used to be a lot more," said Flattop. That changed my perspective, quite a bit. The Hip did have a reason to be angry with us, even if their response was way over the top. We''d directly cost them money. "Maybe we can help each other out. We need a place to sell, and you''ve got territory. Can we make a deal?" I asked. "I don''t know, Mack. This isn''t your hood. People are gonna look at you funny if you set up here, even if we do come to a deal," Flattop said, looking skeptical. "What the fuck are you talking about, cuz?" Hondo interjected. "If we don''t start making money with this turf, why do we even have it? All it does is cost us money, it never makes us none. What kind of business sense does that make? You''re the one that thinks he''s got the head for that, you tell me." Flattop made a dismissive gesture, but I could tell that what Hondo had said had some impact. "What kind of deal were you thinking about, Mack?" "If you needed to, could you include Manny and I on some kind of white list? Something that would let us sell on your turf without costing you a fortune?" "Of course." "Then here''s what I propose," I said. 1.38 - Smokey and the New Ride The negotiation went pretty much as you would expect. Flattop started high, and I started low. "30% seems fair to me, it''s our turf after all." "Thirty is crazy. Why don''t we say 10%?" I countered. The deal was done at fifteen, of course. Flattop and I shook hands, all smiles. This deal would be good for both of us, after all. Manny and I finally had a place to sell that we could call our own, and that we would have help defending. The LSS boys would finally have some income from their territory that had been laying fallow so long. "To new friends," I said, lifting my beer. "To new friends," the three other men at the table responded, laughing as their words stumbled over each other. Before it got too late, Hondo left our celebration to find the man we needed to register Manny''s new wheels. He brought him back a few minutes later¡ªan older, Mexican man in his 50s. His hair was still a deep black, but starting to thin on top. I identified him.
"Miguel Pena"
The job, Registrar, was one I hadn''t seen before. When I saw what he did next, things started to make more sense. In a world that didn''t have computers, but had a magical system behind everything, a job like this was essential. "Which vehicle, and who''s the driver?" Miguel asked. "This guy here," Hondo said, slapping Manny on the shoulder. "The car is in the garage." "You know better, boy. I need to see the vehicle," Miguel said, impatient. "Oh, yeah, sorry Abuelo. My bad," Hondo said, sliding the door open. "I''m not your abuelo." Miguel turned to Manny. "The fee is $300, cash only." Manny winced, and pulled out his much reduced roll. He peeled off $300, not leaving much behind, and handed it to Miguel. Miguel pocketed $100 and kept the remainder in his hands. "I''ll need plates," Miguel said to Hondo. Hondo dashed into the garage and came out thirty seconds later carrying a pair. He handed them to Miguel. They looked rough, the blue letters chipped and the white background dirty. Miguel didn''t seem to mind. With everything he needed, Miguel began to direct Manny toward the car gently. "It''s easier for me if you stand by the car, son." I really wondered at the difference in treatment between Hondo and Manny, but with a tiny bit of reflection it seemed obvious. Miguel obviously knew the LSS boys, and had for some time. He was a respectable man, walking in the light and Hondo had pulled him away from whatever he was doing on a Sunday evening to come and provide his services. Was there some element of intimidation there? I had no idea, but it seemed likely. If you were respectable, law-abiding citizen you didn''t want to piss off your neighbors the gang bangers. Even if they were as seemingly harmless as Hondo and Flattop were. Maybe it was a legacy of the gang from before Hondo''s dad went away. They did say, after all, that their turf had once been much larger. Maybe Gato had ruled the neighborhood with an iron fist. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Once Manny was standing in front of the Crown Vic Miguel stepped back a pace and looked intensely at the car and its new driver for a moment. The cash in his right hand burst into green flames and disappeared, and the text of the top license plate squirmed and moved, the numbers changing. The blue paint of the letters became brighter and the white of the plate shone as the plate seemed to age in reverse, becoming new again. When the letters were done moving and changing, Miguel handed the plates to Manny. Not one of my friends found this at all noteworthy, so with a lot of effort I suppressed a major nerd-out. Full-on magic, and it was just another day at the DMV for these guys. "There you go, son," Miguel said. "If there''s nothing else, I''ll go." "That''s it, thanks Miguel," Hondo said. Miguel didn''t acknowledge it, simply leaving quietly. "Hondo''s dad and Miguel had some beef. It''s carried over to Hondo, it looks like. Miguel''s a good guy, but he''s got that old school honor culture going," Flattop said to me in a low voice. I nodded, having gathered there was something going on there. "And here are the keys, Manny," Hondo said, slapping a small ring of keys into Manny''s hands. "What about my Regal?" Manny asked, looking at the brown beast parked nearby in the yard. "I''ll call a buddy I know that runs a scrapyard and get him to send a truck by tomorrow," Hondo said. "We''ll tarp it up, so no one knows it was here. You''ll probably get a hundred bucks or something for it, depends on the price of metal tomorrow." "Shit, Bro, you''re really going to scrap her?" "Yeah, I told you she''s not worth anything. Sorry, Manny," Hondo replied. We''d had a fantastic, triumphant day despite the rocky start. We''d set out in the morning to solve our problem with the Hip, or at least make it less of one, and we''d succeeded. We had the Sunshrouds and now Manny had the new car. When the LSS boys got paid for the Merc, we''d have a big payday. We''d even found a good spot to sell, I hoped. I''d know tomorrow if I could move any weight on the street outside. That was why it was such a bummer when I realized that as of that moment I had nowhere to go. I was, technically speaking, homeless. Hell, compared to the morning I wasn''t even really carrying that much cash anymore. I only had $865 left in my roll. "Manny, maybe we should go. You said you knew someone that needed a house mate?" I asked. "Oh shit, Bro. I spaced out. Yeah, let''s go and I''ll intro you to Smokey." "You aint got no place to live?" Hondo asked. "My uncle tossed me out last night, so I was staying in a sketchy motel," I said. "If that shit with Smokey don''t work out come back and you can crash on the couch here in the shop," Hondo offered. "Thanks, man. I appreciate that." We said our farewells and I freed my bike from the back seat while Manny made sure he didn''t leave anything important in the Regal. He tossed me the backpack with my weed in it. I''d almost forgotten it locked in the trunk. Manny was relieved when my bicycle fit easily into the enormous trunk of the Crown Vic and he didn''t have to damage his "new" car. When everything was in place, the three of us climbed into the car, Buddy in the middle, and Manny turned the key. It started right up, the big V8 burbling happily. Manny turned to me, a wide smile covering his face. He revved the engine and the throaty bellow of eight cylinders echoed off the metal walls of the garage. Hondo was standing nearby, looking pleased. "That''s a good car. Treat her right and she''ll return the favor." The gate was open and with a last wave Manny drove out of the yard and we were on our way. 1.39 - The Orange House Ten minutes later we were out of Compton and cruising with the windows down. Manny had found his favorite radio station and the familiar, thumping beat filled the bare-bones interior of the former cop car. Buddy laid his head on Manny''s lap and went to sleep. "Tell me about this guy we''re going to see, Manny." "He''s a friendly dude, but a bit of a pothead. White guy with one of those big curly Afros you see some guys have. I sold him quite a lot of weed, but he hasn''t bought any lately." "He told you he needs a house mate?" "Yeah, Bro. I think he was asking me if I wanted the spot. Anyway, the house is right near our school. You remember the crazy orange place with the weeds out front? It''s that one." "Uh, sure," I agreed, having no idea what house he was talking about. "How old is he?" "Shit, Bro, I don''t know. Pretty old. Thirty something." Some alarm bells were ringing for me. What kind of dude in his thirties approaches his high-school age weed dealer as a potential house mate? How was he even in the same circles as Manny to buy weed? I resolved to save my objections and the call to Chris Hansen for later. Did this world even have Chris Hansen? Manny pulled onto a busy main street and it was funny what happened around us. He drove like he usually did. Sanely, following the rules. But now things were different. When he''d been driving the Regal, the traffic around us had been LA normal¡ªabout half insane. Manny in the Crown Vic seemed to be a calming influence. People would look over and see what was unmistakably a ghost car and they''d drop to just under the speed limit and stop driving like aggressive assholes. If they saw us behind them they''d drive even more correctly. It wasn''t 100% effective. Some people drove like idiots no matter what was happening around them, and some of them looked close enough to see the two teenagers in the front seats or hear the gangster rap. Still, I had a good chuckle. Manny seemed like he didn''t notice. "It''ll be great having you so close to the school, Bro," Manny enthused. "We can move the weed and the scales there, and I can even park the car there before I go to school." "That reminds me, where have you got that shit now? Aren''t you worried your mom will find it?" I asked. "Sort of," Manny replied. "We''ve got a little shed in the yard. It''s full of junk we never use, so that''s where I do the weighing and I''ve got the weed stashed under a ton of junk in the back. No one ever goes in there but me." Manny pulled off the boulevard into a neighborhood full of small houses with neat yards. Out of habit now I was watching for gang tags and seeing plenty. They changed every few blocks as we drove. Once you looked for them, they were almost everywhere. I was absorbed in that, keeping a running count of how many different tags I was seeing when Manny pulled up to the curb in an empty spot and stopped. I looked up, and I knew we were there. The house was big for this neighborhood, with a lot about twice the size of its neighbors. If I had to guess from just the outside, I''d say it was probably a three bedroom and two bathroom house. A decent sized house for a family. None of that was unusual, there were other houses like that in this neighborhood. This house stood out. It was an unusual, "modern" design with towering walls and strange angles¡ªa shape only an architect could love. That wasn''t the worst of it. At some point, probably in the seventies shortly after it was built, some genius had painted it orange. Not a pastel orange, but bright, sunset orange. A quintessential California color, it turned the already eye-catching house into an eyesore. That would have been enough, but the orange was starting to fade, the paint cracking and falling off in spots. The front yard had once been full of decorative stones and succulents, but was now just a trash-filled square of gravel, dead plants and weeds. Manny turned off the Crown Vic and got out. With a little more reluctance I got out and followed him. I noticed he grinned as he stepped out, perhaps appreciating a working door once again. Buddy tried to follow, but obeyed when Manny told him to sit and stay. He looked pitifully at us through the Crown Vic''s fully opened windows. "Stay there, Buddy. I''ll be back soon." When it was clear Buddy wasn''t going to follow us, he turned back to the house. "I''ll introduce you, Bro. Hopefully he''s still got the spot. If not I can take you back to the shop, or another motel or whatever." I was a little apprehensive, but not so much. Sure, there were red flags but I doubted it could be any worse than the Highway Star. Manny and I walked through the gap in the front fence where the gate had once been. It had been broken off and was lying nearby in the yard, rusting. Bits of wrapper blew across the yard and stuck in the remains of the fence. The contrast with the neighbors on both sides with their clean yards and well maintained homes was staggering. The house looked occupied. A pillar of glass blocks beside the door shone with light, but didn''t show us anything behind them. The large, front window had curtains drawn but we could see light there as well. Manny knocked on the front door and waited. Nothing happened. This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. "He''s a pothead, so he might be high right now," Manny said, and knocked again. It was much louder this time. "Hey, it''s Manny," he yelled through the closed door. To my right the curtain covering the front window of the house twitched, but I didn''t catch who''d done it. A shadow crossed the glass blocks in front of us and I expected the door to open, but it didn''t. Manny looked a little annoyed at the continuing silence. "Dude, it''s Manny. Open up." "Who''s that with you?" a muffled voice asked through the door. "This is my friend. You said you needed a house mate. He needs a place to live. Come on, Bro, let''s not talk through the door." After another few seconds of silence I heard two locks click open, and the door opened. The faint smell of smoke and vinegar washed over me, slightly unpleasant. The man standing in the door was short and skeletally thin. He was dressed in pajamas and a loose-fitting silk robe and everything hung off of him. His face was horribly marred by fresh acne and dominated by a hawk nose far too big for it. He looked us both over carefully before opening the door further. I identified him immediately.
"Smokey"
"Gentlemen, er, guys, come on in," he said. We stepped inside and Smokey locked the door behind us. Just inside the front door was a small space filled with discarded shoes, and piles of junk mail. The smell of vinegar got stronger, and I wondered what he''d been doing to make the house smell like that¡ªcleaning a kettle or something? "I know you, Manny, but I''m afraid I don''t know your name?" Smokey asked, turning to me. He swayed a bit on his feet. I realized I still had the Sunshrouds on and pushed them up to the top of my head. "I''m Mack," I said, and offered my right hand. He shook my hand daintily, but I didn''t fail to notice him assessing the glasses Manny and I wore. "Please, come in. Leave your shoes on. You''re looking for a place to live, Mack?" he asked. "I sure am," I replied. "That''s great timing. Follow me and I''ll show you around." We followed him through a doorway into the living room. A fireplace dominated the center the long, white tube of the chimney disappearing into the ceiling twenty feet above. The stone base was nearly black with soot and the empty fireplace was full of discarded cigarette packs and other paper trash. Around it was what I think they used to call a "conversation pit" - a circular depression filled with cushions and rugs. A young woman lounged down there, looking up at us with a lazy, contented expression. She had short, curly red hair and bright blue eyes. She was wearing fashionable shorts and a t-shirt and filled them out nicely. In her right hand a glass with some lime and ice in it clinked as she took a sip. She smiled up at us. "Hey, guys. Come on and join us." I immediately identified her as well.
Gloria Masters, Student (F2)
"Honey, Manny and Mack aren''t here socially. We''ve got business. Guys, this is my girl Gloria," Smokey said. "Nice to meet you, Gloria. Maybe another time," I said to Gloria, trying to be polite. I had no idea what Smokey and his girl were doing in the pit, but I didn''t have any urge to get involved. "This is the living room. Great for parties, as you can see," Smokey said. He then led us into the kitchen just off living room. It was enormous, easily as large as the living room, and was absolutely disgusting. Dirty dishes and take out trash were piled high on the counters, and the floor was so dirty it felt slippery underfoot. Roaches ran around without fear on every surface. Underneath the filth I could see that it was a very well appointed kitchen, even if hadn''t been updated since the seventies. A six burner gas range underneath a large extractor hood, a double built-in fridge and a kitchen island were all just barely visible. On the other side of the room glass doors led out into a back yard that was too dark to see from inside the brightly-lit house. "This is the kitchen. As you can see, the maid hasn''t come by for a while and I''m a bit of a slob," Smokey said as we entered. I turned to Manny, who looked a bit ill. "We can bail whenever, Bro. Sorry about this, I didn''t know," he said, pitching his voice low enough that Smokey didn''t hear. Smokey however seemed to pick up on our distress and shook his head as if to clear it. "Shit, I''m sorry guys I''m really high right now," Smokey said. "This is gross, and I''ll get it cleaned up tomorrow. I promise. Anyway, that''s not what you''re here for. Let me show you where you''d be renting. It''s one of the best parts of the house." Being high explained his slightly-off behavior. I was willing to give Smokey another few minutes, so I nodded and he led us around the corner to staircase that led both up and down. I just wondered why I didn''t smell any marijuana. "My bedroom is down there, in the basement. I''m not fond of heights. Yours is the second floor." "The whole floor?" I asked. "Yeah, let''s go take a look. You''ll love it." Smokey went first up the staircase and opened the steel door at the top. The door and the frame didn''t match the rest of the house. The work was rough, but solid and seemed recent. "The guy that used to live up here left all his stuff, so it''s a bit messy still," Smokey explained. "If you take the place you can just toss whatever you don''t want. He''s not coming back for it." The bedroom behind the door was magnificent, if incredibly messy. The biggest king-sized bed I''d ever seen was on a slightly-raised platform in the middle of the room, facing the floor to ceiling windows looking out onto the backyard. The wispy curtains were fully opened but I still couldn''t see the backyard as every inch of glass was covered in old newspaper pasted to the glass, turning that window into a wall of print. Thick, off-white shag carpet covered the floor, so deep it lapped at the tops of our shoes. Behind the bed a partition wall hid the bathroom and a dressing area full of drawers and wardrobes built into the walls. The bathroom had a shower big enough for three people and a large soaker tub. "Whoa, this is crazy," Manny said, expressing what I was feeling. I walked through the room, taking everything in. The room was amazing, but what rivaled it was the mess. The mattress of the bed was askew, the bedding stripped and in a pile nearby. Every drawer in the dressing area had been pulled out and dumped on the ground, covering the floor with clothing. The bathroom was the same, the hard tiled floor covered with junk that had once been stowed in drawers or cabinets. The bathroom itself had obviously not been cleaned for quite a while either, with mold growing here and there and a stale mildew smell in the air. Someone, and it wasn''t hard to guess who, had tossed the place. I picked up a pair of pants off the floor, a set of black jeans with an unfamiliar brand. They weren''t exactly my size¡ªthe legs were too long¡ªbut they''d fit me. All around me on the floor and still in the wardrobes were clothes that would fit me. The steel door at the top of the stair was beefy and was fitted with a deadbolt and a padlock hasp on the outside. I turned to Smokey, who''d been hovering nearby. "Let''s talk price." 1.40 - My New Living Situation "Whoa, Bro, you sure?" Manny said, not bothering to lower his voice. Smokey had been opening his mouth, but paused when Manny addressed me. I wasn''t, not entirely. The place was a gaudy palace that had been turned into a sty. Who knew how long it''d been like this? But the opulence of the top floor and the secure door sold me. "That depends on Smokey. I''m willing to come in as your house mate, but I need some answers first." "Uh, sure. What can I tell you?" "The guy that was living here, why do you say he''s not coming back? Is he dead?" I asked. "What? Oh, no. I don''t think so. He''s in prison, last I heard. He got a ten year sentence, so I''d say he''s not coming back any time soon." Looking at the ransacked belongings, I expected he very much hoped that was true. If his former house mate came back, it might go badly for Smokey. "And what about you, Smokey?" I asked. "If I come in with you, how can I be sure you''re going to hold up your share of everything? Not just money, but keeping up with chores and just being a good house mate? That kitchen is nasty." "Hey, I''m sorry about that. It''s been a busy weekend, you know how that goes. I didn''t have time to clean anything." That one smelled like a lie to me. That wasn''t one weekend''s worth of filth down there. "And money?" He smiled broadly, exposing perfectly straight, heavily-yellowed teeth. "That you don''t have to worry about! My parents are rich and my trust fund can cover everything. I just don''t want to leave this top floor empty, it seems like a waste of a nice space!" I turned to Manny, but he just shrugged. It seemed he didn''t know Smokey that well, after all. If he really was a rich kid slumming it, then him covering his share didn''t seem like much of a worry. "What about parties? Is this place going to be full of people every weekend?" "Definitely not! When I invite people over, I am going for an intimate gathering. Gloria and some of her friends, perhaps. Never more than ten people. You''d be more than welcome to join, some of Gloria''s friends are quite attractive. They''re mostly around your age too." I left that one alone. If this dude was partying with high school girls, that was on him. It wasn''t my job to be the morality police. Worst case, I''d have a locked steel door between myself and the chaos. Best case, maybe Smokey actually threw good parties. As long as he didn''t throw them all the time, I''d be fine. "What''s the rent here, Smokey?" Manny asked. "The whole place is $2500 a month, plus bills. Your share would be $1250, but let''s call it $1k for this month since we''re past the first." I frowned and started to do the math, but Manny was faster. "Around $890, not $1000." Smokey waved his left hand like the difference was inconsequential. "As you say. You in, Mack?" "Yes, I think I am." "That''s fantastic! I''ll need the money before you move in, though," he said, looking a bit nervous as he said it. I didn''t have it, but he didn''t need to know that. "I haven''t got that much cash on me. I''ll give you half now, and the rest tomorrow." He hummed and hawed, but when I pulled my roll out and started to peel off bills he couldn''t take his eyes off the cash in my hands. I stopped when I had $450 in hand and held it up to him. This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. "$450 tonight, the rest tomorrow. Deal?" I asked. "Sure, that works," he said, and took the money from my hand. He pulled it close to his chest and held it there, and I got the impression he was suddenly eager to leave. "I''ll need the house keys and the key to that door, there," I said, pointing at the steel door at the top of the stairs. "House keys are no problem, but I don''t have a key to the door. You''ll need a locksmith to re-key it," he said. "Okay," I said, accepting that. "I''ll get you your keys, back in a moment," Smokey said and dashed downstairs. "Really, Bro?" Manny asked. "You''re going to stay here?" "It''s better than the Highway Star. I think it''ll be really nice with a little work." "Still, Smokey''s a fucking pig, Bro. You want that guy living with you?" "I''m sure it''ll be fine. He seems like a pretty flexible guy," I said. I really meant that Smokey seemed like a weak guy, and if it came down to it I could probably make him do what I wanted. Smokey came back up the stairs and handed me a couple of keys on a ring. "There ya go. I''ll let you get settled in. Good to see you, Manny," Smokey said, and left us again. We returned to the Crown Vic and unloaded my bike. I thought about bringing it into the house, but I didn''t want to bitch about how dirty the place was and then make it worse my first day. Instead I made my way into the backyard¡ªdead like the front¡ªand locked it to the metal railing on the back stairs. Manny insisted on taking me to a nearby hardware store, where I bought a thick padlock and a door wedge. Until I could re-key that lock I wouldn''t trust it. It was starting to get late, so we said our farewells and I stood on the sidewalk and watched Manny drive off in the Crown Vic. It had been a long day, and I was feeling it. I re-entered the house and locked the door behind me. The living room was empty, the lights still on and that faint smell of vinegar still hanging in the air. With how nasty the house was, I really wondered what he''d been using vinegar for. I wandered into the kitchen, stepping carefully. My shoes alternately stuck to the floor and slipped, depending on what spill I trod in. One section of the kitchen island was covered in paper¡ªopened envelopes and junk mail. I idly looked through it. At the top of the stack was a power bill, with ''PAST DUE'' written in red letters written across the top. I started to dig through the rest of the stack when I heard a quiet sound and looked up. "Hi," Gloria said, leaning against the wall nearest the stairwell. She smiled at me, her eyes glittering. She''d lost some of her clothes, and all that was left was a small pair of pink panties and a tight white shirt with¡ªquite obviously¡ªno bra. As a normal, teenaged dude I appreciated what I was seeing and my blood started racing. My brain was throwing up alarm signals, but I was ignoring those. Lots of great porn started this way and I did not want to derail this train just yet. "Hey," I replied, unmoving. She moved silently across the kitchen, stopping just within arm''s reach. She looked up at me, and her eyes were¡ªfor lack of a better description¡ªfuzzy. Like she was drunk, or high, perhaps. Gloria reached out with her left hand and stroked my arm lightly with a fingertip. The hair all over my body stood up at attention, as did at least one other bit. She could see her effect on me and smiled wider, stepping toward me. My right arm went around her waist all by itself and pulled her to me, the soft curves of her body felt wonderful squished against me. "Smokey is passed out," she whispered. She tilted her face upward and I kissed her deeply. At the same time she grabbed my dick with her right hand and squeezed gently. I moaned in appreciation. She pulled back from the kiss, but kept stroking my dick through my jeans. Her beautiful, blue eyes looked up into mine, entrancing me. "I''ll suck your dick for $50. You can fuck me for $100," she said. There was a thunderous mental crash as my porno-train derailed. I pulled back, pushing her hand off my dick and then her away from me. "I''m not into that," I said. "Twenty bucks then. A special discount for you, handsome. I''ll suck that dick real good," she said. "Sorry, no," I said, backing away further. She frowned. "What, are you gay? You want my ass instead? Maybe we can work something out, sweetie." This was really going places I hadn''t expected. What had I been expecting on my first night in my new shared living situation? It sure wasn''t price negotiation with my house mate''s girlfriend. "No, I''m not gay. I just don''t pay for sex. Sorry, Gloria," I said, backing away. Her frown deepened. "Fuck you! Fucking Smokey passes out before he fucks me and I can''t get any even from a guy my own age. What a shit night," she said, and I saw tears start in her eyes. A part of me was just about to volunteer that I would be happy to fuck her, I just wouldn''t pay her for it. Despite the lack of blood in my brain, I resisted and instead rapidly retreated upstairs. Fucking my new house mate''s girlfriend on the first night I was there probably wouldn''t have been the best start to our new relationship. I closed the steel door behind me and wedged it shut. The bed took a few minutes to put back in order. The bedding, while smelling musty, was otherwise clean. With that sorted I took a long, luxurious shower in gloriously hot water and collapsed into my enormous bed for a dream-filled night of sleep. 1.41 - The New Turf The diffused light of the sun woke me¡ªa much gentler awakening than I had experienced in quite some time. A warm, yellow glow suffused the newspaper plastered to the floor to ceiling windows and flooded the room with light. Instead of snapping awake because of the tension of the situation I was in or because the overhead lights had come on, I''d just... woken up. It was wonderful. Curious, I approached the window and peeled off bits of newspaper. The view of the neighborhood I exposed wasn''t spectacular. I could see the pools in our neighbors'' backyards, their decks and barbecues. What was stunning, however, was the sun over the horizon. I''d missed the sunrise, but not by much. It was clear that I''d have a spectacular view of it when the newspaper was gone. In any case, that was for another time. I spent a while going through the piles of clothing on the floor until I found something to wear. As expected, the jeans fit but I had to roll them up as the legs were a little long. I found a blue t-shirt with faded lettering on it from some music festival in 2010 and put that on. Job done. I even managed to find an unopened toothbrush in the bathroom wreckage and put it to use. Score. Once I was ready I made my way downstairs into the quiet house. I was hopeful Gloria hadn''t spun some tale to Smokey about how I''d tried to bang her and she''d valiantly fought off my advances. Nevertheless, I was strapped. The ground floor was deserted, most of the lights from the previous night still on. That reminded me of the bills I''d found in the kitchen, and I went back to the island. The stack of paper that had been there was gone, leaving a suspiciously clean spot where it had been. I was going to need to have a talk with Smokey about our bills. I didn''t want to move in just as our electricity was shut off. He had looked pretty desperate for my cash. Maybe he wasn''t as flush as he''d made himself out to be. My stomach rumbled at me so I went over to the double fridge built into the wall and opened it up. A few condiment bottles, a pair of ancient looking plastic containers with what might once have been Chinese food and a single beer in a clear glass bottle. Not exactly bursting with food, Smokey''s house. Did he only eat takeout? Even if there had been anything to eat in the fridge, it wouldn''t have done me any good. If there were any clean dishes not stacked up on the counters and in the sinks, I''d be surprised. I''d have to get something near the shop. I didn''t know when Manny was going to come by to get me, but I knew it could be a while. It took a bit of prowling through the bottom floor of the house before I spotted the phone. It was in the "conversation pit", partially hidden under one of the pillows. I stepped gingerly down into the pit onto one of the large, flat pillows lining the outer ring and heard a distinct crunch as my weight came down. "Shit." I lifted up the pillow and saw that I''d somehow managed to put my foot down almost directly on a small tube of glass, breaking it cleanly in half. It was about five inches long with a spherical bowl on one end. A pipe. I carefully picked up the two biggest pieces, looking them over. It was heavily stained, a dark brown color. I was pretty sure you could smoke all sorts of things in a pipe like this. Marijuana and hash, sure. This didn''t look like that kind of pipe though. It was something else. I sniffed at it, and that same faint vinegar smell was there. What drug smelled like vinegar? Rather than leave the bits of broken glass in the carpet of the pit, I gathered them up and put them all into the fireplace. Watching my step, I crossed the pit and pulled the phone free. I should have been surprised but somehow wasn''t when the phone didn''t have a dial tone. Ten minutes later I''d not only traced the cable to the wall¡ªconfirming it was plugged in but just not working, but also found another phone in the kitchen behind a stack of plates. The house didn''t have a working phone line. I was seriously considering rousting Smokey out of bed and demanding some answers when there was a knock on the front door. It was Manny, so I let him in. "Bro, I know I''m early but I wanted to give myself some extra time to get to Compton and back here for school," Manny said. He was dressed in his usual outfit, with the additions of his Sunshrouds and the expensive leather satchel. "No problem, man. I''m hungry anyway and there''s nothing here," I replied. "Cool. I''ve brought you another ounce. I know I said I''d bring the weed and the scales here, but this place is sketch as fuck, Bro." Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. I nodded. I knew what he saw, because I saw it too. I wasn''t an idiot. What he didn''t¡ªmaybe couldn''t¡ªsee was what this place could be. Sure, it had a seriously cheesy seventies vibe to it, and Smokey had turned it into a roach-infested shithole. Even with all of that against it, it still spoke to me. This could be my palace, it just needed some work. Alright, maybe a lot of work. Manny waited downstairs while I grabbed my bag and Sunshrouds out of the bedroom upstairs and padlocked the door behind me. I wasn''t leaving anything valuable behind¡ªthis time¡ªbut I''d need to get into that habit if I was staying with Smokey. If it wasn''t him that had tossed the upstairs, it was one of his ''friends'' after all. When I got downstairs with the bag we transferred the new ounce from my bag to his, and I counted what I had. 41 grams. It seemed like a lot to me, but maybe the area around the LSS shop would be busy and I''d sell a lot. With how low my cash had gotten, I needed it to be. I was pretty resigned to no longer being able to pay off the whole nut to Brass Lee this Thursday, but I wanted to get ahead of the game. "Alright, let''s go, Manny," I said. I locked the door behind us, we got in the car and drove off. I was tempted to ask Manny about the pipe I''d found, but with his opinion of my new place already so low I didn''t want to hear any more about it. I''d ask Hondo or Flattop instead. "Hey Manny, you alright? I mean, are you feeling better now you''ve got the new car and the shades?" I asked. "Sure, Bro. All good," he replied. "Really?" I pressed. I had trouble believing that. He glanced over at me, and although I couldn''t see his eyes behind the shades I thought I could read something on his face. A bit of shame, or maybe embarrassment. "Actually, I really had fun yesterday, Bro. That shit with Big El and then the car. Damn, Bro. You have no idea how much fun that was." On my side the car chase hadn''t been that much fun, but I hadn''t been the one driving the Mercedes. I just nodded in understanding and Manny continued. "Selling weed is pretty cool, I guess. The money''s good and hey, I like to smoke. I don''t think it''s what I want to do, though. When I was running from those dudes in the SUV, it felt like I was finally driving properly, Bro. Like the way I''m doing it right now is just all wrong, and I''d finally realized it. I fucking loved it. I want to do it again." "Maybe you should be a Wheelman then, if you love driving that much. I''m sure Flattop will help you unlock the class, if you ask him," I said. "I don''t know, Bro. I can''t let my family down. I need to go to college, and become an engineer or a doctor or whatever. Something respectable, and in the light. What the hell does a Wheelman do, anyway?" "Getaway driver, I guess? I think Flattop uses it to help him steal cars," I replied. "See, I can''t do that, Bro. My moms would kill me if she found out I was stealing cars or I got arrested. My aunts would never let her live it down, and that shit would all come down on my head." "Manny, I don''t know what to tell you. You''re going to have to decide. Maybe you can find a light-side way to use Wheelman skills? Like you can be a race driver or something? Is that respectable enough?" He glanced over sharply, like he hadn''t even thought of that. "Shit, maybe? I don''t know." We spent the next ten minutes talking about racing. For someone who''d suddenly discovered a near-obsessive interest in driving fast, Manny didn''t know much about it. Neither did I, which made our conversation where we each tried to remember how various motor sports worked quite funny in hindsight. Was there really a race where they went for 24 hours? Maybe. What about the one where you turn left for a few hours? Or where you raced on dirt roads in the countryside? Manny resolved that he''d hit the school library today and find out everything there was to know about racing as a profession. He was beyond hyped about the idea. We pulled up in front of the LSS shop, the street already bustling with activity. The gate to the yard was closed, and I didn''t the see the Javelin within. I got out of the car and slung my backpack full of weed over my shoulder. "Good luck, Bro. I''ll see you after school," Manny said. "Thanks, man," I said. I slammed the door and he peeled out, the Crown Vic''s V8 roaring as he rocketed away. Across the street old men were gathered outside a coffee shop around small round tables, sipping their coffees and enjoying the morning sunshine. The small sign above the entrance told me it was called "The Ball and Bean." The old men looked over and looked back to their friends when they saw that I was walking in the shadows. Not in fear, more in disinterest. I walked up to the gates and peeked inside. The yard was empty, the garage sealed up and silent. A padlock the size of my fist was holding the gate closed on the other side, and there was a small hole in the fence to reach your hand in to unlock it. The Soldados weren''t at home. I briefly considered just setting up shop and trying to sell, but the smell of coffee wafted across the street and filled my nostrils. When I saw one of the old men eating, all of my resolve was broken. Breakfast first. There was a single empty table at the edge and I slumped down into it, grateful to have got the last seat. The old men at the neighboring tables carefully didn''t look my way, continuing their conversations. A brown-skinned guy wearing a white apron came out, carrying a tray full of coffees and food. He was an older guy with deep wrinkles around his eyes, and close cropped salt and pepper hair. He looked my way and frowned, before dropping off his coffees. I straightened up, trying to get his attention by raising a hand slightly but then he was gone again. I slumped back in disappointment. The next time I was ready. My stomach was grumbling loudly and I needed at least a coffee to quiet it down. When the man came out again, I raised my hand high in the air and spoke loudly. "Hey, some service?" He looked my way, frowned again and dropped off the contents of his tray before coming over to stand in front of me. His expression was anything but friendly. Once he was closer I could see he was heavily muscled, his knuckles and arms covered in crudely-drawn tattoos in a faded blue. "You''re in the wrong neighborhood, esse. You''d better leave now, or things will go badly for you." 1.42 - The Ball and Bean I was taken aback for a moment, and didn''t know how to respond to the intimidating figure in front of me. I''d been expecting to order coffee and a croissant or something, not get ordered out of the neighborhood. He was uncomfortably close while I was sitting and I knew there was no way I could draw my gun before he clocked me. Judging by the size of him and his prison tattoos, it''d be an entirely one-sided fight. Without thinking, I IDed him.
Guillem Menendez, Journeyman Mechanical Engineer (D3), Owner, The Ball and Bean
This wasn''t some gangster. This was the owner of the coffee shop. Was it just because I was in the shadows? "Hey, I''m just trying to have a coffee while I wait for my friends," I protested. "We don''t want your friends here, either, esse. Get the fuck up," Guillem said. Without waiting for me to respond, or even get up, his right hand shot out wrapped around my throat. He lifted me off my chair with a grunt of effort, his muscles bulging as my feet left the ground. I tried to choke out a protest, but I was having trouble breathing. "The next time I see you in this neighborhood it will be the last time, you understand that, pendejo?" he yelled into my face. I flailed ineffectively at his arm but it was like trying to move stone. In response he squeezed my throat a little tighter. My vision faded, and I reached for my gun. I was quick, but he was quicker. The gun cleared the holster and had made it to my right hip when his left hand clamped around my wrist. "You fucking pull on me?" Guillem screamed in rage, shaking me. "In my own place? Hijo de puta." Things were getting black when I heard a familiar voice yell out. "Tio, what the fuck! That''s a friend of ours, let him go." To his credit, Guillem immediately dropped me heavily back into my chair. I sucked in a lungful of air. Before he let go of my wrist he wrenched the gun out of my right hand and stepped back. I wasn''t in any condition to come after him, but I could admire the caution. Flattop was beside me, smelling like soap. He squatted down beside my chair. "You good?" I nodded, not trusting my voice. "This gringo is your friend?" Guillem asked. "Yes, he is," Flattop replied. "We''re going to ally with him today. Him and his boy helped us with something big yesterday, Tio. What the fuck, you can''t leave a random gringo alone for five minutes?" "Shit," Guillem muttered. The old men at the tables around us chattered to each other in Spanish as they watched. None of them seemed like they were in a hurry to leave, despite the sudden violence and the appearance of my gun. This was probably the best entertainment they''d had in weeks. Guillem dropped the pistol mag into his waiting hand and then worked the slide to eject the chambered round. He caught the round, inserted it into the magazine and reseated it without chambering a new round. He made all of it look like it was no more effort to him than wiping off one of his tables. With my weapon no longer ready to fire, he set it on the table in front of me and looked me in the eye. The anger I''d seen there earlier was now gone. "My apologies, senor. Please, sit and relax. I will bring you some coffee and food," Guillem said. He picked up his dropped tray and left me there. Flattop pulled up a chair and sat down beside me. "Shit, sorry about that. I would have warned you, but I didn''t expect you to show up at dawn." "Dawn?" I managed to croak out. I took my gun off the table and holstered it. "It''s not even nine o''clock yet. Who you going to sell to first thing in the morning?" I wanted to explain to him that my ride with Manny was at this time, and I definitely didn''t want to ride my bicycle across the city and into Compton while carrying a backpack full of weed. That seemed like too long of an explanation, so instead I simply shook my head. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. "What''s his deal?" I asked. My throat hurt, but it was getting better. "Tio? Ah, he used to be in the game back in the day. Retired now, but he still watches out for us. When he sees some gringo on our turf he''s got something to say about it." That was certainly a way to put it. I didn''t have any hard feelings, despite the sore throat. What really sunk in right then and there was that I couldn''t rely on my gun to get me out of every situation. I needed to be stronger, and I needed to be able to fight with my hands and feet. Maybe knives, too. I was still that same pudgy D&D nerd I had been back in LA, except that I had a gun. That couldn''t continue. Guillem came back out with a full tray and filled the table. Two coffees, a plate of churros with chocolate dip and a fried potato tortilla were set in front of us. "Again, my apologies, senor. Enjoy your breakfast," Guillem said, looking a little embarrassed. He left us again. "Tio''s a great guy," Flattop said and took a sip of his coffee. "I''m sorry that was how you met him. After we get you allied up, that won''t happen again." I took my own sip of coffee. It was great, cafe con leche, literally coffee with milk. Despite the name it somehow transcended that into pure deliciousness. I swallowed with some effort but things were getting better. "What do you mean, allied up?" I asked. "With Hondo''s dad in the can, I''m the acting gang leader. I can set your status with us. I was thinking of setting it to just Friendly, but that won''t work. It''s got to be Allied. There are too many guys like Tio in the hood with attachments to Gato. If they see you here on our turf they might just cap you as a favor to him and us." I thought I understood. Old gangsters like Guillem would see me selling on LSS turf and want to do something about it. If they were all as scary as Guillem had been, I didn''t want that. "Right, so what''s the difference between Friendly and Allied then?" I asked. "$900, for one," Flattop said, and laughed. When I still looked confused, he continued. "Friendly costs me $100 to set, Allied is $1,000. The real difference, though, is that when you''re Allied you can see everyone else that is Allied, and vice-versa. It shows right up on their name plate. Only LSS members can see a Friendly tag, so that''d just be me and Hondo right now. Not so useful in your situation." I was kind of surprised at the cost, and I could only hope he didn''t ask me to pay for it. "Guillem is Allied with you?" I asked. "Yeah, him and a few other guys around the hood. Gato still has a lot of respect around here." I took a bite of chocolate-dipped churro and a sip of coffee. It struck me that this was basically the Mexican version of coffee and donuts for breakfast, yet again. "Where''s Hondo, anyway?" I asked. "Sleeping. He doesn''t usually start working until about 11. I''m the early riser of the two of us." Back in LA I didn''t usually get out of bed early if I could help it. Things had changed. Instead of staying up late on the Internet, or playing games with my friends, I was hustling and trying not to get killed or robbed. Getting up early seemed like a good idea, but it had it''s downsides as Flattop was quick to point out. "You should sleep in, too," Flattop said. "Like I said, there''s not going to be a lot of business around here until closer to lunch time." I nodded, agreeing with him. I sure should. If only I had a car. Maybe I could convince Manny to lend me his while he went to school. Then I could pick him up. It seemed unlikely to happen. The last churro disappeared, and my coffee was just about gone. The last time I''d tried to kill time while waiting for the right time to sell, I''d ended up shooting Zeke. Wandering around Compton didn''t seem like a winning plan. Flattop obviously felt the same way. "I was thinking. I can let you into the shop but I''ve got a better way for us to kill some time." "Yeah?" "Come on, follow me," he said, and stood up from the table. I followed him into the Ball and Bean. It was a long and thin coffee shop/convenience store. Packed shelves lined the walls, stretching the entire length of the shop. At the very back there was a steel door marked as an emergency exit, and beside that a roped-off stairway down into the basement. Guillem was behind the counter, moving quickly to prepare another tray but when he saw us enter he stopped and came out to meet us. "Again, my apologies. What''s your name, senor?" I looked around, but the shop was empty except for the three of us. "Mack," I said. "Don''t spread that around, Tio. He''s got a bounty," Flattop cautioned. Guillem angrily gestured at him. "I''m no child, boy. I know the game." "Sorry, Tio," Flattop said. "Hey, can I have the keys for downstairs? I want to get Mack here a new skill or two." Guillem looked at both of us for a moment before focusing on Flattop. "You will clean everything you use. You will return everything to its proper place. Understood?" "Yes, Tio." Guillem reached into his pocket and pulled out his key ring. He freed a chunky key and handed it over. Flattop took it, and Guillem slapped each of us on a shoulder. "I must return to work." "Thanks, Tio," Flattop said as Guillem returned behind the counter. At the back of the shop, Flattop moved the rope and led me down a steep staircase. A thick grey door at the bottom was locked, but opened with the key in his hand. It seemed to take some effort, the bolt clunking slowly and heavily as he turned the key. Just inside the door, Flattop flicked a switch and lights came on. The both of us stepped into the room beyond, and I gazed in wonder at what I saw. The long wall of the room we entered was covered in guns of every type I could imagine. Dozens of pistols, but plenty of rifles, submachine guns and shotguns. An incredible display of firepower. "Let''s get you some new skills," Flattop said. 1.43 - Guns, Lots of Guns Leaving me to boggle, Flattop closed the door behind us and with a heavy clunk bolted it shut. "What the hell?" I asked. "Tio''s got a nice collection," Flattop said. "That''s what you call this? Not an arsenal? A shitload of guns?" "Take a seat, Mack," Flattop said. "I''m guessing you don''t have any gun skills, right?" I wondered for a moment what he was talking about, and then I tore my gaze away from the guns long enough to notice the rest of the room. Two long, dark wooden tables ran down the center, with chairs tucked underneath. Clamped on the short sides of the tables was one of those magnifying glass/lamp combos I''d seen in movies. Toward the front of the store a closed door led further into the basement. I pulled out a chair and sat down. Flattop went to the wall and began plucking pistols off of it like apples. He didn''t hesitate, but seemed to know exactly which ones to pick. "Get yours out too, Mack," he instructed. He came back and placed the guns down in front of me one at a time. Each was different. The first row was three revolvers, and the second was two automatics. There was an obvious space for mine, so I placed it there. "Alright, now since you carry that nine we''ll start you with automatics. I don''t like the revolvers much, but we might as well get you trained on those as well. Take a look at the other two automatics." I IDed the two strange automatics in front of me.
Colt M1911 (E) Ammo (.45 ACP): 7/7
Handling: B Damage: D Serial: None
Penetration: E Accuracy: E Value: ???
Beretta M9 (E) Ammo (9mm Parabellum): 13/13
Handling: B Damage: D Serial: None
Penetration: D Accuracy: D Value: ???
I recognized the .45 caliber pistol as one I''d seen a lot in movies. It was a lot smaller in real life. The other 9mm was a lot like Magnus''s gun, but black instead of nickel-plated. What I didn''t understand is why they were in front of me. Flattop squatted down and grabbed a case from a shelf I hadn''t noticed underneath the table. It was grey plastic with an integrated handle, worn from long use. He set it down on the table beside the two rows of guns and opened it up. The inside was full of an assortment of brushes and brush heads along with long rods and other stuff I didn''t know the use of. That ignorance didn''t last long. "Now, the fun part," Flattop said. With movements born of long practice, he picked up my pistol, dropped the magazine and less than a minute later it was in pieces arranged on the table in front of me. After naming all the parts and making me repeat those names back to him, he put the weapon back together and handed it to me. "Your turn." The next hour was frustrating. I broke down all three pistols and put them back together until I could not only do that, but I could reliably name all of the different pieces and what they did. Then I learned how to clean and service them. The two from Guillem''s collection were spotless, but we ''cleaned'' them anyway. Mine was very dirty. Zeke hadn''t taken good care of his gun. Once that was done to Flattop''s satisfaction, he pushed the automatics to the side and picked up the left-most revolver. "Now the revolvers," he said. "Oh come on. Why are we doing this anyway?" "You want to be able to shoot that thing or not?" Flattop asked. "This is how you get the skill." Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. After learning the basics with the automatics, the revolvers weren''t hard. They were a bit more work to clean, and took longer, but that was it. My instruction went much faster. "Now that you''ve eaten your vegetables, it''s time for the ice cream. Let''s go, take a couple of these with you." He took one of the three revolvers, a chromed monster in .44 caliber, while I picked up my nine and the .45. "Back here," he said, opening the door leading further into the basement. I followed, wondering just what it was I was going to see. The ice cream didn''t disappoint, as behind that door was Guillem''s private gun range. It was only about thirty feet long, but that was good enough for my non-existent aiming skills. The ceiling above us was steel plated, nicked here and there by stray rounds. Flattop handed me a pair of earplugs and then a pair of ear muffs. It seemed like overkill, but once we started shooting I was glad to have them. The noise in an enclosed space with concrete walls would have destroyed my hearing forever. What came next was the most fun I''d had since the last time I''d had a girlfriend. Flattop brought out boxes of 9mm and .45 ammunition for the automatics and we started shooting. Flattop would come over and show me how to adjust my stance or my grip, and watch my grouping. The paper targets at the end of the range would get shredded, and then we''d pull them off and replace them. I shot all three of the automatics and was starting to get comfortable with all of them. I still wasn''t a great shot, but I knew how to put the bullets approximately where I wanted them at short range. We''d gone through a few boxes of ammunition. I hadn''t been paying close attention, but I''d just emptied another magazine and lowered the pistol when a UI popped in my face.
Skill Unlocked - Semi-automatic Pistols (Passive) (F) Level 1/5
Familiarity with the operation and maintenance of the majority of semi-automatic pistols. Grants 5% faster target acquisition, 5% more accurate shots and 5% faster reloads.
Earned: $0/$500
"Woo!" I cheered. Flattop turned to me, lowering his revolver and pulling off his ear muffs. He said something, but I didn''t hear it. I took off my ear muffs and he repeated it. "You got it?" "Yeah! The bonuses aren''t great and it''ll be a giant pain in the ass to level up, but yeah!" "It''s not that bad to level up. If you rob someone with your gun, that''ll count." "I''m not planning on becoming a robber anytime soon," I replied. "Sometimes you''ve just gotta take somebody''s shit. If you do, that skill will earn." When he put it like that it made me think. I had already robbed Magnus, after all. I would have taken Zeke''s cash, too, if it had been safe to do so. Maybe it''d come up. "Anyway, let''s switch you to the revolvers and get you that skill as well." It took a bit longer with the revolvers. They were a lot of fun at first, especially the .44 Magnum. It had a crazy recoil and felt like I was setting off a cannon in my hands. It really wasn''t my style, though. That and the fact they only held five or six shots put me off them.
Skill Unlocked - Revolvers (Passive) (F) Level 1/5
Familiarity with the operation and maintenance of the majority of revolvers. Grants 5% faster target acquisition, 5% more accurate shots and 5% faster reloads.
Earned: $0/$500
Even though the skills themselves didn''t tell me what the unlock requirements were, they were common knowledge which was why Flattop had got me both skills so quickly. I needed to get intimately familiar with the care and maintenance of three different guns of that type, and then fire one hundred rounds. Even though the bonuses at first level were pretty small, it was still a great return on my investment of time and effort. Of course, that fun didn''t come without a cost. Flattop and I spent a good twenty minutes sweeping up brass, cleaning and replacing weapons and making sure everything was just as we''d found it. After my pistol was cleaned I reloaded the magazine and chambered a round before tucking it back in my holster. I checked the time.
San Tadeo, California, 11:08 Monday March 09, 2020 The Ball and Bean Walking in the Shadows
It was close enough to lunch now that maybe I''d get some customers. "I should go sell," I said. "Hold up. Let me set you Allied first," Flattop said. He peeled ten hundred dollar bills off his roll, holding them in his right hand. "This hurts me. I hope you make us a good pile of money today, Mack." "You want me to chip in?" I asked. "Nah, this is on the LSS. We get a percentage, we should at least be able to keep our allies from popping you." With no further ado, he concentrated for a few seconds and the stack of money in his right hand burst into green flame. $1000 gone in a flash.
Reputation Updated. Lyle Street Soldados now Allied
"That''s it. You''re now marked as our ally," Flattop said. "Hold on, will that show through my Sunshrouds?" I asked. "Sure. It only blocks the name, remember? Go make us some money. Try a bit down the block by the taco shack. I''ll pay Tio for the ammo we used." 1.44 - Sunshine, Tacos and Weed I left the Ball and Bean, after trying to pay for our earlier coffee and Mexican donuts breakfast. Guillem refused payment. "That doesn''t mean I won''t charge you tomorrow!" he assured me. The street outside was significantly busier now with lunch time approaching. Early eaters were gathered outside the taco shack, which lay just inside LSS turf. They were only hanging on to this one last block, but it looked like it would be a good one. The weight of the weed in my pack concerned me, though. It was almost two ounces, and represented a lot of money that I really needed. Across the street, the gate of Gonzalez Automotive Restoration was open. The yard beyond was empty but I could see the main garage door was open and hear the faint sounds of someone inside working. Hondo was back at it. Crossing the yard I stood in the open garage doorway. In the back amongst the machining tools I could see Hondo wearing hearing protection and safety glasses as he set one of the machines up. He didn''t notice me. "Yo, Hondo!" I yelled, and waved. He looked up. "Hey, Mack. Why you here so early?" I laughed. "Dude, it''s 11 o''clock. I''ve been here for hours." He shook his head at me. "Crazy. The brain needs sleep. I tell Flattop this all the time, he don''t listen." "I''ll work on it. Anyway, can I leave some of my weed here while I''m out there selling?" "Uh, yeah, I guess so. How''s it packed?" The question seemed like a non-sequitur to me, but after a moment of confusion I answered. "It''s sealed in plastic, one gram per." I pulled the backpack off my shoulder and produced one of the little packs to show him. "See?" "Vacuum sealed. That''s perfect. Here, put whatever you want to stash in here," he said, handing me a stained plastic grocery bag. I put thirty grams into the bag and handed it back to him. He tied up the opening and hung it beside a fifty gallon drum nearly full of thick, black oil. "I''ll keep it right here, and if I see some cops I''ll drop it in this barrel with something heavy on it. They probably won''t dump out the barrel unless they know it''s in there. Too much mess." That made sense to me. Even without that, the dirty plastic bag hanging in the shop blended in perfectly. If someone wandered in and had a look around it would never draw their eye. Hidden in plain sight. "Great. Thanks, Hondo." "It''s all good," Hondo said, and returned to what he was doing. Unlike the first few times I''d sold, I wasn''t actually feeling nervous. I wasn''t in someone else''s turf, or trying to avoid campus cops. I''d been given the semi-official blessing of the local gang. They weren''t just some gang that had come in and claimed the turf either, they were the OGs. They had history on this block. The people knew them, and either respected or feared them. Maybe it was Gato they respected, but that still worked for me. When I posted up near the taco shack the owner looked me over and nodded before going back to his business. Customer ID was as unreliable as usual, only successfully activating a few times. I was pleasantly surprised when it finally leveled up.
Customer Identification Leveled Up to 2/5
Fast Count Leveled Up to 4/7
Just after noon I''d sold a couple of dime bags to a pair of mechanics on their lunch break when I heard a voice echo down the block. "Five oh!" It took me a minute to remember what that meant. I put my roll away and zipped up my backpack just as the STPD cruiser pulled up in front of the taco shack and stopped. Two cops got out, and for a moment I had no idea what to do. I had the gun and the weed. Should I run or just walk away? Stay put? My hesitation may have saved me, as the two cops walked up to the taco shack and had a friendly conversation with the owner while they ordered food. One of them scanned the crowd, but his eyes skipped right over me. I was feeling pretty awkward the whole time, as I was the only one there not eating or drinking. Still, if the cops noticed they didn''t make an issue of it. Five minutes later they had their food and were gone again. After lunchtime my sales slowed down and in the gap I ordered some tacos. The owner took my order, and I IDed him.
John Lopez, Hustler (D1), Owner, Tacos de Lopez
Mutually Allied With: Lyle Street Soldados
Another LSS ally. This guy didn''t seem like a gangster, but Gato had obviously spent quite a lot of money bringing the local business owners into the fold. His helper had gone off on a smoke break and as it was just the two of us I couldn''t resist asking him a question. "Can I ask what you see when you ID me?" I asked. Since I was in shadow and he was in light, would the Allied marker even work? How could it? The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. He looked a bit surprised, but answered me. "Nothing but shadow and your Allied marker." It made sense, when I thought about it. It was leaking that bit of information, but it was still protecting my identity. If I was walking in the light it wouldn''t show me as an ally of the LSS. At least, I assumed it wouldn''t. If it did, the system was broken. I wanted to experiment with it and figure out the limitations and quirks, but I''d do that when I wasn''t working. I ate my lunch and got some more weed from the plastic bag in the LSS garage. The afternoon was slow but I''d sold a bit more when Manny rolled up, speakers thumping. He stopped on the street directly opposite me, his arm hanging out the open window. Buddy was sitting on the passenger seat next to him, tongue hanging out. "Hey, Bro, how''s it going?" Manny asked, raising his voice to be heard over the music. "Good," I replied, but not loudly enough to be heard over his music. "What?" "Just go park," I yelled back. He nodded amiably and zipped up the block, V8 burbling happily. He pulled into the yard and parked there. A few minutes later he ambled up, Buddy at his side on the same faded rope leash. I stooped to give the dog some pets, and he gave my face a cursory lick of acknowledgment. He was friendly, but he was Manny''s dog and he made that clear. With the dog was in front of me again I was reminded of the fun that must have happened when Manny brought it home. "How''d your mom take it when you brought Buddy home?" I asked. "Oh she was pissed, Bro. You have no idea. We''ve never even had a cat. My mom thinks it''s like having another kid, but one that''ll never grow up and give you grandchildren." I laughed. "Shit, she''s right there. So what did you do?" "I just told her I''d be leaving for college next year anyway and I''d take Buddy with me, but I wasn''t getting rid of him," Manny said. "I also might have mentioned that you got a house and I''d crash with you if it was really a problem." "I don''t, though. Not really," I said. "I know, Bro. It''s not like I''d want to stay in that shithole anyway. No offense. Anyway, that worked. I''ve got to take care of Buddy, buy his food, all of that. Plus take him with me when I''m ''tutoring'' students." That didn''t seem like that bad of an idea, really. Having what looked like a vicious German Shepherd next to you while you sold weed might scare off some of the more timid scumbags trying to make trouble. Something in my gamer hind-brain had been tickling me, and it finally surfaced. A hole in the system. "Hey, hold on. When you switched back to the light, did Buddy still know who you were?" "What? No. He started growling and barking like he was doing back in the yard. I had to break the mirror with him. It was trippy, Bro." "What? You broke the mirror with your dog?" "Yeah. It was so weird seeing his name pop up on the screen, but as soon as I did that he calmed right down." Did that imply that Buddy could understand English? No, it didn''t on further reflection. Whatever the Karmic Mirror was, it was all about intent. Manny would have just needed to project his intent with Buddy, rather than expecting the dog to understand the words. I marveled at the scope of protection the mirror offered. It seemed to imply that if the cops were tracking you with dogs they''d lose your scent when you switched to the other side of the mirror. Logical, but still magical. After that we got down to business. Flattop was gone somewhere, so couldn''t mark Manny as an ally. Without that protection, it didn''t feel safe to have him anywhere but right nearby. I let John, the taco shop owner, know that Manny was another ally but just hadn''t been marked yet and we set up on either side of the shack. After sunset, Lopez Tacos came alive. He turned on the external lights and large groups rolled up to eat. For several hours both Manny and I were selling steadily. I had to return to the garage to get the last of the weed. By ten o''clock when the taco shop was closing, I was out of weed and so was Manny. Fast Count had leveled up again and I was happy to see the progress on my Dealer Job.
Dealer (F) Level 1/3
Earned: $3,950/$10,000
"Bro, that was insane!" Manny said, nearly yelling. I pulled him away from the shack, shushing him. "I sold the full ounce, Bro!" Manny said, lowering his voice. I couldn''t help but be just as excited. It''d taken the whole day, but I''d manage to sell every bit of weed I''d brought, all 41 grams. John waved to us as he left the locked up taco shack. The street around us was a lot less busy than it had been. "Hey, let''s go settle up with the LSS and get out of here," I said. "Oh yeah, that''s right. Fifteen percent." Flattop still wasn''t back, but Hondo was still in the shop fabricating something. The tarp was off the Jaguar and the long hood was up. He looked up as I banged on the half-open garage door when we entered. "Hey, Hondo. We''re going to go, but we wanted to give you the LSS cut." "Alright," he replied. He put the piece he was working on down on the bench and came to the front of the shop, closing the sliding door behind us. "How''d you boys do?" he asked. I was kind of surprised by how trusting the LSS were. If it had been me, I''d have been paranoid about us cheating them. Hondo was willing to take our word on it. Compared to our score the other day, though, the amount of money me and Manny had made today was nothing. A lot of work for not even $2k after we paid the LSS their cut. After we paid off Brass Lee, I needed to think about how to scale this up. "I sold everything I had, 41 grams. Your share works out to $310. Actually it''s $307.50, but I don''t have change," I said, and handed over the cash. "Sweet," Hondo said, fanning the cash in his hands. "What about you?" "Sold like gangbusters, Bro. Brought an ounce, sold an ounce. Boom!" Manny had already done the math and handed over an even $210. "Not bad," Hondo said, rolling up the cash and tucking it in his front pocket. "It was crazy, Bro. They were real thirsty out there." "It''s been a while since anyone''s sold here, so it might get slower once the novelty wears off," Hondo said. "The Blades are selling near the park about four blocks away. That used to be LSS turf, but we let it go last year." That was a bit worrying. "Do we have to worry about them?" "Nah, this is just one of their little satellite chapters. They''re affiliated but they''re real new. If they try to start shit we''ll fucking end them. The LSS are coming back up!" So the gang that was nearby was like a new franchise of the Blades, but not one of the older more established ones we had to worry about. I knew that if we were going to stick with the LSS that we might end up clashing with them, but that was a problem for another time. I was beat. "Hondo, we should go," I said. "What? Fuck no, white boy. Sit and have a beer with me, both of you. What, you going home to bed at 10 o''clock? Past your bed time, is it?" Sufficiently shamed, Manny and I sat and had a beer. I told them about my morning in Guillem''s basement and my encounter with him. "Guillem''s not to be fucked with. He''s retired, but he''s an OG. You see his job?" Hondo asked. "Mechanical Engineer? Yeah," I replied. "He picked that up in the joint. He used to help my dad with builds, but I think he mostly uses it to do gun smithing jobs on the side." After the second beer, we begged off any more. The three of us got in the Crown Vic, Buddy taking the middle of the front bench seat. Manny backed out of the yard and we roared off into the night buoyed by the thrill of a successful day. 1.45 - The Hard Stuff Driving with sunglasses on after dark would have been difficult, but Manny simply pushed them down a bit on his nose and carried on. He seemed more relaxed then he had been. The beers, the dog and our success today had combined to push the worries to the back of his mind and I was glad for him. Buddy lay on the seat between us with his head on Manny''s lap. Occasionally Manny would drop his right hand to give him a scratch before returning it to the wheel. My thoughts drifted from our day to my new home. I was dreading meeting Smokey. Gloria was a drama factory if there ever was one, and I wouldn''t be surprised if there was a big scene when I came in the door. In truth, the story of my encounter with Smokey''s girl in the kitchen the other night was starting to seem pretty funny. I really wanted to tell Manny, but I knew what his reaction would be. I didn''t want to spoil the moment. "That was an epic night, Bro," Manny said. "Nice to get a win, isn''t it?" I agreed. "It really is," he said. "You think any more about being a race driver?" I asked. "Hell yeah I did, Bro. I did some reading at school. There''s a ton of racing around here. Lots of street races, and there are tracks all around San Tadeo. I was going to talk to Flattop about teaching me something today." "If I see him tomorrow morning I''ll let him know. About the Hip-" I started. "Bro, whatever play you want to make with those fuckers I''ll try to back. I don''t know if I can shoot somebody, though. Just thinking about it makes me feel a bit sick." I nodded. As far as I knew I hadn''t killed anyone, but I didn''t have the same feelings about it as Manny did. If someone came at me and it was me or them, I was always going to choose me. That went for anyone I cared about. I wouldn''t hesitate to put a bullet in them if they came at Manny, or either of the LSS boys. Hell I might even do the same for Buddy. "The Sunshrouds were just a way for us to be able to get some room to breathe, you know that. Some random piece of shit won''t be able to drop a dime on us just because they saw our names. We''ll have to come up with a more permanent solution to the Hip. What that is, I don''t know yet." "That''s what I''m worried about right there, Bro. The permanent part. Can''t we just make peace with these guys? Like have a sitdown or whatever? Maybe we can get Big El to set something up." I didn''t doubt Big El could set that up, but would Magnus be reasonable? It didn''t seem likely. As long as we were so weak, he had no reason to do anything but crush us. I''d shown him a few teeth, but not enough to make him back off. He literally couldn''t if he wanted to keep his rep. He had to make an example out of us or the Hip would become a laughing stock. "I''m open to a peaceful end to this, Manny. I''m just not sure it''ll happen." "Do what you need to do, Bro. I''ve got your back." I was immensely grateful for that. Back in LA I didn''t have anyone like Manny in my life. The D&D group were all my friends, with the apparent exception of Joe. I didn''t think any of them would help me move if I called and asked, much less back my play versus a hostile gang. Despite how rough my life had been since I arrived, and the deep hole in the heart where my dad was, things really were looking up. "Thanks, brother," I said, choking back a bit of emotion. Manny saw it and laughed, slapping me on the shoulder. "There might be some tissues in the glove there. Don''t cry on Buddy, he doesn''t like it." I laughed. "Fuck off." A few minutes later we pulled up in front of the Orange House and I jumped out. "Same time tomorrow," Manny called out the open passenger window. Buddy had already taken my seat. "See you then," I agreed, and he roared off. The house was lit up, but quiet. I let myself in the front door, stepping over a fresh pile of mail on the mat. Mostly junk mixed with bills pushed through the mail slot. Everything inside was quiet, and looked almost exactly like I''d left it that morning. The kitchen might have had a few more takeout containers, but I couldn''t tell. The garbage can in the corner was overflowing with the lid perched precariously on top of the pile. Otherwise it was the same squalid mess it had been when I moved in. So much for Smokey cleaning it up. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. Smokey himself didn''t seem to be home, but when I approached the stairwell I heard faint music from the basement. I wanted to yell at him for not cleaning, but that could wait. I went upstairs first. Everything was locked up tight as I''d left it. I dropped my empty backpack on my bed and went back downstairs to talk to Smokey. That turned out more difficult than I''d thought. The basement was huge. While my room was only a portion of the house''s footprint, the basement was all of it. It took a bit of exploration to find Smokey. At the base of the stairs was the laundry room, complete with an ancient washer and dryer pair and sink. Past that was what I can only describe as a bar, or maybe a lounge would be more appropriate. On one wall was a long wooden bar, covered in empty bottles, dirty glasses and assorted trash. Behind the bar ranks of shelves stood mostly empty, a few oddly shaped glasses here and there still unused and covered with dust. Every liquor bottle I could see was empty. The floor was covered in another shag carpet, this one a dark brown or black color. It was hard to tell in the dim light of room. Scattered around the space was an assortment of white leather chairs, love seats and low tables. I could see that the white leather was scarred and stained. Large speakers were mounted in the corners of the room, but there was no evidence of a stereo system anywhere I could see. Whoever had built this house had made it to be a party house, but I''d bet they didn''t expect that the people living here would treat it so poorly. Like the rest of the house, you could still see the faded 70s opulence peeking out underneath the layers of squalor. This had been a hell of a place, once upon a time. Until Smokey and friends had moved in. On the other side of the lounge was a half-open door, and that was where I found Smokey. The bedroom was like a dark mirror of my bedroom on the top floor. Where mine was about sunshine, light and bright colors¡ªlike the white of the shag carpet¡ªthis one was about shadow and darkness. The walls were painted black or maybe covered in black velvet, it was hard to tell. The floor was covered in the same dark shag the lounge had been. The only light in the room was coming from underneath the enormous, circular bed in the center of the space. In the blackness of Smokey''s room, the light had the effect of a halo around the bed. I could just make out two figures sprawled out in a tangle of sheets on top. Mounted on the far wall I could see the faint green glow of a vintage stereo system and hear the music that had drawn me down into the basement. A song I didn''t recognize was playing. It sounded vaguely like prog-rock from the 60s. I already felt like I was violating Smokey''s privacy, but I really wanted to talk to him. I stepped back and knocked hard on the wooden door frame. "Smokey." There was no response, so I knocked again and louder. "Hey, Smokey, wake up." After a few repetitions of this, with no response from the room I began to get worried. Even yelling at the top of my lungs produced no response. Were they dead in there? Stepping over mysterious piles just barely visible on the shag carpet, I was soon standing next to the bed looking down on Smokey and Gloria. It was apparent what I''d been missing all this time in my naivet¨¦ about hard drugs. On the bed around their still figures lay the detritus of the heroin addict. A single syringe, a bit of rubber hose and a stained spoon along with some mostly-empty plastic packets. I picked one up, seeing a few tiny flakes of brown in the bottom. It rejoined the trash already on the bed a second later. Smokey and Gloria weren''t dead. I checked them both, they were breathing and warm. I had a faint memory of junkies choking on their own vomit, so I rolled Smokey onto his side. It felt like he weighed nothing at all. With his robe off, I could see that his arms were lined with track marks. Gloria didn''t need my help, so with that done I left the basement. Returning to the ground floor felt good, like an oppressive weight came off my shoulders. I had no idea what I was going to do about Smokey. Did I even need to do anything? Was it my business? Not really, but I was living with the guy. All around me in the house I could see what that was like. While thinking about that, I decided to do a little cleaning. At least I could get rid of the garbage. I filled another big, black bag with junk and was digging through drawers looking for more bags when I found the drawer where Smokey had stashed the bills. They were all overdue. Gas, electricity and water. The most recent phone bill was a notice of disconnection dated two weeks earlier. I guess when you had heroin you didn''t need a telephone. I knew where my $450 had gone now, and it hadn''t been to the bills. I was starting to get angry about the whole thing, and had a sudden suspicion. The kitchen had a pair of glass doors that looked out onto the back yard. I unlocked them and opened them up, letting in the cool night air. It washed away the smell I had been ignoring in the kitchen, but it exposed something that made me even angrier. My bike was gone. The u-lock was still there, and a long piece of steel pipe that had been used to force it open. My right hand itched to do violence, but I pushed the urge down. I didn''t know that Smokey had done this. It wasn''t a big financial hit for me in any case, but it was the principle of the thing. To calm my anger, I decided to take out the garbage instead. I needed to do something to take my mind off it. I wouldn''t be able to sleep if I didn''t calm down. I picked up the two big bags and went out the front door. I nearly walked into an angry looking man about to knock on the door. He hopped back a step in surprise. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded. "I''m Mack," I answered without thinking. "Who are you?" "I''m the goddamn landlord is who I am. What the hell are you doing in my house?" 1.46 - The Landlord The man standing in front of me on the front porch of the Orange House certainly looked like he could be the landlord. He was casually dressed, wearing a pair of beige slacks and a short, black leather jacket. Despite that, everything looked expensive. Backing that up was the shiny new, yellow BMW sedan parked directly out front. Without me consciously thinking about it, his nameplate appeared.
Joel Spoketsky, Capitalist (D2)
"I''m taking out the garbage. Just doing a little cleaning." "Whatever. Get out of my way. Is Cutter here?" he asked, trying to ease me to the side. I set the garbage bags down and remained where I was. "I don''t know anybody named Cutter." "Or Kutta, or whatever he calls himself. He owes me two months rent." "I just moved in, and the only other person living here is Smokey." "That burnout in the robes? Where''s Cutter? And what do you mean, you''re living here now too? There are only two bedrooms." "I took over the top floor yesterday. If Cutter was the guy staying there, I''ve heard he''s in prison now. Smokey hasn''t been paying the rent?" "No, he hasn''t been paying the damn rent. Do you think I come here this late at night for no reason? I swear, I should have listened to my sister when she told me not to rent to Shadows." That was a new one for me. As slurs went, I really liked it. Shadows had a nice ring to it. "Listen, Joel. Do you mind if I call you that?" I said, catching his attention and trying to channel my most serious, adult self. "Why are you wasting my time? If Smokey''s the only one left get him out here. I''m going to call the Sheriff''s department and start the eviction process if I don''t get my money." "Hold up, Joel. Smokey''s not available at the moment, but I am. If Cutter''s in prison, then we don''t have a lease here. What are you owed for rent?" Joel looked me in the eyes, calming a bit as he realized that he had no one to enforce a lease on. We were just people squatting in his property at this point. "Two months rent, February and March. Four grand." I controlled the burst of anger I felt at Smokey. Not only had he been failing to pay the rent after Cutter went away, he''d inflated it on me. Without some intervention on my part the house would soon be without any utilities and the Sheriff''s Department would evict us. I knew that process took a while in California, but avoiding it entirely seemed like a better idea. "I really like this place, so let me propose a deal to you. I''ll pay you the rent owed. I''ll be a good tenant to you. Before I can do that, I''ll need a new lease. One with my name on it. We can leave Smokey off of it." If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. He wasn''t so desperate for the cash that he jumped on my offer. "Honestly, I''d rather just have you all gone. I''m always getting complaints from the neighbors about this place. They complain about the way the yard looks, or how noisy my tenants are. On Friday night it was that the front yard was full of kids drinking and smoking. What kind of adult man has a party with high schoolers? This place is a constant headache." That must have been the friends of Gloria and one of Smokey''s ''small, intimate'' gatherings. "Let me fix that. No more loud parties. I''ll clean up the yard. I''ll remove that pain, and this property will go back to being passive income for you. You can transfer the damage deposit from Cutter over to the new lease." I knew that some of this was his doing. The busted up fence, the flaking paint. That certainly wasn''t my responsibility as his tenant, but one step at a time. He visibly relaxed a bit. "That''d be nice. Let''s say I agree to this. When can you get me the back rent? I''m not going to draw up another lease without it." In my head, Dad was yelling at me for being so irresponsible. Was I really going to take on an additional $4k debt, plus $2k in rent per month and whatever the bills were going to cost me? I had my 25% of the Merc coming to me still, which would be enough to cover it all. Still, it wasn''t cash in hand. In the end, though, this was just another opportunity I wasn''t going to let slip through my fingers. So the answer was yes. You''re not my real dad anyway, in-my-head dad. "I can pay you one month right now. The rest in a couple of days, a week tops." Joel took my measure, and it seemed like I passed. "Then we have a deal¡ªon one condition. You get that fucking burnout out of my house. Smokey''s gotta go." "Oh believe me, it will be my pleasure," I replied. I handed over the two grand, and it hurt. Like deep down in my guts pain. Every cent I''d earned that day and more gone, leaving me with only $135. I was broke, again. Once again the ambitious plan to pay off Brass Lee on Thursday receded. "Once I get the second payment from you and Smokey is gone, we can sign the new lease," Joel said, pocketing my cash. "I''ll need a receipt for that," I said. "Sure," he said, pulling a notepad and a pen out of an inner pocket. He started to scribble on a blank page. "Why are you wearing sunglasses, anyway? It''s the middle of the night." I couldn''t resist. "So I can keep track of the visions in my eyes." He just looked confused. Another great song hadn''t made it across to this world. Sorry, Mr Hart. "Never mind, just a song lyric. My eyes are very light sensitive." That was an obvious lie, as I had the glasses pushed down my nose so I could see, but he just shrugged. As one of the rare people that rented to us ''Shadows,'' I was sure that he was used to odder behavior than mine. I finished up with Joel, making sure to check the receipt before he drove off. It was correct, although if he decided to screw me I didn''t know if there was anything I could legally do. Not that I was limited to the legal options. There were many ways I could collect a debt from a guy walking in the light, if I needed to. After leaving the bags at the curb, I returned to the house. It was still quiet, and I didn''t feel like cleaning any longer. I spent some time gathering the bills in one place. All three of the utilities were starting to threaten disconnection if ''Kutta'' didn''t pay. Yes, that really was the name on the bills. First amendment for the win, apparently it even applied to putting your Shadow name on legal contracts. Although after seeing the Registrar I now expected contracts like that were more than just simple paperwork and probably involved some system ''magic.'' I locked up the house and brought the bills upstairs with me. Even though it was late, I spent the next forty minutes fixing the chaos in my room. I felt a lot better once all of the clothes were off the floor, and the mess in the bathroom was cleaned up. I didn''t forget about the junkie in the basement, and made sure to wedge my door closed. With how many other things Smokey had lied about, I didn''t doubt he actually did have the key to the deadbolt on my door. That was a problem for another day. 1.47 - The OG The next day I was sitting on the front porch waiting for Manny when he rolled up just before eight o''clock. The sunrise had woke me and rather than hang out in the filthy house waiting for my ride, I''d spent the time enjoying the morning air on the front porch. I only lacked a cup of coffee. It might not surprise you if I told you there wasn''t any in my kitchen. Manny was in a good mood that morning. "Bro, ready for another big sales day? We''re going to run out of weed soon at this rate." I knew he was exaggerating a bit, but not by much. Between the two of us we''d sold nearly three ounces the previous day. "How much is left?" I asked. "I''ve got 84 grams left. You''ve got 56 including the ounce I''ve got in the satchel." I did a bit of mental math and it was grim. I didn''t even have enough to pay off my share of the debt to Brass Lee. If it hadn''t been for the job with the LSS, I''d be totally screwed. It didn''t make me happy to be relying on a future payday, but I wasn''t sure what my other option was. Manny still had three ounces left so if we sold all of it, we''d have just enough to pay Brass Lee. Not enough to re-up though. "Manny, I had to pay rent to my new landlord last night. I''m pretty tapped out." "What, that $450 for Smokey tapped you out, Bro?" I finally had to explain what was going on with my house, and the deal I''d made the previous night with the landlord. I even finally got to tell him the story with Gloria in the kitchen, and it was as funny as I thought it was. "God damn, how the fuck do you keep stepping in shit everywhere you go, Bro? I mean seriously. We could have just got you a nice studio apartment somewhere." "I know, I know. Anyway, that''s what I''m doing. I''m not going to be able to come up with my half for Lee on Thursday. Flattop said it''d be a week or so before we got paid for the car." "Is that what you''re worried about? Fuck Bro, we''re good. I''ve got this sweet new ride, these glasses and Buddy. As far as I''m concerned I owe you big. We''ve got enough weed left to pay off Lee and I''ve got about $2k in cash right now. Let''s just sell the shit and pay him." "Thanks, Manny. That makes me feel better." "Fuck, Bro. You''re driving this boat, I''m just a passenger." "Manny, I wasn''t the one driving that Mercedes like a pro," I objected. "No way, Bro. That Suburban shouldn''t have got anywhere near me. I''ve got a lot to learn." Manny spent the next ten minutes of our drive holding forth on the various statistics of your average Suburban and how because of this and that reason he should have totally left his pursuers in his dust. Maybe he was right, but I didn''t think so. Whoever had been driving, they had been fast. Enough that even Flattop had trouble catching up. When we got to the shop, I transferred the ounce in Manny''s satchel to my backpack and zipped it up. I''d have some time to kill again, but was looking forward to Guillem''s coffee and food. "Good luck, Bro. See you after school," Manny said, and drove off. Guillem had saved a table for me, and soon after I sat down there was a cafe con leche in front of me. It tasted like Heaven. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. "Food?" Guillem asked me. I nodded with a mouthful of coffee and he left without waiting for any more details. When he came back out he filled the table with churros, a potato tortilla and olives. An odd breakfast, but it was welcome. After breakfast I sat in the sun and was enjoying my second coffee when Flattop joined me. "You''re making me look bad, Mack. Before you, I was the early bird," he said, sitting down opposite. I was little worried about him using my name in public, but all of the old men around us were in the light, and seemed to be trusted locals. "It''s either show up early or take the bus, so here I am," I replied. "Right, you still don''t have any wheels. That''s easy enough to fix. I can grab you something, but I''ll have to charge you for it." I shook my head. "Don''t worry about it. I can''t afford anything right now. Speaking of which, when are we getting paid?" "The Merc? Soon. We''re the bottom of the food chain, so we get paid last. Those guys at the port are solid though. We''ve delivered for them a few times now, and they always come through with the cash." "How does that work? You just tell them you''ve got this fancy car, will they buy it?" I asked. "Not even close. They get an order from whoever, probably some rich guy in Europe or Africa or wherever, for a specific car. Then they farm it out to cliques like ours. We don''t get many of these, but every time we do it''s a nice pay day. They get paid, the car goes into a container and then we get paid." I looked up and was surprised to see Hondo crossing the street toward us. Flattop followed my gaze. "Holy shit, it''s a miracle. Hondo''s out of bed before eleven!" "Fuck you, early bird," he replied and sat with us. Guillem came over, and said something to Hondo in Spanish with a knowing smile. "Seriously, this is no big deal. Coffee, Guillem?" Hondo asked. Guillem slapped him on the shoulder and left. "Oh, before I forget. Manny wants to learn some driving skills. Can you help him out?" I asked Flattop. "Yeah, I can. I had a bit of baby mama drama yesterday but I can try to be here later. Speaking of which, I gotta go." Flattop stood up, finishing off his coffee and waving to Guillem before walking back the way he came. "Baby mama drama?" I asked. "I don''t know," Hondo replied. "I don''t stick my nose in. My boy likes it raw dog, and he''s got a couple baby mamas now." I was reflecting on this huge cultural gulf between my reality and Hondo''s when Guillem returned with his coffee. "Thanks, OG," Hondo said. "It''s just good to see you out of bed," Guillem replied. "You know your father was always here for coffee right after I opened, and then to work. You don''t get anything without hustling hard for it, sobrino." "Sure, but that''s my dad, Tio. We can''t all be like him." Guillem made a noise of disapproval with his tongue. "Maybe not, but you know he''d want you to try." "Well he''s not here, is he, Tio? Give me a break, would you? I''m just trying to wake up." Guillem nodded and left us. "Sorry. Family shit," Hondo said. "Guillem''s family?" "Not really. We call him Uncle but he''s more like my dad''s best friend. They started the LSS together back in the day, and then Guillem went straight for his lady. My dad got pinched, but Tio still looks out for us." "Your dad has quite the rep. I hope I get to meet him one day." "You will, Homes. He just needs to win his appeal and he''s sprung." I nodded. I knew from prior experience this was a sore point for him and I didn''t want to push on it. Flattop seemed convinced that Gato was staying in for his full term. Hondo took another sip of his coffee and then seemed to shake off our previous conversation. "What are you doing here so early anyway?" "Everyone asks me that. I''ve got no car, so this is when Manny can give me a ride. It''s not a big deal." "Your hands broke, Homes? Go and get a car. Bring it back here, I''ll get the VINs scrubbed and then Miguel can register it for you." "Just go and steal a car?" Hondo gave me an exasperated look and a gesture that clearly read, "What the fuck did you think I meant?" "I don''t know man. I don''t even know how I would do that. What, just point my gun at some guy stopped at a light and take his car?" "You could do that, but I wouldn''t," Hondo said. "You never know when they''re strapped. Just find something parked and take it." "That I definitely can''t do. How would I open the door? Or start it when it''s open?" "This shit isn''t rocket surgery. Come on, pay Tio and I''ll show you what you need to know," Hondo said, finishing his coffee and standing up. Guillem was inside the shop, and rather than wait I tucked a $20 bill under my coffee cup. If it wasn''t enough, I was sure I''d hear about it later. With the old men all around us as security, the money was completely safe. I followed Hondo across the road, apprehensive but also eager to learn the skills I needed to steal my first car. 1.48 - Gone in Five Minutes Hondo unlocked the gate and closed it behind us. The yard was empty. "Flattop picked up a Volkswagen last night, you can practice on it." "Practice what? Hotwiring?" I asked. "Nah, that takes too long and it''s too complicated. Just let me show you." He unlocked the garage and we went in. The Jaguar was squatting in the corner under it''s tarp, and where the skeletal Camry had been there was instead an intact, white Volkswagen.
2018 Volkswagen Jetta White 7CGB398
"These are another of our staple cars. Just about everything on this thing our boy can sell at the flea market." "How much do you make off these anyway?" I asked. "Not a lot. About $5k, and we pay about $2k out in expenses." "I thought it would be more." "The parts are hot and used, so the price has to be good or no one will buy. If they buy an alternator and it goes bad 100 miles later, there aren''t any refunds." "Make sense. So what do I need to know?" I asked. "Stealing most cars is real simple. You''ve got three steps. Come over here and take a look," Hondo said as he moved to stand on the passenger side of the Jetta. "First step¡ªdoes somebody love this car? Is it freshly cleaned, is the interior clean? Has he put custom rims on it? A new exhaust? An expensive stereo or custom seats? Take a look and you tell me." I looked in the window. The dashboard was dusty, with a few pieces of paper trash visible in the passenger footwell. The rear was the same. More paper sat on the dash. I didn''t know cars, but everything inside seemed pretty normal. I stepped back and looked at the car itself. I couldn''t see anything unusual about it. The tires and rims seemed normal to me. "I don''t see anything." "Yeah, that''s right. It was a trick question. Flattop wouldn''t have stole it if it looked like it was loved. Because that''d mean it might have an alarm, and maybe a tracker." I was getting it. "Okay, so if it''s loved don''t try to steal it. Got it." "Hold on. You aint got it yet. Just because it''s dirty don''t mean it don''t have an alarm. How do you tell?" That one was easy. I was familiar with people and their obnoxious, mostly-ignored car alarms. "Bump it." "That''s right. You give it a good bump," he said, and demonstrated by smacking his hips into the door. "If the alarm goes off, you keep walking. Nothing to see here. "That brings us to step two, which will be the hardest one for you to do quietly. Getting in to the car." "I''ve seen this in movies, don''t they use a slim jim?" "It''s not the fifties any more, Mack. That shit don''t work most of the time unless the car''s real old. Even then they can be a bitch to use." "Alright, so what then? Pick the lock?" I asked. "You got the skill? Go for it," Hondo said. "Er, no, actually," I replied. I had dabbled with picking locks when I was a kid but never got much past being able to open simple pin tumbler locks. "Aight, it''s not that hard but we don''t have enough locks for you to practice on to get the skill. It really boils down to two other methods. Wedge and rod, or if you''re in a hurry you just smash the window." The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. Smashing the window I understood. It might get some attention, but at least it''d be quick. "What''s wedge and rod?" "That''s the way Flattop does it. If you get good at it, it''s real fast. Here, you''re going to practice on this car." Hondo rooted around on one of his benches for a moment and then came back with a telescoping car antenna and what looked a lot like the rubber wedge I''d bought for my door. "This shit isn''t ideal, but if you can make this work you''ve got it. Insert the wedge at the top to give your rod enough space to get in and push the unlock button." When he said it like that, it sounded easy. The first time, it really wasn''t. I struggled first to get the rubber weatherstripping around the edge of the door out of the way. Once that was done the gap between the door and frame was still so tiny. I had to force the leading edge of the wedge into the gap and then pound it with the heel of my hand while using my fingertips to pull the door away from the frame. Hondo stood nearby, watching. It took me a few minutes to work the wedge in far enough that the gap was sufficient for the antenna. "Now stick the antenna in there and hit the button." Maneuvering the rod was a little tricky, but not bad. The lock/unlock button was just visible and when I pressed it, I heard the lock''s clunk. "Yeah!" I yelled in triumph, and pulled on the door handle. It was locked. Hondo chuckled. "The door was already open, Homes. Hit it again." The door unlocked, and I swept it open. The wedge fell to the concrete floor, bouncing away. "Nice. You''ll get faster at that with practice. Now the final step¡ªstarting the car." I smiled, collapsing the antenna I still had in my hands. "Alright, I''m ready." "If you''re stealing a car that somebody loves, it might have an immobilizer or a kill switch and you''ll be wasting your time. That reminds me. If you''re stealing a car that''s really unloved the damn thing might be broke down. Find the balance." I rolled my eyes. "Alright, shitty but not too shitty." "Don''t blame me if you get it wrong and spend ten minutes trying to steal a car that won''t start because you can''t find the kill switch." I threw my hands up in surrender. "I''ll try to get it right." He nodded, mollified. "Next step is getting the car started and the steering wheel lock disengaged. There''s a lot of ways to do that, I''m just going to show you the simplest way. Flattop''s already done it on this car, so no practice for you. Get in the passenger side." I got in the car and Hondo joined me not long after, carrying a cordless drill and a short, flat-headed screwdriver. "Like I said, there''s lots of ways to do this. If you''re going out to steal a car for yourself or the chop, then this is how you do it. You bring a drill like this with a good metal bit. Look here," Hondo said, pointing at the ignition switch with the tip of the drill. I did, and saw that where normally there''d be a simple horizontal slot for the key there was instead a roughly drilled out hole. "Flattop drilled out the tumblers. You drill once, and then again. If you get it right, that''s it and they''re all gone. Then it''s just a matter of-" he paused and then inserted the screwdriver into the slot and turned it. The Jetta started right up. "That''s it, she''s started and the steering is unlocked. You drive away. You bring the right tools you can drill out the lock in a minute." I was surprised at how simple it seemed. In fact, something had been tickling my brain and finally surfaced. "Is it really this easy? I thought they put chips in the keys to stop this kind of thing." "Chips? What the fuck are you talking about?" "You know, electronics that prevent the car from turning on if the key isn''t legit." "How are they going to fit electronics on a little key, Homes? Be sensible," Hondo replied, looking at me as if I was stupid. "You''re right, my bad," I replied. I should have known that the ''no computers'' thing would apply to stuff like that as well. "Should I be trying to get a skill?" "There aint no skill for drilling out locks. If you want the lockpicking skill you need to practice on a bunch of different locks with the right tools. If you pick up the Car Thief job you''ll get some skills, but you don''t need em." "How do I unlock the job?" "Steal five cars, sell one for more than $1k. It''s pretty easy." It seemed like a good source of cash, but there had to be a catch. "Why aren''t you and Flattop putting more cars through the shop? It seems like easy money." "Fuck you, Homes!" Hondo said. "Easy money. I''m the one has to strip these fuckers down. It''s just me here." "Sorry, man, I didn''t mean it like that." "We used to do more when my dad was here. He could chop a car fast as hell. We had more ways to sell the parts then, too. We just can''t handle much more than we''re already doing right now. That''s one of the reasons I''m glad you and Manny are here. We needed some fresh blood." "Yeah, I''m glad you guys came over and told me what a dumbass I was being." "You''re welcome. Now I gotta get to work. If you want to practice your wedging, try not to get in the way, aight?" I agreed, and I did practice for another thirty minutes. Hondo was under the hood, pulling parts out of the engine bay while I did so. After my practice I could pop the door on the Jetta in just over a minute. I wasn''t confident I''d be able to do it so quickly on a different door, but I had the principles of the thing down. Drilling out the lock I''d have to learn in the field, but I was feeling ready to steal my first car. 1.49 - The Knight Errant I didn''t leave to steal my first car immediately, although I was tempted. I was in the middle of Compton without any transport. Stealing a car in the neighborhood only to bring it back to the LSS shop seemed like a very bad idea. Besides, if I was going to steal a car I wanted a nice one. I had some ideas about where to go "shopping" that I''d try out later. Instead I killed a bit of time at the Ball and Bean before setting up beside the taco shack at around eleven. It was still too early, but it gave me a chance to practice my Customer ID skill. Leveling it up had improved it, but I was pretty underwhelmed.
Customer Identification (F) Level 2/5
Every 55 seconds, determine with a 15% success rate if the person you are looking at is a likely customer for what you are selling.
Earned: $754/$1,500
Five seconds less cooldown and 5% more chance that it would actually do something. Not great, but better than nothing. I spammed it every time it came off cooldown and was pleasantly surprised to have it work on someone walking across the street. He was wearing dirty coveralls and looked like he was on his way to or from work. Either way, I dashed across the street and sold him a dime. It was only when it got closer to lunch time and the lunch crowd started to arrive that things picked up at all. I sold, but it seemed like a bit less than I had the previous day. After the lunch rush I ordered food from Mr Lopez, the taco shop owner, and took stock. Another eleven grams sold, and one more positive activation of Customer ID. I liked that it was actually progressing, after seeming to want to take forever to level up. Time flew by, and Manny showed up on time at around 4:30. He had Buddy with him, of course. He parked in the yard and the two of them came back. "Hey Bro, how are sales?" "Not great. Still have more than half the ounce," I commented. "Nah, that''s good, Bro. We sold most of it after sunset, remember? We''re good. Hold, let me get something for Buddy. We''re both hungry," Manny said. He went to the window and ordered a couple of burritos for himself and a bowl of raw meat for the dog. Buddy sat at his feet, watching the transaction closely. A notion had been percolating all day, and when Manny came back I''d decided. "Hey, Manny. Would you be okay if I left you here to sell on your own for a while? We''ll need to get Flattop to mark you as Allied, but after that?" "Uh, yeah, I guess. Why, Bro?" "I want to go and meet up with Old Pete and his gaming group. The last time he got me that tag skill, and I think he knows a lot. At the very least I might make us some new friends. That can''t hurt, right?" "That old homeless guy that made you read the book? Really, Bro?" I was pretty sure Manny was just fucking with me. "Yeah, him." "I can hold it down here, Bro. You know if you''re into old dudes, I''ve got an uncle that''s single. He''s pretty old." Now I was sure of it. "I''m good, man." "It''s because he''s Vietnamese, isn''t it? Pretty racist, Bro." Manny tried to keep a straight face, but it cracked nearly immediately and he burst out laughing. "Your face!" "Yeah, yeah. Come on, let''s try to sell before Flattop gets back." I was worried about that, but Flattop returned less than thirty minutes later. I''d sold one more dime bag, and I grabbed his attention as he pulled into the yard. He came over shortly after. The three of us moved away from the taco shack to talk in private. "Hey, Manny. I heard you want to learn to drive properly?" "Yeah, Bro. Definitely." "Cool, we''ll get you sorted. What you need, Mack?" "I''ve got somewhere else to be for the rest of the afternoon. I wanted you to get Manny marked Allied so I can leave him here by himself." "Shit, I was hoping to avoid that with you guys selling together," Flattop grimaced. I felt his pain. $1,000 wasn''t nothing. "Sorry." Flattop''s roll was a little thinner this time as he pulled the cash off. The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. "Carla took a big chunk for the kid. My daughter," Flattop said when he saw us looking. "You married, Bro?" Manny asked. Flattop laughed. "Nah, I''d be a shitty husband. Not going to leave my kids wanting when I can afford to pay, though." Flattop paused and concentrated. The money disappearing in a flash of green flame was still as unnerving as the first time. Was it actually burning? Were we sacrificing it to a god, or the GM? Was it turning into mana to power the system''s magic? Who knew. Maybe Old Pete would. As a GM himself he''d certainly understand where my questions were coming from. I found myself eager to talk to him again. When the process was complete I identified Manny again and was happy to see the Allied marker on him, even if I couldn''t see his name. "You''re all set, Manny. You need a ride, Mack?" I''d just been planning to take a taxi, but that worked too. "Yeah, sure." "Let''s go, then." Before leaving I handed my backpack with the weed in it to Manny. I wouldn''t need it at the library. I said goodbye to Manny and Buddy and jumped in the Javelin with Flattop. The inside was nice. Low, comfortable bucket seats and a very raw, 70s muscle-car feel. I loved it. We swiftly left the yard and Lyle Street behind. "Where you going, Mack?" "You know the Maywood Library?" I asked. "You''re going to the library?" he said, and laughed. "I thought for sure you were going to meet a lady or something. Yeah, I know it." "No lady yet. Although my house mate''s girlfriend did offer to suck my dick for $50, so I''ve got that going for me." "What? No shit, you''re in the same house with a ho? Damn, Mack. Watch yourself." "Yeah, I know," I said. "I''m going to fix that problem as soon as I can." "I bet. Just don''t get caught." Good advice, and I planned to follow it. My plans for Smokey were still pretty fuzzy, but I needed him gone. I just wasn''t sure how I was going to do it. Fifteen minutes later Flattop came to a stop in front of the Maywood library. Our conversation had been pretty light, both of us with our minds on our other troubles. "Oh, I almost forgot. Here''s your share of my sales today," I said, and handed Flattop a hundred dollar bill. The actual number was just under that, but fuck making change. "Right on. See you tomorrow morning," he said. I climbed out and closed the long, orange door. The engine burbled as he pulled away sedately into traffic. The outside of the library was as it had been the previous times. Sketchy types loitered around, but I wasn''t worried about them. The sunglasses hid my name, and if they tried to rob me it''d go poorly for them. A few of them looked my way, but no one approached or said anything. Inside, it didn''t take me long to find Old Pete. He''d staked out one of the largest tables, a six-seater, and a pile of papers and notebooks were arranged in front of him. I could see that the top most was the hand-drawn map of a dungeon on graph paper. He was wearing a pair of reading glasses and peered up over them at me when I got close. With the long gray hair and beard it made him look like a wise wizard, a homeless Gandalf. There was zero hesitation, he instantly recognized me, saw that I was hiding my name with the Sunshrouds and adapted. I was impressed. "Welcome back. Have a seat," he said. "Thanks," I said, and sat down. "Did you get that tag skill you wanted?" he asked, returning to what he was doing. That seemed to be generating encounters. "Yes, I did. It was very helpful." "Hiding your name is smart, but it won''t work forever. Hiding from your enemies just emboldens them." "Sure, but what are my options?" "They are uncountable. Violence. Diplomacy. Cowardice. Heroism. So many choices." Just like a DM to say that. "Alright, so what are my good options?" "I have no earthly idea. If you''ve come to me for advice, you''ve come at the wrong time. I need to finish preparing my session. If you will help me, then after the session I will be happy to listen to your problems and offer advice." "Help you? With what?" I asked. I had visions of another DM-driven quest, where I''d have to go out and gather something, or kill some of Old Pete''s enemies before he''d help me. "Take this, and this," Old Pete said, handing me a full binder and pushing a character into my hands. "Study the character and the rules. You will be playing Cedric of Mintar this evening, a knight errant sent to bring the party to his father''s hold where they have a problem with monsters from the deep attacking their iron miners." I chuckled. My quest was to play an NPC in his campaign. I looked over the character sheet and there was an extensive section on the character''s background, his motivations and the secret he was hiding. Spoiler: they knew what the monsters were, an ancient family curse was rising to claim its due, etc. "Alright, I''m in!" The binder was the player''s handbook of Old Pete''s system, which was an intriguing mix of systems I''d never seen before. It wasn''t rigidly classed like D&D, but wasn''t all about skills either. It looked like it would be a lot of fun to play. I didn''t get the chance that night. A woman I recognized from the first time I''d seen Old Pete strolled up to us and set her cloth bag down on the table. Her face was was heavily scarred, with many long lines in jagged patterns. She was a bigger girl, with ample assets she seemed happy to show the world. On her head a knit cap partially covered long and chaotic brown hair spilling out from underneath it. She leaned down to kiss Old Pete on his cheek, and then straightened up to look me over.
"Circe"
"Who''s this?" she asked. "Tonight, his name is Sir Cedric of Mintar. A bold knight errant dispatched to seek aid for his father''s hold." "Is that right? Then welcome, Cedric." She sat down and unloaded her cloth carrier, placing a handful of papers and a velvet dice bag in front of her. "Oh that reminds me, I''ve got no dice," I said. "The Box!" Circe said, and cackled. That was the only way I could describe her laugh. She straight up cackled. Had she practiced that? "Yes, you can choose what you like from the Box of Cursed Dice," Pete said, and produced it from the bag at his feet. I knew immediately what it was even before I saw what was in it. Every long-term D&D group must have them. The box of dice that rolled so terribly that they were consigned to exile. Cursed dice. "Come on, I have to use the cursed ones?" "If you wanted to use uncursed dice, you should have brought some," Pete replied evenly, setting the box down in the middle of the table. The Box had once contained cigars, and was nearly full of dice of various colors. I picked a few D20s and gave some test rolls. Terrible. I continued to test, trying to find at least one good one. Like D&D, I''d need to roll a D20 to hit. "There''s an event going on in the plaza outside today. A vegan market, or a chainsaw sculpture competition or something," Circe said. "Oh, why''s that?" Old Pete asked absently. "There are a lot of Hipsters hanging around outside." 1.50 - A journey in the dark "What?" Old Pete and I said at the same time. There was no way they could know I was here. Flattop had dropped me off, and he''d been driving fast enough that someone following us would have been obvious¡ªwouldn''t they? I''d had the glasses on all day, too. If I''d made a mistake, I didn''t see what it could be. There hadn''t been any hipsters outside when I''d arrived, but that had been almost an hour ago. "Hipsters. One of them was smoking clove cigarettes just outside the front door," Circe said. "Clove, can you believe that? What are you, sweetheart? A teenage goth girl?" "Did you see any names?" I asked. "I don''t... No, wait, one of them was called Byron. Yes, that''s right." I looked around the library, trying to determine if someone was watching us. There weren''t any obvious Hip that I could see. A lot of people around us were in shadow, though. Any one of them could be keeping an eye on us. Old Pete was watching me, waiting. "Yeah, that''s one of them." He nodded, his face calm. "You can''t stay here. This is neutral ground, but there is no armed security. There is nothing preventing them from simply coming in and grabbing you, or gunning you down." "They''re right outside the front door!" "What''s going on, Pete?" Circe asked, her face confused. "Those hipsters outside are likely the Fatally Hip. They''re looking for our friend Cedric here." "I see," she replied. "Honestly, I''m just going to duck into the bathroom and change back to the light. Then I can just go out the front door and they''ll be clueless," I said. "Hmmm. Yes, possible. Risky, but possible," Pete said, scratching his bearded chin. "Risky? How?" I asked. I honestly didn''t see much of a hole. "They may have someone watching the bathrooms. When you go to enter, they hit you. It''s what I would do. Aside from the bathrooms there is no truly private place for patrons in this library." "Shit. I''m just going to have to chance it I guess." "I think maybe I can help you with this, Cedric," Pete offered. "What business is this of ours, my sweet?" Circe interrupted, her voice cold. "None. We should stay out of it entirely. That would be the sensible choice. We''re not going to, though." "What? Why? Honey, why?" Circe said, grabbing his chin in her hands and making him look her in the eye. "For the same reason I didn''t turn my face away when you washed up on my doorstep, or when Duke did, or Z," Pete replied, meeting her gaze steadily. Circe glanced at me for a moment and then turned away from both of us. "My love, go find Helen would you, please? I need to pack up my things, and we need to move quickly." Circe wordlessly kissed him again, this time passionately on the lips and fled deeper into the library. Old Pete was rapidly re-packing his bag. I handed back what he had given me when prompted. "I told you that you have many possible choices and that is still true. You can stay here and fight, or try to escape out the main entrance somehow. I expect the only reason they haven''t come in here yet is because they expect to snatch you when you leave." That seemed right. Without Circe''s warning I would have had no idea they were out there waiting. It would have been trivial to grab me, or even just shoot me as I left the building. "Those are bad choices, Pete. Got anything else?" I asked. "If Duke and Z were here, we would have more options. Since they are not, we can not risk waiting for them to arrive. Come with me and Circe, we''ll get you out of here to safety." "What, out the back door? Don''t you think they''ll have that covered?" "If they are wise, yes. We will not be going that way." He shoved the last bit of paper into his bag and zipped it shut. "Will you accept my help, or not?" The man had been nothing but kind to me. I trusted him, even if I didn''t know that much about him. The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. "I accept." Old Pete nodded like it had been an obvious choice, and stood up with his bag. The librarian I''d encountered in the past, Helen, walked over to us with a concerned expression on her face, trailing Circe in her wake. "Peter, what''s going on?" she asked. She looked me over, but I wasn''t sure she remembered me. "Helen, I hate to ask but there is an emergency. Can you please let us into the utility room downstairs?" "You know that room is for employees only, Peter. There is sensitive equipment down there." "I wouldn''t ask you to risk your employment if it wasn''t important. If we don''t get this young man out of the building immediately, I expect there will be some deaths either in the library or in front of it." Helen looked at me again, studying my face with a slight frown. "I know you. You came in with that ridiculous outfit. And once, smelling like an outhouse." "Guilty, ma''am." "Would I be protecting you from someone, or protecting someone from you, young man?" "These guys want to kill me and my friend. I''m just trying to stay alive, ma''am." She nodded, and that was that. "Follow me. Don''t make a habit of this, Peter." At the back of the library a staircase led down into the basement, where the bathrooms, storage and utility rooms were. It was through one of those doors Helen led us. The door was marked ''Employees Only'' and I mused at just how many of those I was seeing the other side of these days. It wasn''t impressive. It was a thirty foot square room filled with humming machinery I vaguely recognized as related to water and HVAC. In one corner of the room a steel hatch in the floor was bolted shut, but there were no doors. "Thank you, Helen," Old Pete said. Without hesitation he strode over to the hatch in the floor and threw back to the thick bolt keeping it locked. With some effort he heaved it open, and then the four of us were looking down at a ladder descending into blackness. A faint, musty smell of dust and water wafted up. "The sewers? No," Circe said, backing away. "They''re not sewers, my dear. This leads to the storm drain. It''ll get us to the river." "No, I''m not doing it. They''re not looking for me. I''ll just take the normal way home." "Circe, be reasonable. It''s too risky," Old Pete pled, but it was clear he''d already lost. "I''m not some child you can cajole. I''ll meet you at home," she declared. When it was clear he couldn''t convince her, Pete accepted his loss gracefully. "Be careful, my dear," he said. Circe gave him another kiss in response. Helen came forward and handed Pete a flashlight. "It''s nearly a mile to the river. You''ll need this." "Thank you, Helen. I''ll return it." Old Pete tucked it in one of his many pockets and went down the ladder first. "Thanks, Helen," I said. She simply nodded. As soon as my head was below the hatch, she closed the lid with a thud and latched it. It was pitch black with the hatch closed, not even a tiny sparkle of light visible. I''d had trouble seeing before with the Sunshrouds on, and now it was impossible. I pushed them up onto the top of my head. I could hear Pete below me, and when he got to the bottom of the ladder he mercifully turned on the flashlight and I could see again. Not much, but anything was better than utter blackness. I''d never been one of those kids that played in the storm drains, and I was surprised at just how big it was, and how clean. Even down in the tunnels there was graffiti, but most of it looked like it had been there a very long time. We walked in echoing silence for a few minutes. "You were in the game once, right?" I asked. "A long time ago. It''s hard to get out entirely, if you live like I and my friends do. We''re all as out as we can be and still afford to eat." "What does that mean?" "Think about it. What will happen to you in twenty years, Mack? Let''s assume that you live that long. What will happen to you? Will you have invested your money wisely so that you can retire?" I started to answer, but it was apparently a rhetorical question as Pete kept talking. The flashlight bobbed as Pete gestured while he spoke. "Let''s assume you didn''t, but you''re tired of the game and you want out. What then? Do you think you can just stop earning and your associates will be fine with that? What about your enemies? Will they ignore the fact that you''re now vulnerable and let you peacefully exit the game? "No, of course they won''t. If you don''t get out right at the top, you don''t get out. That is unless you become someone else." "You mean like switching to the light and never coming back?" "That only works if you can live in the light. If you haven''t burnt your bridges there, and you have some skills." I understood what he meant. Not everyone was suited for living a normal life. A life of quiet obscurity working retail sounded like a painfully slow death to me. Not that long ago it hadn''t. Maybe I just had never thought that deeply about it, or what my alternatives were. Since I had, my perspective had changed. We passed an intersection, the echo of our footsteps and voices carrying back to us and causing us to fall silent for a moment until it passed. "You changed your shadow name," I said, suddenly remembering when the system had first prompted me for mine. It had said ''WARNING: This name is not easily changeable.'' "Wasn''t that obvious? Did you think I entered the shadows for the first time at thirteen years old and named myself ''Old Pete''?" Pete said, and laughed. "I guess I should have. So what was your first name?" I asked. "I didn''t go to all that trouble to change it to just tell people what it used to be. Let''s just say it was something a thirteen year old boy would choose and leave it at that." I nodded, remembering some of the more out there shadow names I''d seen since I''d been here. I was sure that I had just scratched the surface. "That might be one way me and Manny can go. We change our shadow names like you did." "You could, but it''s extremely expensive," Pete said. "A rare, evolved skill from a rare job. You''d be lucky to ever meet someone who can do it. I wouldn''t bank on that as your first option." Of course it couldn''t be that simple. I pressed him for more details, but he wouldn''t give them. "That kind of information has a high value, I''m not going to just give it out for free. Certainly not in these tunnels where someone half a mile distant might hear." We''d been walking fifteen or twenty minutes¡ªit was hard to tell just how much time had passed in the darkness¡ªwhen we began to see the literal light at the end of the tunnel. It was dim, but stood out like a beacon in the pitch blackness of the tunnel. A few minutes later we emerged on the concrete banks of the San Tadeo river and Pete switched off the flash light. At one point there had been bars blocking the exit, but they were long gone. Outside it was full night, but after our time in the tunnel it seemed brightly lit. I made sure to lower my sunglasses again before I fully emerged. "That feels nice," Pete said, looking up at the sky. "Come with me, we''ll go to Nirvana and discuss your problems in earnest." 1.51 - Nirvana is a place on Earth "Nirvana?" I asked. I knew the word, obviously. Kurt Cobain, classic rock. The other place I''d seen it was in D&D - it was one of the Outer Planes. Pete saw my puzzled look but misinterpreted it. "It''s a bit of sophistry on my part. I like the Buddhist ideal of Nirvana. It''s not an afterlife you know. It''s the absence of¡ªfreedom from the wheel of dharma. You accomplish it with the quenching of rage, greed and ignorance. When I established our little freehold I named it that. It''s more aspirational than anything else." "Uh, sure," I said. Old Pete began walking along the top of the concrete river, and I followed. This man had information, a lot of it. I needed it. "Where are we going?" I asked. "It''s just down here," Pete said, pointing down the concrete river. "Circe will have made it back before us." I''d assumed we were following the river because it went in the direction he wanted to go. It was a good place to walk, actually. We were just about invisible to the surrounding streets down in the river. The Hip were hopefully still waiting outside the library, but if they''d got impatient and come in after we left then they might be actively driving around looking for me. We were approaching one of the major bridges crossing the river, and it was clear we were going to have to go up to the street or down farther to get past it. Where the slope of the river and the bridge met was full of a large collection of sheet metal and scavenged fencing. I could see faint light behind the improvised walls. A homeless encampment. Old Pete didn''t pause, and my dawning suspicions were confirmed when he turned to me with a wide grin. "Welcome to Nirvana." I hadn''t spent a lot of time in homeless camps. Exactly zero time, to be precise. I''d seem them on video, though. They''d all had the same look to them¡ªdesperate folks barely scraping by. They''d be surrounded by their possessions, none of it valuable enough for anyone else to steal. They were dirty places, chaotic, violent and lawless. Nirvana wasn''t any of that. Old Pete approached a section of the wall of scrap that looked much the same as the rest and pounded on it. The hollow sound echoed loudly in the space under the bridge. A minute later there was the mechanical sound of a latch opening and the wall in front of us swung outward. Not a wall after all¡ªa gate. The man opening it was another one I recognized¡ªthe giant that had been talking with Pete about his build. He gave me a quick glance and then turned his attention to Pete, stepping aside to let us in. I IDed him and confirmed what I remembered.
"Duke"
"What''s going on? Z and I were just about to leave for the library," Duke asked. His voice was a deep baritone, fitting his monolithic frame. "Circe isn''t back yet?" Pete asked, stopping short. "No, she''s not here. What''s going on, Pete? Who''s this?" he asked, looking at me again. "This is Mack. I had to cancel our session tonight, I''m afraid. The Fatally Hip are hunting my young friend here, and had surrounded the library. We had to leave through the storm tunnels." Duke gave me another, harder look. It was intimidating coming from a man his size. He could crush me like a bug, I knew. I could almost see the questions roiling around in his head. They would be the ones I''d ask¡ªwhy are we helping this kid? What''s in it for us? That sort of thing. He looked back to Pete and asked the most burning question he had. "Are we going to do a make up session tomorrow? I was just about to level." "Possibly, but I can''t commit to that right now. I am worried that Circe is not here." "I''ll get Z and tell him what''s going on," Duke said, and left. Inside the wall wasn''t too large. Four low buildings were gathered around a community area in the middle with a table, chairs and a firepit. Here and there I could see electric lights, and it took me a moment to figure out where the power was coming from. A thick, orange cable descended one of the bridge pillars the camp was built around. The bridge above had power, so Nirvana did. Clever. A sign was mounted on that pillar about ten feet above the roof of the building below. It was a rough metal rectangle and painted on it in an elegant script was ''Nirvana.'' Something about it bothered me, so I focused on it. It was a territory claim marker.
Territory Claim Marker Nirvana
On the wall right beside us a small platform was set about 2/3rd of the way up the wall. It''d let someone stand there and see over the wall, or¡ªand this was the tactical gamer part of my brain chiming in¡ªkneel there and have partial cover. The wall was only about seven feet tall, and this was a watchtower. There were a few more on other sections of wall. This compound, as ragged looking as it was, had been built to be defensible. This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. Old Pete had been watching my assessment. "The realities of the world we live in means we need the wall. We leave someone here at all times to stand guard, although our neighbors know not to mess with us. Duke can be quite persuasive." "Don''t the cops hassle you for living here? And for stealing that power?" I asked. "They would, if it were in their financial interest to do so," Pete said, moving deeper into the compound. I followed along. "Police need money like everyone else, Mack. So does their boss, and their boss''s boss. Anything is permissible when you grease the right palm." That sounded about right. Especially in this world, where without cash you literally couldn''t advance in your career. Nearly everyone in a position of authority would be dirty. How could they not be? Pete set his gaming bag down by the central table and sat heavily with a groan. "Don''t get old, Mack. It''s terribly overrated." I just chuckled and sat down across from him. "Do you think Circe is okay?" "I am sure she is. She can take care of herself, but I still worry for her. It''s in my nature." Duke returned, leading the skinny young man I''d seen at the library the first time. This must be Z.
"SilentZ" , Fisher of Iron
SilentZ, then. The title was strange, and I wondered what it meant but Pete was giving orders. "Duke, gear up and go look for Circe along our usual route. If she''s in trouble, extract her. Do what you need to do. Don''t get yourself killed." Duke nodded and ducked to enter the building at the base of the bridge pillar. It was the sturdiest looking of the four, although they all seemed fairly well engineered. SilentZ was watching Pete, expectant. He was tall, although still shorter than Duke, but extremely skinny with curly, light-blond hair. He looked like he was my age or a bit older, with an intelligent, attentive expression on his face. "Z, stick close to home and be ready," Pete said. SilentZ lived up to his name when he replied with sign language, his fingers flashing rapidly. "Can''t that wait until tomorrow?" Pete asked. Z shook his head and another rapid sequence of signs followed. "Fine. Make it quick, but only if someone goes with you," Pete said. "Mack, would you help out Z here? He just needs someone to watch his back while he clears his nets. Maybe a bit of physical assistance if one is too heavy. It''s not safe for him to do it alone. As Shayla isn''t here I''ll man the wall." "Sure, I guess," I replied. Z ran off into another of the houses. Duke emerged from the building he''d entered minutes earlier. If he''d been scary before, his transformed appearance was truly terrifying. He''d put on a black leather trench coat, one obviously made for his enormous frame. Under that, I saw a black, armored tactical rig festooned with magazines and slung under his left arm¡ªunder the coat¡ªwas what to my untrained eye looked like a black AK-47 with a folding stock. "Holy shit," I said. Duke smiled tightly as he saw me looking. Pete and Duke didn''t spend any time with small talk, and thirty seconds later he had left the compound and Pete had locked the gate behind him. "Mack, you are armed, correct?" Pete asked me. I nodded. "Good. Watch Z''s back. He''s a good kid but he can''t defend himself. You''ll just be down at the water, but if it looks like something is wrong you abandon the nets and drag him back here if you have to." "Is he catching fish in the river? There''s no way we can eat that." Pete just laughed. "You''ll see. Hurry up, though. Here''s Z now." I turned to Z coming out of what must have been his house. He was wearing hip waders, thick, elbow-length rubber gloves and had a large wicker basket¡ªa creel¡ªover his shoulder. He caught my eye and gave me a "let''s go" motion with his head. It turned out the wall had a few gates, one on the downhill side facing the center of the river. Z led us through that gate, leaving it unlocked behind us as we walked down to the water. The LA River never had a lot of water in it, and the ST river was much the same. It usually had more trash floating in it than fish, so I had no idea what Z was catching. I followed Z as he walked out of the shadow of the bridge downstream about a hundred feet where he stopped. Z didn''t stop to tell me what he was going to do, or tell me where to stand or anything like that. He jumped right in, the nasty water coming up to his thighs. When he reached into the water and pulled a net up, I finally saw it. Completely hidden beneath the surface of the water, the net was secured on the banks with pitons driven into the concrete. I could see why he''d insisted on doing it now¡ªthe net was full. It was trash, almost all of it. He shuffled foot by foot along the net and pulled it up out of water. He''d free cans, plastic bags and random crap and toss it either onto the shore or the downstream side of the net. The freed trash continued its journey to the ocean. I was watching him, but kept my eyes open. I wasn''t expecting that bandits would jump us for our valuable trash, but I had a job and I was going to do it. Everything was serene, the only sounds the flowing of the river and the traffic on the bridge above our heads. When he found his first fish trapped in the net I was surprised. It was big and healthy looking. The fish struggled, its head caught tightly. Z gently worked it free from the net and then rather than placing it in his basket he set it gently down in the river on the downstream side. With a splash, it swum away. "What the hell?" I said. Z didn''t react to my voice, but kept clearing the net. It was a few minutes later when I saw what the Fisher of Iron really fished for. The shape was nearly unrecognizable, covered in plastic trash. Once it was cleared, though, it was obvious. A pistol. It went into the creel after Z ejected the magazine and a chambered round. He was just over 2/3rds of the way across when he found his second gun. This one was an SMG of some kind. After being made safe it went into the creel as well. I was shaking my head in wonder when I saw headlights enter the river about a mile away. A large SUV of some kind pulled out onto the concrete slope and started to drive our way. Z was facing the opposite direction and didn''t see it. "Z, let''s go!" I yelled. He didn''t react. I ran and jumped into the river, moving as fast as I could in the water. I grabbed Z by the shoulder and turned him to look at the approaching SUV. His expression changed from surprise to alarm and both of us splashed as fast as we could to the bank. We sprinted diagonally up the slope to the gate and had just latched it behind us when the SUV stopped fifty feet away from the wall. As soon as we were inside, Z ran into the same building that Duke had geared up in. I sprinted over to Old Pete, who was crouched on the watch tower. The SUV''s doors opened, and large figures stepped out. The headlights were making it hard to see, but I could see silhouettes and that was enough to ID the driver.
"Magnus" , The Fatally Hip
One of the men on the passenger side dragged a smaller figure out of the back seat and I heard Old Pete''s hissing intake of breath as both of us IDed her. Circe. Magnus''s voice boomed out. "Pete! I have your woman, and I want to make a trade. You give me Mack, and I return her to you intact." 1.52 - Hostage Negotiation "You motherfuckers," Pete hissed and clenched a fist. I drew my pistol and held it low. Pete had helped me out so far, but for all I knew he was just about to trade me to Magnus. He looked in my direction and nodded. "Good instincts, Mack," he said and then looked back to the Hip outside his walls. Staying behind cover he shouted back. "I can''t see her with your lights on. Let me see that she''s healthy." Magnus leaned into the SUV and the lights went out. Now that it was close I could see it was a weird looking Jeep from 90s, the one with wood paneling on the sides.
1993 Jeep Wagoneer Blue DA HIP
The hipster in charge of Circe stepped forward, bringing her out of the shadow of the truck so she was just visible in the dim light filtering down from the bridge above. She looked a little worse for wear with blood on her face and dress and she swayed on her feet. The guy holding her I recognized as Huck, and he gripped her upper arm with his left hand while he held a pistol in his right. Now that the lights were off I could see that all of the Hip were armed. Three pistols and Byron had a shotgun on the passenger side. "There, you can see that she is intact," Magnus shouted. "We had a vigorous discussion about where you went to, but as you can see we haven''t marred her... beauty." "Help me, my prince!" Circe cried out, her voice pathetic. Something about that struck me as odd. It didn''t seem like the earthy woman I''d met earlier. A low sound of rage, almost a growl, emanated from Pete. Rather than respond, he looked over his shoulder and extended his left hand. Z slapped a submachine gun into his outstretched hand. It was a graceful black weapon, the kind you''d see SWAT and the Navy SEALs use. Pete checked it and transferred it to his right hand before returning his attention to the Hip. Z had appeared like a ghost, but one bearing gifts. An assault rifle was slung on his back and he was carrying a black cloth duffel full of magazines. He reached in and extracted four skinny black magazines, each marked with a piece of red tape and set it down on the platform beside Pete. Then he turned to me, dropped the duffel at his feet and unslung the rifle. Paranoia spiked and I nearly put my gun on him, but the earnest, open expression on his face stopped me. I was glad I refrained, as the next moment he pressed the rifle into my arms. I took it awkwardly, holding the heavy weight with my left hand while I holstered my pistol. It was long, black and heavy¡ªnine or ten pounds. Unlike the AK I''d seen earlier, this one had a box magazine and a carry handle just behind the barrel shroud. It was a serious assault rifle. "I don''t know how to use this," I protested, looking the gun over. Z just shrugged.
FN FAL (C) Ammo (7.62x51mm NATO): 20/20
Handling: D Damage: B Serial: None
Penetration: B Accuracy: C Value: ???
"Figure it out. Z doesn''t shoot," Pete said, and then raised his voice for the Hip again. "You''re a businessman, Magnus. I''m sure you don''t want trouble with us. Why don''t you just let her go and we''ll forget this all happened? I don''t know who Mack is, but he''s not here." I''d turned my attention back to the Hip, the rifle hanging loose in my hands. Z got my attention by slapping my shoulder. He pointed at the rifle and then pointed urgently at the Hip. "There''s no room on that platform, Z. I''m not tall enough to shoot over the wall," I objected. The wall was ragged enough that seeing through small gaps was easy enough, but shooting through them was another matter. Z darted past me to the wall on the left of the gate and knelt. With a muted scrape of metal, he slid a steel panel aside and revealed a firing slit at just the right height for a shooter kneeling with a rifle. Once it was open and he was sure I''d understood he moved out of the way. While I moved into position, the negotiation continued. "Don''t test my patience, Pete. If we decide to come in there and torch your little camp there''d be nothing you could do to stop us. Mack, I know you can hear me. Why don''t you spare these poor folks and surrender yourself? Do you really want this woman''s death on your conscience?" Magnus gestured and Huck raised his pistol and put it to Circe''s head. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Meanwhile, I was in position and looked over the left side of the rifle. Even though I hadn''t spent any time with the rifles at the Ball and Bean I knew I could figure this out. Just in front of the magazine a knob stuck out and I grasped it, pulling it back firmly and then releasing it. I glimpsed brass as I chambered the first round. There was a safety like my first pistol as well, labeled with three letters¡ªS, A and R. The S was in white, while the A and R were in red. I pushed the switch down with my thumb from S to R with a click. "Wait! Hold on," Pete said, a note of panic in his voice. When he turned to me, his voice was rock steady. "Feeling noble and self sacrificing, Mack?" "Er, not really?" "Good," he said. "Be ready. Don''t shoot my girl." "What?" I started to ask, but Pete was shouting to the Hip again. "You win! Don''t hurt my mercurial princess!" I had Magnus in my sights when Pete said that. I wasn''t confident that I could hit Huck and not accidentally kill Circe. Still, I saw what happened. Circe sagged, becoming dead weight. Huck grunted and stumbled forward, the muzzle of his gun no longer at her head. She moved in a blur, a flash of steel glinting in the streetlights as she slashed the arm he was using to hold her and then plunged the blade into his calf. He bellowed in pain as she dropped flat to the concrete. Pete opened up with a long burst, bullets ricocheting off the blunt nose of the SUV and a few finding Huck as he stumbled backward. Magnus was bringing his pistol up in what seemed to me like slow motion, pointing it at the prone form of Circe. She was doing her best to skitter across the concrete toward the wall but there was no way she''d make it to us before she was shot. I squeezed the trigger and the rifle bucked in my hands. The recoil was heavy, but the sheer weight of the weapon seemed to help control it. Just to the left of Magnus the glass in the driver''s door starred. I fired again and again, ricocheting a round off the hood and the third clipped his right shoulder and he staggered. Blood flew and the big man moved faster than should have been possible to duck behind the open door of the Wagoneer. I kept firing. The Hip had all taken cover behind the open doors of the Wagoneer, and my rounds were leaving small dents in the metal of the Jeep, and larger craters in the glass. Not at all what I expected, and it seemed Pete was having the same problem. He was firing short bursts, keeping them pinned behind their doors but unhurt. He dropped his magazine and reloaded. "It''s armored! Mack, load one of the blue mags!" Without pausing, he kept up his relentless fire. Circe was moving quickly across the concrete but wasn''t too our wall yet. I looked around, but Z was nowhere to be seen. He''d left the duffel behind, though. I opened it and rifled through the mags until I found one with blue tape on it. "Hurry up, Mack," Pete yelled between bursts. It wasn''t like the pistols, but the principle was the same. I pushed the lever and the half-loaded magazine dropped free. I seated the new one and returned to my firing position. The Hip were returning fire from behind their armored doors. They''d look through the glass and stick their pistols out to the sides, firing rapidly. A few rounds would hit the wall here and there, but it wasn''t any threat. I sighted in on Magnus behind the armored glass on the driver''s side. I squeezed the trigger and the bullet hit the glass right in front of his face but failed to penetrate. The round in the chamber had been from the previous magazine, the red tape. I fired again, and I swear that Magnus somehow sensed his death coming. Right as I was squeezing the trigger he ducked. The round was on target, punching through the thickly armored glass. Snarling in frustration, I rapid fired at the cowering Hip. The bullets punched through the glass but still failed to penetrate the body panels. The Hip got the message quickly and hid themselves. "Nice work, Mack!" Pete yelled before firing another burst. In the distance, I heard the sound of sirens. A lot of sirens. Magnus scrambled into the driver''s seat and the rest of the Hip followed, piling into the Jeep. "No, you fucking don''t," I snarled and punched rounds through the windshield just above the dash. Foam exploded out of the seats as the heavy bullets spent the last of their momentum. The Hip kept their heads down, and I was pretty sure I didn''t hit anyone. The Wagoneer lurched backward, accelerating with the doors still open. Pete stopped firing and I followed suit, not confident I could hit a moving target at any kind of range. Half a mile away they stopped and the doors slammed closed before the Jeep turned 180 degrees and roared off down the river. Pete jumped down from the firing platform and opened the gate, running out to embrace Circe. The sirens were getting louder, and I could hear a helicopter overhead somewhere. "Pete, the cops!" I yelled. Pete looked up, seeming to come to his senses. He rushed Circe back within the protective circle of his walls and closed the gate behind them. Magnus and his goons had roughed her up, but unlike the act she''d put on while they had her, she looked unfazed. She bustled over to Z''s house and ducked her head in the doorway. "Z, honey, we need to hide the guns. The police are coming." Pete was shoving his magazines and the SMG into the duffel bag. "Mack, make sure to gather up all your mags. Don''t worry about the brass, we don''t have time." I did as he asked, putting the one mag I''d dropped into the bag. I had no idea what to do with the rifle, but Z appeared and plucked it out of my hands. With a grunt he took the heavy duffel out of Pete''s hands and ran back to his house. "What, he''s just going to hide them in there?" I objected. "After all that gunfire they''re going to toss this whole place!" "Probably," Pete said, his face a vision of calm. "You should give Z your pistol as well if you don''t want the police to take it." "What the fuck, Pete? Why are you not worried about this?" I yelled at him. "Have some faith, Mack. Oh, and don''t put your sunglasses back on. The police won''t like that." Z came back and I handed him my holstered pistol. The skinny young guy went back into his house and was there as the first of the cruisers pulled up just outside the wall. Seconds later, three more entered the river and stopped on the down river side. Cops spilled out and took cover behind doors. Overhead, the helicopter was loud. A bright pool of light lit up the wall as they turned on their spotlight. A voice boomed from a loudspeaker. "This is the STPD. Everyone in the camp, come out with your hands in the air!" 1.53 - The Five O Pete turned to me. "Don''t say anything. Nothing at all. Not your name, not please or thank you. Nothing. Let me do all of the talking." There were a lot of cops out there, all with their guns pointed at us behind the walls. I had no idea how Pete expected to talk his way out of this. We''d had an extended gunfight just minutes ago. Shell casings were all over the ground inside and outside the wall. When they searched the camp they''d definitely find the guns. I really wished I''d had time to get to that lawyer and put him on retainer. Pete was looking me in the eyes, waiting for me to acknowledge what he was saying. "Got it." "Alright then, let''s go," Pete announced, opening up the gate. He was the first out, walking calmly with his hands above his head. The rest of us filed out after him, walking slowly with our hands plainly visible. The helicopter''s spotlight turned the area around us into bright daylight. When we were about twenty feet from the gate the orders changed. "Get down on your knees! Do it now!" the amplified voice bellowed. I followed instructions, the concrete rough underneath me. Cops rushed forward from outside the spotlight, guns on each of us. They were in pairs, one covering us with their weapon while the other handcuffed us. Once we were all cuffed the spotlight turned off and I heard the helicopter fly off. They obviously had better things to do. With the noise level reduced, the two uniformed cops that had cuffed me started asking questions. "What''s your name, kid?" "You don''t belong here. Did you come here to buy drugs?" "What just happened here? Did you see anyone shooting?" And on and on. I just looked at them, not speaking. They hadn''t arrested me, or read me my rights. The cop shows I had watched had led me to believe that would be one of the first things to happen, but it hadn''t. Behind us, the cops were tossing Nirvana. I could hear the crashes of heavy bits of metal falling over, and the occasional tinkle of broken glass. At any moment I expected them to announce that they''d found a shitload of guns and that we were all fucked. Similar conversations were happening with Circe, Z and Pete, but only Pete was responding at all. "What happened here, Pete? Be straight with us," one cop asked. "You know how it is. Kids like to set off fireworks down here," Pete replied. "Fireworks? That''s what you''re going with? What about all the shell casings?" "Oh those. I don''t know where those came from. There are a lot of litterbugs in this city." The cop was getting frustrated, but I knew that wouldn''t work. It was like a child''s version of how to fool the police. Make up a stupid story and deny any contradictory evidence. It didn''t matter, because Pete was just screwing with them. "Officer, can you please call Lieutenant Warner? He''s your commanding officer, isn''t that right? I''d love to speak to him. We know each other, I''m sure he''d like to hear about this." The cops asking me questions had still been trying as I ignored them, but were getting frustrated. They left and a plain-clothes cop approached me. He was a 5''9" white guy with an average build, and short brown hair but a truly outstanding Cop Stache. His badge was plainly visible on his belt, and he knelt in front of me to look me in the eyes. I IDed him.
Kevin Dees, Senior Detective (D3), San Tadeo Police Department
A detective. That was worrying. What skills did detectives have? The ability to detect lies? Probably. That''d be why Pete told me to keep my mouth shut. This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. "Hi there, Mack. I''m Detective Dees. If you talk to me, there''s a chance you won''t be going to jail tonight." The Detective was walking in the light, but knew my name. This wasn''t good. I looked him in the eyes and kept my mouth closed. He smiled. "It''s going to be like that, is it?" Dees reached out and pulled the Sunshrouds from my head. "Look at this. Quite an expensive little toy. Is someone looking for you, Mack? Were they here tonight? Did you have yourselves a good old fashioned gunfight in the river?" I could only hope I kept my poker face. If that was a guess, it was a good one. "It doesn''t matter if you talk or not. We''re going to find the guns in that pile of trash over there, and when we do you''re all going to jail." He folded up my Sunshrouds and tucked them in the breast pocket of his shirt. I bared my teeth at him and he smiled back pleasantly, showing me yellowed teeth under his bushy cop-stache. "Did you know that we have a test for gunshot residue now? Once we find the guns we''ll have probable cause and can test all of you. If it turns out you''ve got GSR on your hands... Well that''s it for you, isn''t it? They like kids like you in San Quentin." I didn''t know what he was expecting. Did he expect me to start spilling my guts, desperate to avoid going to prison? I met his gaze and kept my mouth shut. "Let''s see what else you''ve got here," he mused, and reached for my front pockets. "Detective Dees? I think you''ll find you need a warrant to search my young friend there," Pete said, his voice carrying. The detective looked over at Pete and sneered at him. "I think you''ll find that you should shut the fuck up." One of the officers that had been talking to Pete came over and leaned down to whisper something in Dees''s ear. I caught the word ''lieutenant'' but nothing else. "You''ve got to be kidding me. This old fuck?" Dees asked, and the officer nodded. Dees stood up, and yelled to the cop supervising the search of Nirvana. "Anything?" "Nothing yet, Detective," was the reply. He looked back at me, and then over to Old Pete, his lips tight. Without another word he left us and entered Nirvana. Five minutes later an unmarked car joined the collection of squad cars already in front of us. An officer stepped out of the car, his uniform a little neater than the patrolmen around me. I IDed him.
James Warner, Junior Officer (D1), Lieutenant II, San Tadeo Police Department
He had a quick conversation with a pair of patrolmen and then walked over to Pete. "James, good to see you," Pete said, his voice full of warmth. "Hi Pete," The lieutenant replied. "Patrolman, uncuff him. We''re going to have a private conversation." The nearest cop uncuffed Pete, who stood up and walked off with the lieutenant. They stopped far enough away that I couldn''t hear a word, with their backs to all of us. Something changed hands from Pete to James, but it couldn''t be seen. Detective Dees had emerged from Nirvana and was standing nearby watching with a stormy expression on his face, but didn''t approach the meeting. The two men separated and shook hands. Pete was smiling broadly. "Motherfucker," Dees cursed, just barely audible. "Everyone, pack it up," the lieutenant ordered. "Call off the search, we''ve got bad guys to catch and they''re not here. Uncuff those three." I couldn''t believe what was happening. Did this sort of thing really happen in the USA? It looked like it did. "Sir, I am certain if we keep searching we will find the weapons. There are 7.62 and 9mm casings all over the ground here near the gate," Dees said. "Dees, you heard what I said. We''re done here. I won''t overlook your hard work here, believe me." Dees seemed mollified. That sounded like code to me. Dees would get a piece of the bribe, I''d bet. I was uncuffed and stood up, rubbing my wrists. Circe and Z retreated through Nirvana''s gates to check the damage the search had done. The detective stepped in front of me as I was following them. "It''s your lucky night, Mack. Until next time!" he said and smiled at me. I could see my Sunshrouds nestled in his front pocket. He followed my gaze and his smile got wider as he walked off. Old Pete and Lt Warner were still talking in low voices, but I was surprised when the lieutenant spoke up again. "Dees. Give the kid back his sunglasses," he ordered. I looked over at Pete. He caught my eye and winked. "Sir? I don''t," Dees started. "I''m sure you''ve just forgotten to give the citizen back his property, Detective." "Oh, of course sir," Dees said. He turned and extended the Sunglasses to me. I reached for them, and he dropped them before my hand got there. They hit the concrete... and were just fine. I snatched them up before Dees could be an even bigger dick and ''accidentally'' step on them. He looked a little disappointed and walked back to his car. The cops filed out of Nirvana, got into their squad cars and left. The lieutenant finished his conversation with Old Pete and drove off. Forty minutes after we''d had a hostage situation, a standoff and a brutal gunfight the cops had come and gone. Just another night in San Tadeo. 1.54 - Silence after the storm We were back inside the walls with the gates closed behind us when I turned to Pete. Circe was standing close to him, his arm draped over her shoulders. Despite the ordeal she''d just been through, she seemed fine. If I had to judge by the jagged scars all over her face, she''d had worse days. The right sleeve of her dress was spattered with blood. "What the hell just happened there?" I asked. "You were there, Mack. Do I really need to explain it to you? The Fatally Hip learned that they shouldn''t try to muscle me. I may be mostly out of the game, but that doesn''t mean I can''t protect what''s mine," Pete said. Circe chuckled and gave him a kiss. "Thank you, my prince." I had a ton of questions, and a lot of my assumptions had just been turned upside down. Was this really a world where you could have a gun fight in the city, the cops would show up and not arrest anyone? "But the cops," I protested weakly. "Oh yes, we got lucky there," Pete allowed. "If Warner wasn''t on shift we might have spent some time in a holding cell. He''s a good cop though. Once you buy him, he stays bought." "Come on, let''s go sit down. I''m starving. Pete, will you cook us some dinner?" Circe asked. "Of course, my lady." The three of us moved deeper into Nirvana. The center of the compound with the fire pit and tables was relatively untouched. There hadn''t been much for the cops conducting the search to destroy. Pete opened up a mini fridge I hadn''t noticed and fished around inside it. "I''m not looking forward to straightening up. Let''s just have a nice meal and relax," Circe said, settling down on a worn plastic chair. "Mack, sit down." I picked a chair and sat. Pete was placing ingredients on the table in front of us. Ground beef, tomatoes and cheese. "What was that out there? The whole prince/princess thing?" I asked. Circe cackled, an unnerving sound. "My Pete is a clever man." "Mercurial is one of our code words," Pete explained as he sliced a tomato. "It means drop to the ground." "That shitheel had me and wasn''t letting go when I went limp, so I had to convince him," Circe added. That wasn''t how I remembered it. She''d collapsed and used the knife in the same deadly motion. I wasn''t going to contradict her. Z emerged from the main building, carrying my holstered pistol in his left hand. He set it on the table in front of me and then turned to Pete, rapidly signing. Pete nodded. "That''s good news. I''ll help you put the shop back together later. Now sit down¡ªI''m cooking." Z joined us and I put my pistol back where it belonged. It had felt strange not having it there. "What did he say?" I asked. "The cops busted up his workshop searching but nothing is missing," Circe said. "How could they possibly have missed the guns?" I asked. Circe gave me an intense look, her smile gone. "Do you really want to be poking into our secrets, Mack? My man here could have just exchanged you and saved himself a lot of trouble." "Sorry, I just don''t get it." Pete laid a hand on Circe''s shoulder, silencing whatever reply she had. "Peace, Circe. Mack, maybe one day we''ll have enough trust to let you in on such a sensitive topic, but today is not that day." "Fair enough. Hey, thanks for not just handing me over. I appreciate it." "Even if they hadn''t taken Circe, I wouldn''t have been inclined to. Threatening her was a big mistake," Pete said. There was a sudden, loud pounding on metal. Three rapid knocks on the gate. "That must be Duke," Pete said. "Circe, would you get the gate?" Circe stood up and went over to the gate to let Duke in. He gave Circe a quick once over and a hug. They had a quiet conversation before joining us at the table. The chair creaked under Duke''s weight but held. "I heard the gunfire and came back as soon as I could," Duke said. "What happened?" Old Pete and Circe gave him the short version. When it got to the part where I''d been given the battle rifle, he gave me an assessing look. "Why weren''t there any bodies out there?" Duke asked. This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. "I''d never fired a rifle before," I said. "It was a near ideal result for us," Pete said. "We hurt them and drove them off without leaving a body to explain to the police. That would have been too much for my arrangement with the lieutenant. The one that had Circe may yet die. I hit him, and Circe left a blade in him." Circe shook her head. "I don''t think so. They were all wearing body armor, my love." "Ah, too bad," Pete said. He''d finished preparing burger patties and placed a cast iron pan on a rack over the fire pit. "Wait a minute, how is this possibly an ideal result? Me and Manny have been running scared from these assholes. They''re crazy¡ªyou''ve seen that tonight. Magnus doesn''t let go of grudges and he''s psychotic. He''s going to come after you." Duke chuckled, but didn''t say anything. He leaned back in his chair and looked at Pete, who didn''t disappoint. "You must have had a very sheltered upbringing, Mack. This surprises me, as you have some good instincts." "Let''s say I did. What''s to stop Magnus from sneaking back here in the middle of the night and firebombing this place? You know he''d do it." "Nothing but our vigilance. Speaking of which, Duke if you wouldn''t mind taking a shift in a tower? I''ll bring you the first burger." Duke nodded, standing up and climbing into the tower nearest the gate I''d come in. He was tall enough that standing he''d be able to see people approaching in nearly all directions. It wasn''t flawless security, but better than nothing at all. Having built up the fire, Pete placed five seasoned burger patties into the large, hot pan. They started sizzling immediately and the smell made my mouth water. "The thing about gangs like The Hip is that while they are obviously wealthy and well equipped, they are weak. There are only six of them, and now two of them are out of action. Their real weakness is not their size, it is their isolation. They have no allies. No one will care if they suddenly cease to be." "What are you saying, Pete? That we just have to kill them all?" "I''d be fine with that," Circe supplied. Duke shook his head at her, amusement on his face. "My bloodthirsty little witch." Circe stuck her tongue out at him. "While that would work, it''s never my first solution," Pete said. Z had been intently following the conversation and signed something. "Very good, Z! Yes, that''s exactly right," Pete said, smiling. "When a gang is isolated, then they don''t need to fear only their enemies. They must also fear their suppliers and their customers." "That makes no sense," I protested. "Why would they fear their customers? Some pothead is going to kill them?" Pete flipped the burgers and put a piece of cheese on top of each one. "Get the buns and condiments ready, would you Z? These will be done soon." Z nodded and walked over to the fridge while Pete kept speaking. "You''re making an incorrect assumption, Mack. The Hip aren''t just small scale weed dealers. They''re distributors. I don''t know who their customers are or who their connect is, but I will tomorrow." Distributor implied that they were selling large quantities of weed to other gangs. Kind of like the Brass Dragon Tong. If that was true, then Pete was right. They''d have to worry about pissing off their customers without a bigger organization to fall back on. Pete was making it sound like there was a possible diplomatic solution to this. I doubted that. With Zeke in the hospital and Circe stabbing Byron I couldn''t imagine Magnus being in any kind of mood for diplomacy. My strategy of keeping my head down still seemed like the best approach. I just wish I''d known how they''d found me at the library. "Circe, any idea how they knew I was at the library? Or how they knew to grab you?" I asked. "They didn''t say anything about you. It''s usually some little snitch. That''s how they knew about me. They had someone watching us in the library," she replied. That wasn''t helpful. I couldn''t think of how some random guy in the shadows could have placed me there. I wasn''t particularly unique looking, and there were other people walking in shadows hiding their names. It just didn''t make sense. It would have to be someone that already knew what I looked like, waiting there and watching for me. Was that too paranoid? Would ''watch for a generic white guy hiding his name and also wearing this style of sunglasses'' have worked? I hoped not. A stack of mismatched plates had appeared from somewhere, and Pete was assembling burgers. "I''ve got more beef, so if you''re still hungry after this I''ll make more." When the first burger was assembled, Pete picked up the plate and brought it over to Duke. He set it on the platform at his feet. "Just the way you like it, big guy. When you''re ready for number two let me know." The burgers were great. I''d had two, and after that was completely stuffed. Duke had three, calmly eating each while he stood his watch in the tower. He still wore the trench coat, body armor and had the AK slung underneath. It seemed like appropriate gear for standing a watch. "Mack, you should stay here tonight and leave at dawn," Pete said. "It would be too easy to miss an ambush in the dark. We''ll give you a place to sleep, and I''ll ask you to stand the next watch after Duke." The thought of the Hip waiting somewhere nearby to ambush me hadn''t really occurred to me. Since I still hadn''t figured out how they''d placed me at the library I wasn''t ready to dismiss the possibility. It wasn''t like the Orange House was some kind of fortress. If they followed me home, I''d be screwed. "Thanks, Pete." When Duke was done one and a half hours later I took his place. Everyone else had retired for the night, and three hours of standing and watching an empty riverbed was mind numbing. I was incredibly grateful when Z came to relieve me, and collapsed onto the air mattress they had laid out for me beside the dwindling fire.
Shortly after dawn I started awake, reaching for my gun. I was disoriented, but soon remembered where I was. Pete was standing at the fire, using a cloth to remove a percolator of coffee from the rack over the fire. "Morning. Want some coffee?" I coughed to clear my dry throat. "Sure." Gratefully, I accepted the cup of coffee he poured for me. It was painfully hot, and I blew on it while waiting impatiently. Pete sipped at it, not seeming to mind the searing liquid''s temperature. "Before you go, let''s talk about the Hip. I''m going to make some inquiries today. If I find a weakness to exploit, I expect your cooperation." "I''m flat broke, Pete. I can''t pay you anything for this." "There is always money to be made in the destruction of someone else''s empire. We''ll find some." "Then fine, I''ll help however I can if it means getting these psychos off our backs." "Wonderful. Where can I find you today?" Pete asked. "You know the Lyle Street Soldados?" "El Gato Azul? He''s in prison." It was interesting to finally hear Gato''s full name. The Blue Cat. Didn''t sound that scary, but Pete seemed to know who he was. "I''ve got an arrangement with them. Flattop''s running them now. I''ll be near their shop, you know where that is?" "I do. I''ll come by sometime today if I find something useful." I finished my coffee, setting down the chipped cup. Pete let me out of the compound, and a few minutes later I emerged onto the street just above the river, the bright morning light washing over me. Finding a phone booth wasn''t hard¡ªthey were everywhere. I called a taxi and a few tense minutes of waiting later I it arrived and I jumped in the back. 1.55 - The Comet The young guy driving my taxi was friendly, which was a bit surprising. I was in shadow, but that didn''t seem to bother him. He turned around in the seat and gave me a big grin. He was a skinny guy with olive skin and black hair, and his smile seemed genuine. His soul hadn''t yet been beaten down yet, it seemed. "Hey, where can I take you?" he asked.
Fatih ?zbayram, Trainee Driver (F1)
The nameplate gave me no indication of how to pronounce his name, so I didn''t even try. "Uh, two stops. First a hardware store. Something decent sized." "You got it, Chief," he said, and pressed the button to start the meter. For the first five minutes I was watching behind us, making sure that no one was following. If they were, I didn''t see them. The traffic was pretty light by San Tadeo standards, so I was pretty sure I would have seen anyone following. Magnus was filling my life with paranoia, and I hated it. Fatih had noticed me looking out his rear window, and piped up. "Don''t worry, Chief. No one''s following us." "Great, thanks. Sorry, how do you say your name?" "Fatih," he said, and made it sound a bit like farty. "Thanks, Fatih," I said, and he grinned at me in the rearview. "Close, Chief! We''ll be at Wren''s in five minutes. You''re going to want me to wait?" "Yeah, please." "No problem, Chief." Right on schedule we pulled into the parking lot of a big box store I''d never heard of. Wren''s Home Renovation. The lot wasn''t very full at this time on a Wednesday morning, so Fatih grabbed a spot right near the entrance. "I''ll just wait right here, Chief. Take your time," Fatih said. I handed him a fifty dollar bill and stepped out of the car. Other than the brands all being weird, there was nothing unexpected in Wren''s. I found the power tools section and a cordless drill easily enough. I hoped I wouldn''t need anything too crazy, because I didn''t want to carry a heavy one around. Cordless tools always came with some charge in the included battery, so I hoped it would be enough to drill an ignition. I added a pack of drill bits for metal and a short, flathead screwdriver to the cart. Work gloves and a baseball cap with the Wren''s logo on it were next. It took a bit of looking to find the last item¡ªan automatic center punch. After my crash course with Hondo I''d remembered a video I''d watched where people used this little screwdriver-sized thing to quickly punch through car windows and I was eager to give it a shot. The one I bought was textured brass with a sharp, spring-loaded steel point on the end. It was just the right size to fit in my palm. Using the center punch seemed more elegant¡ªand was certainly a lot smaller¡ªthan a hammer. Once I had everything I went to the front, paid and bought one of Wren''s reusable cloth bags. I''d need something to carry this small collection of tools around in, and my backpack was still with Manny. Outside the store I unwrapped everything, tossing the plastic and cardboard into the large trash can. The tools went into the cloth bag. I gave the trigger of the drill a pull, pleased to see that it seemed to have a decent amount of juice. Fatih watched through the open window of the taxi parked thirty feet away, a bemused expression on his face. I walked over and got back into the taxi. "Where to, Chief?" That was a good question. What I wanted was a big parking lot or a structure full of cars. It was early in the morning, so I wasn''t quite sure where that would be. Another requirement was that there weren''t a ton of people moving around. I didn''t need someone to see me stealing my first car. "The airport. It''s around there somewhere. I don''t know the exact address, but we can find it." "Right-o, the airport." I began to appreciate Fatih more and more as we drove in complete silence. He didn''t try to make awkward small talk or play terrible music. He just drove. We''d just exited the 105 West when he spoke again. "We''re getting close, Chief. What are you looking for? Maybe I can help you find it." "I parked my car in long term parking and need to pick it up," I said. "Great. Do you remember the name of the place?" Fatih asked. "Uh, no. Sorry." "No problem, Chief. I know where a bunch of those long term places are. We''ll drive around until you see it." I resolved to tip the man. We drove down Century boulevard toward the airport. He pointed out a few lots as we drove, but they were all either totally exposed to passing traffic or too small. He turned off onto a side road. Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. "Some more up here, Chief." It was only another block when I saw what I wanted. A long, five story parking structure. It was "MollyPark Airport Parking." "That''s the one, Fatih," I said. He pulled over in front and stopped the meter. I winced when I saw it was $90, but it didn''t surprise me. I needed a car. "Here you go, Chief. Take my card, and call me if you need a ride sometime." He handed me a glossy, color card with his name and number on it, and the logo of his taxi company. I pocketed it and handed him another $50 bill. "Thanks, Fatih," I said, opening my door to climb out. It was time to find my new car. "Oh, one thing, Chief. The cameras on the fourth and fifth floors are just for show. They don''t work any more. Look for the red lights." I blinked, looking back at him. He just smiled at me, his expression unchanged. I peeled another $20 off my roll and handed it over. "Thanks. Have a good one, Fatih." "You too, Chief. Good luck!" With that, he drove off and left me standing there. I pulled on my Wren''s cap. I wasn''t sure what the cops would do with video of me stealing a car, but with the sunglasses and a cap I''d reduce their shots of my face. The exit lane of the parking structure was a manned booth. One of those long, boxy beige cameras covered it. People would pull up and pay, and only then would the boom gate rise up and the spikes retract into the pavement. In hindsight, I probably should have stolen a car parked on the street. I entered through the pedestrian entrance, stopping in front of a large sign. It was the rules of the structure, but what really struck me as important were these two lines: "Do not leave your ticket in the vehicle!" and "For your protection, exiting the structure without your ticket is not possible!" That would limit my options. The first thing I did was confirm Fatih''s info. I made sure not to look into any of the cameras, but every one I looked at had a red light. Somewhere in this structure or nearby, a guard was watching an array of television screens. If they saw me breaking into a car, they''d be on me. I went up and up until I hit the fourth floor and checked the first camera just outside the stairwell. No red light. Thank you, Fatih. The fourth floor wasn''t full, but there was a wide selection. I wasn''t trying to be picky. I''d take whatever I could get, but I needed to keep the rules in mind. Not too loved, not too unloved. Plus, I had to find one where the owner had ignored the sign and left his ticket in the car. I looked into every car on the fourth floor. Some had promising piles of paper on the dash or seats, but they were all busts. The fifth floor was the roof. I knew from reading the sign that parking on the roof was the cheapest. It showed¡ªthe cars up here were a lot dustier. The bright side was that the top level was almost full. People love a bargain. I walked along one row and then the next. No tickets. I was getting worried. Was there some way to get out without a ticket, despite what the sign said? If it was like other parking places, I''d have to pay the maximum amount. But maybe that wasn''t how it worked here? Maybe because of guys like me, they just straight up wouldn''t let me out? On the third row, I struck gold. Sort of. Whatever it was, it was ancient. A boat of car that in the 70s was probably considered a compact car. It had a long hood, two doors and an aggressive stance. The white paint was flaking, and through the smeared driver''s side window I could see a scrap of paper right in the center of the bright red vinyl of the bucket seat. Just barely visible was the logo of MollyPark. I still had no idea what the car I was looking at was, so I focused on it and the system told me.
1977 Mercury Comet White 6ZUE739
Damn, that was old. I hoped it would start. There was no one on the top deck at the moment, so there was no time to waste. I pulled a glove onto my right hand and fished in my pocket for the center punch. The doors on the car were incredibly long, and the glass would make a hell of a mess. I''d sweep it out of the car before I left, and pretend I had my window rolled down. First though, the bump. I hip-checked the car, rocking it slightly on its suspension. No alarm. I''d pressed the center punch to the glass and was about to push on it when I noticed the rear windows. They were these strange, small triangles. Instead of rolling down, they hinged open a small amount. There was a catch to keep them closed, but it turned out those catches really sucked. With a bit of force I popped the triangular window open. After that it was easy to reach through and pull the lock up. If I''d been a muscular guy I wouldn''t have been able to do that, so... yay for me? Carefully stowing the ticket in my pocket, I sat in the driver''s seat and set my bag down beside me. The inside of the Comet smelled musty and stale. I used the crank on the door beside me to roll down the driver''s side window. The interior was spectacularly red. The seats, the dash, the steering wheel and even the rug various shades of crimson. You''ve got to love the seventies. The ignition was where you''d expect, but scratched and loose. I didn''t have time to experiment¡ªI did exactly what Hondo explained to me. Eyeballing the slot size, I fit the bit that looked big enough and drilled into the lock. The metal parted easily and I heard mechanical bits crunch as I drilled the length of a key. Pulling out to let the tumblers settle, I did it again. There was less noise this time. Now, the moment of truth. I pulled the screwdriver out of the bag and inserted it into the key slot. I''d picked the right size, thankfully. I turned the screwdriver to the right one click, and the dash lights came on. "Yes!" Nervous, I turned the key the final notch and held it. The starter cranked, a wheezy sound, but nothing happened. I let go, and then tried again. Same result. "Fuck, I should have stolen a newer car," I muttered. I had a faint recollection that older cars didn''t have the same systems as newer cars - fuel ignition, that sort of thing. They were more temperamental. You had things like chokes, and having to prime the carburetors. All that gear head stuff I had no idea about. Time to experiment. I pumped the gas pedal¡ªjust once. I had a vision of that motion pushing gasoline somewhere it needed to be. Was this one of those unloved cars that Hondo had warned me about? Did it even have enough gas to start? I turned the screwdriver again. This time the sound was different. A chugging, grumbling sound. The car shook as it struggled against itself. The sound got faster and the engine reluctantly sputtered to life. It sounded like it was about to die again, and rather than let it I pressed down on the gas pedal. It coughed and then the engine roared to full life under the long, white hood. Out of an excess of caution I kept the pedal slightly depressed, revving it higher than it needed for thirty seconds before I released it. It fell back into an agreeable, loping idle. After I got my heart rate back under control, I looked around to see the top deck still deserted. I put the Comet in reverse and backed out of the space it was in. Down the ramps I went to the gate, joining a line of three other cars waiting to leave. I kept my hat low to cover my face, but the guy manning the booth didn''t even look at me. He took the ticket from my hand, and then the amount I owed appeared on the display in front on the side of his booth. $194.35. Ouch. Why was stealing a car so expensive? He took my $200 and quickly made exact change and handed it back. The bar in front of me went up, and I drove out onto the street in my first car. 1.56 - The Weakness Driving out of that parking structure and onto the street filled me with elation. Sure, I was in a stolen car but it was my stolen car. No more begging for rides, or taking a bus or taxi. I had my own wheels, and they weren''t attached to a bicycle. After a few minutes of driving the engine''s tone evened out, and it burbled happily. The Comet felt a bit strange to drive. The hood was so long and flat I had trouble judging when I needed to stop, and even though the bucket seat was comfortable I could feel every bump in the road through my ass. I tried not to stress out about the STPD cruisers I saw. The only way they''d know the car was stolen was if someone reported it. From how much the parking had cost me, the Comet had been sitting there for almost two weeks. The odds that the owner was going to come looking for it in the twenty to thirty minute window before I made it to Hondo''s shop seemed pretty low. Before I knew it, I was pulling onto Lyle Street and then stopping in front of the closed gate of Gonzalez Automotive Restoration. It was still too early and Hondo wasn''t in the shop yet. "Shit." It didn''t seem like a good idea to park my newly-stolen car on the street. Maybe that was just paranoia. For all I knew it''d be weeks before the Comet was missed. There was a thump on the roof and I turned to see Flattop standing beside the car on the driver''s side. He smiled as he took in the car. I caught a whiff of coffee through the open window. Of course he''d seen me pull up from across the street at the Ball and Bean. "What have we got here? Did you pop your cherry, Mack? This is an unusual choice." "Yeah, there''s a story there. Can you open the gate? I want to get it off the street." "Sure," Flattop said. He unlocked the padlock and slid the gate open. I eased the Comet inside, carefully parking it beside the Javelin in the yard before using my screwdriver to turn it off. Flattop slid the gate closed behind us. "Get the plates off. No cop''s going to check the VIN if it''s sitting in the yard without plates." I unscrewed the front plate, while Flattop removed the rear. The plates went into the dumpster in the yard. With that done, the stress was off. The car would be mine. "You missed Manny," Flattop said. "He seemed pretty worried about you, but I told him you were a big boy and could handle yourself. He left your bag at Guillem''s." "Well I''m still alive, anyway," I replied. "It was an interesting night." "Come on, my coffee is getting cold. You can tell me while I drink it," Flattop said. He locked up behind us and we crossed to the Ball and Bean. We dragged Flattop''s table a bit farther away from the clusters of old men and sat down. Guillem was on his game and as we sat down he placed two new cups of coffee in front of us. "Thanks, Tio," Flattop said. Guillem nodded his acknowledgment and looked at me. "Food?" "Sure. Thanks, Guillem." "Da nada," he replied and disappeared back into the shop. We spoke in low voices, and it took me a good ten minutes to fill Flattop in on the previous evening. I told him about the trip through the tunnels, the Hip showing up with Circe and the subsequent gunfight. "Damn!" Flattop said. "That''s crazy. The cops showed up and this dude just paid them and they left? After you were shooting it out under a bridge?" "That''s what it looked like. I didn''t see what happened, but something changed hands. Pete said he was a good cop, because he stayed bought." "Cops are dirty, but that''s something else. Who is this guy? Have you seen his job, or any of his titles?" Flattop asked. I was really beginning to trust Flattop. Both of the LSS guys, actually. Even so, sharing what Pete had said about his past didn''t feel right. "No, he''s hiding all of that. He knew who Gato was, though." "I''ve got to meet this cat," Flattop said, leaning back in his chair. "Maybe making payoffs is a skill. It''d be nice to not have to worry about the pigs any more." "He might come by today. Said he was going to try to find a weakness to exploit with the Hip." "Boom! That shit you stepped in just turned to gold, Mack. Whoever the fuck this dude is, he''s serious." Pete definitely was that, but I wasn''t as positive about the whole thing as Flattop. The old man had been pretty clear that he''d changed his name because he wanted out. He''d also implied that the rest of them were out, too. What help would they be versus Magnus and his goons? Defending his home and his girlfriend wasn''t the same as making an aggressive move against the Hip. In short, I was skeptical. "Yeah, we''ll see I guess." This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. I drank a lot of coffee that morning. The night hadn''t been a restful one. After my second coffee Flattop left me there, promising to tell Hondo about the Comet and get him started on clearing the VIN. It wouldn''t be free, of course¡ªnothing was¡ªbut he''d cut me a deal. Once that was done I could get a Registrar to bind plates to me. Out of curiosity I had asked about insurance. No one had mentioned it. "Insurance? For a car in the shadows? Never. It''s way too expensive for us. They can''t refuse us service, but they can make it real expensive." That brought up the question of what would happen if I got in an accident and I was the one at fault. "They can sue you, but most peeps in the shadows don''t have any assets. Usually they''re shit out of luck. If you hit a gangster, that''s another story. Then things get a little more street." With the caffeine buzzing through my veins, I sat in the sun and nibbled on Guillem''s snack food until the taco shack started to set up for lunch. Guillem had stashed my backpack behind his counter. Manny had restocked it with a full ounce. I set up beside the shack, nodding to John through the glass and started spamming Customer ID. The crowd definitely wasn''t as thirsty as they had been. As I''d sat at the table munching, I''d been thinking back on the work of people I''d hardly paid attention to back in LA. Guys like Tim Ferriss and Gary Vaynerchuk. I was stuck in a cycle, one where I was doing everything wrong. Slowly pushing a gram of weed at a time, that lesson was sinking in. I was doing this wrong. I needed to scale up. Why should I be the one selling this weed? I needed to be more like Brass Lee. My guys should be doing the selling, and my territory should be bigger than a single block. How could I make that happen? I''d need more cash, more weed and a lot more friends¡ªor at least employees. Could I convince the LSS boys to come in? Maybe. Manny? Probably not. At some point soon he would need to make a decision¡ªeither he was going to be gangster, or not. Either way he chose, I''d have to be fine with it. Time passed as I sold weed on autopilot. Manny had been right¡ªa monkey could do this job. Don''t obviously be selling when the cops drove by. Use Customer ID to find your customers, but if it didn''t work who cared. You could always just do it the old fashioned way. I''d sold thirteen grams and was pacing back and forth muttering to myself about scale when Hondo walked up at around four. "Yo. You alright?" "Hey, Hondo. Yeah, just thinking about how to scale up this biz." "Weed? No way you can with your connect." That threw me. I''d been doing the math and thinking about how I''d recruit dealers. I could see that it would work. What had I missed? "Huh? Why not?" "Think about it, Homes. You''re already charging a premium price, so you can''t raise it. Manny told me how much you bought it for. I''m not in the weed game, but I''m pretty sure that''s not much below retail prices." The implications of what he said were obvious. If I was going to add layers of dealers below me, I needed more margin. Even one more layer would be pushing it. I''d have to charge my dealers pretty close to what they''d be used to selling their product for at ''regular'' prices. I could maybe stretch that a bit by branding the weed and having them sell it like I did, as a premium product but that''d be pushing things. If they weren''t newbies but had regular customers, they wouldn''t appreciate it. "Shit, so Brass Lee kind of screwed us," I said. "Who? Nah, you just at the bottom. That''s how things go." "I guess so," I agreed. Now I''d need to figure out how to get a better deal on marijuana. Was that something Brass Lee could do if we bought more weight? "I saw your new car. It''s not exactly a classic. You sure you want to keep it?" Hondo asked. On the short drive across the city I''d started to like the beast. "Yeah, I''m going to keep it." "Aight. I''ll make up a new VIN. That''s $150. Once that''s done Miguel can get you plates." Manny''s Crown Vic rolled by and he waved at us before he parked. He soon joined us, without his faithful companion Buddy. "Sup. Where''s your animal?" Hondo asked. "Mom is warming up to him. She took him to the park with my sister," Manny said, looking a bit disappointed. He turned to me. "Bro, what happened last night? No one answered the door when I came by this morning." With the taco shack in their low period, we were nearly alone on the sidewalk so I took a few minutes to update both of them on what had gone down. I didn''t omit any details. "Holy fuck, that''s so bad, Bro. They''re going to come hard now," Manny said, looking around the quiet street nervously. "They could do a drive-by if they know where we are." I started to protest but Hondo beat me to it. "Nah. When you armor up a truck like that, the windows don''t roll down no more. Don''t work for a drive-by." They got into a little argument about how obviously the Hip would have another car they could use for drive-bys, but it was just getting stupid. "Guys, that''s enough. Manny, they don''t know where we are. If they did, they would have already been here. You know Magnus isn''t exactly subtle." "Plus it sounds like your boy got a piece of him," Hondo said. "Maybe he''ll decide he''s had enough getting bent over by Mack here. That''s three times now. When it gets out his rep is going to be in the toilet." I had. One of my rounds had made blood spray from his right shoulder. For all I knew it was one of those minor wounds the heroes in action movies would shrug off. Just a flesh wound, they''d say before they killed a hundred more bad guys. Maybe it wasn''t though. Maybe the heavy 7.62mm round had really fucked up his shoulder. I sure hoped so. If it hadn''t and he had shrugged it off, did that make him the hero of this piece? "Or he''ll decide that the most important thing in his life is to kill us both," Manny said. That seemed like the more likely option, but I didn''t want to say that to Manny. He was already freaked out enough. "Just chill. Pete''s looking for a solution. If he can''t find one it''s not like our plan changes. We lay low and pay our debt to Brass Lee, then we see where we are." Manny accepted that, if reluctantly, and we got to work. Several hours passed, sales gradually picking up as the sun set. Manny had been marked as an ally, but was too nervous to pick a spot on the block too far away. His visions of Hipster Assassins had him spooked, so he stayed close. That was fine by me. At just after seven o''clock a deep blue low rider slowly cruised past the taco shack. There were two people in the front seat. The driver was a black guy with cornrowed hair, his fingers and neck dripping with gold. On his head was a red bandanna. A Blade. I couldn''t see the passenger through the glare of a streetlight on the windshield. The driver scanned the crowd, and without thinking I IDed him. I got a completely blank nameplate, his name hidden. He wasn''t wearing sunglasses and coolly met my gaze. As he pulled up closer, I could see his passenger. Old Pete. Pete and the Blade exchanged some words, a fist bump and then the low rider drove off and left Pete behind. Pete weaved through the crowd, approaching me. Clutched in his right hand was a black, tubular case like you might see people use to carry around posters or maps. He had a big smile on his face, his look triumphant. Once he was close, he drew me out of earshot of the people on the sidewalk. Manny followed us, and Pete eyed him skeptically. "This is Manny, he''s my partner," I supplied. Pete accepted that without comment. "I''ve got it. We can crush the Hip, but it has to be done tonight." 1.57 - A Really Big Gun "Have you got somewhere we can speak in private?" Pete asked. "Hold up, Bro," Manny said. "What do you mean by crushing them? I don''t want to be shooting anybody." Pete looked Manny over. "That''s admirable, if a bit naive. Still, it can be done without bloodshed. This will be a robbery, not a hit. Can we please discuss this indoors?" "Maybe we can use Hondo''s shop. We''ll have to ask him. They''re not in this mess with the Hip yet and they probably prefer it that way." "Who''s Hondo?" Pete asked. "He''s with the LSS," I explained. "You''ll need more than the two of you on this job," Pete said. "Can you trust the Soldados? I knew Gato and if he gave you his word he''d die rather than break it. I don''t know Flattop." I had no idea if Flattop was that kind of guy. I was inclined to trust him, but that wasn''t what struck me. "Wait a minute. You''re not going to help us with this?" I asked. Pete looked a bit embarrassed. "I got a little over enthusiastic this morning. I can provide the info¡ªand I''ll need to be compensated for that¡ªbut I can''t be overtly involved. None of us in Nirvana can. It would endanger everything I''ve built." That was annoying, but not unexpected. There wasn''t much point in changing your name and fading into the background if you started making big moves in the game afterward. "I''ll ask Flattop if he wants in. Since it''s a robbery, does that mean we''re going to get paid?" "Oh yes," Pete said, showing me his broad smile. "If you''re successful it will be a very large score. I''ll expect a small percentage as payment." That was helpful. I found Flattop and Hondo in the yard. Hondo was underneath the hood of my Comet while Flattop supervised from a comfortable chair nearby, a beer in hand. "Mack, what''s up?" Flattop asked when he saw me. "Hey man, Old Pete is here. He''s got a way for us to hurt the Hip. It''s a robbery with a big score, but we''ll need some help. You interested?" Hondo was the first to answer, leaning out from underneath the hood. "Hell yeah, we are. Does it look like we''re turning away scores up in here?" "What he said. As long as the plan''s solid, we''re in." I returned to the gate and waved Pete and Manny inside, making the introductions. Even though it was totally unnecessary when everyone could see the other''s names, it still felt right. Maybe that was just me and they were all humoring me. "You''re the cat that has the cops in his pocket. Is that a skill?" Flattop asked. "Maybe if this goes well, I can tell you. You''re the new head of the Soldados? I know El Gato Azul, he''s a good man. I was sad when I heard he went away." "You knew Gato?" Hondo asked. "I''ve never seen you around." "From a previous life, so to speak." Hondo obviously wanted to question Pete about that some more, but it was time see what the old man had for us. "Let''s go in the back and you can show us what you''ve got," I suggested. The office in the back was crowded with the five of us crammed into it. Once we''d all found a comfortable spot to stand or lean, he started. "I called in some favors today and after a few false starts, I found what we needed. The Hip move a lot of weight as distributors, and tonight is their re-up. They''ll be picking up approximately thirty kilos of weed from their suppliers... and I know exactly where the meet is." "Holy shit, thirty keys?" I exclaimed. "Who is their supplier?" Flattop asked. "Mexicans," Pete said, shortly. "Cartel you mean," Hondo said. Pete nodded. "Fuck, no," Manny said, and I shared the sentiment. I''d seen the videos, watched the Netflix series, all of it. I knew the Narcos were not to be fucked with. Bodies hanging from bridges, decapitations, you named it. The worst of the worst, as far as organized crime went. "We can not get involved with the Cartel, Pete," I said. Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. "No, you really shouldn''t. You''ll want to set up an ambush on the road the Hip use to leave the meet. Force them to stop and take the weed from them. The Cartel won''t know you''ve hit them." "This is crazy. What the fuck," Manny was muttering, but the debate had started and he was ignored. "How do you stop an up-armored Jeep?" Hondo asked. "A spike strip won''t work, it''ll have run-flats. It''s heavy as fuck and they can bash their way through any barricade or just go off road." "Where is the meet?" I asked. "If there are people around I don''t think we can pull this off." "That''s the best part. It''s out in the desert. Let me show you," Pete said, uncapping his tube and pulling out a glossy map. It was an aerial view of a section of desert, marked up with grease pencil. Dirt roads meandered across the map and the meet was marked with an X at a crossroads. It was hard to tell how high they were from the perspective we had, but rock formations hugged some of the roads. "I know how we stop it," Flattop said, getting our attention. "We just need a big enough gun. Put a bullet or two into the engine and it''ll seize right up." "That might work, what gun though?" Hondo said. "Are you people fucking insane?" Manny screamed, silencing all of us. "You''re really thinking of doing this? The Hip aren''t bad enough, you want to fuck with the Cartels?" "Manny-" I started to say. "No. I''m not listening to you, Bro. I''m out." Manny left the office and the garage. "Pussy," Hondo said. "Come on, man. He''s got family to worry about," I said. "Some people just aren''t cut out for the game," Pete said. "Everything in life worth having comes with risk." "Damn right," Hondo agreed. "For half a mil in weed I''m willing to take a lot of fucking risk." I hadn''t done the math, but he was right. It was a shitload of money. That was just the wholesale price. After we marked it up it''d be even more. It took us a good forty minutes of back and forth to hash out the plan. We matched the section of desert on the aerial photo to a big map of southern California and found it. If the Hip took the obvious route from the meet to the highway our ambush would catch them. If they didn''t, we were screwed. We all agreed that we couldn''t risk the Cartel getting caught up in our ambush. Even if we killed them all it could come back to haunt us. The final missing pieces were all gun-related. We''d need rifles and a big gun to stop the Jeep. "We can buy rifles and ammo from Tio," Flattop said. "I know a guy we can bring in to stop the truck. He has the gun and we can trust him, but I''ll have to convince him first." "Pargo?" Hondo asked. Flattop nodded. Time was getting tight. It was a 2.5 hour drive to the meeting spot, and the meeting was at 2am, just over five hours away. "You''d better go convince him, then," I said. Flattop nodded and left. "Mack, as much as I have a personal stake in you being successful here I still need to be paid for this. I''m thinking 10%?" "You trippin," Hondo objected. "$50k for some maps?" "It''s not just the maps," Old Pete objected. "He''s right, Hondo. Pete really came through for us here. Ten percent seems fair to me, that leaves ninety to split between us." "Whatever. We''ll need to pay Pargo and get the rifles from Tio, too. This shit''s going to be expensive. If we have to toss the rifles afterward, real expensive." I couldn''t help but agree. I wasn''t sitting on a ton of cash right now. If we pulled this off and got away with thirty kilograms of weed, I still wouldn''t be rich. I''d have to figure out a way to move that much weed. While waiting for Flattop I left the garage to get some air. I was unsurprised to see Manny''s Crown Vic was gone. Honestly, it was probably for the best. If he was smart he''d stick to the light for a few days to a week to make sure we hadn''t brought the wrath of the Cartels down on our heads. If he saw on the evening news the cops investigating our gruesome murders, he''d know to keep his head down. It was forty minutes before Flattop returned, and all three of us were getting nervous as precious time ticked away. He entered the shop carrying a black duffel bag and followed by an older man that I didn''t recognize, dressed all in black and carrying an oversized plastic case.
"Pargo"
Mutually Allied With: Lyle Street Soldados
Pargo was an olive skinned guy, muscular and serious looking. His forearms and knuckles were covered with what I recognized as prison tattoos. He looked us all over. "Pargo," Pete said, giving him a respectful nod which was returned. "This the crew, then?" "Yeah, Pargo. Pete''s not coming though." "Pete''s out of the game," Pargo said, and set the case down by his feet. "That''s what he tells everyone. What you doing here, old man?" "The Hip grabbed my girl last night, trying to get Mack here. They didn''t really hurt her, but I can''t let that go unanswered. Weren''t you out too?" Pargo nodded ruefully. "The streets will suck you back in, esse. Watch out." "Yeah, I know." With the last member of our crew present, we went over the plan. Flattop had acquired three AK-105s from Guillem, along with three magazines for each one. The rounds could theoretically punch through the laminated glass of the Jeep, but it might take a few. Also stuffed in the bag were four radio handsets, large and clunky. We''d need them. Tio had even thought ahead enough to mount flashlights on each rifle. We''d need them out in the desert. Stuffed in the bottom of the bag were ratty-looking black tactical vests with deep pockets for the rifles'' magazines. They weren''t armor, but were pretty handy. Flattop passed out the rifles and spent a few minutes making sure I knew how to use it. It wasn''t difficult, really. I might not be very accurate, but wasn''t that why these things had a full-auto switch? I brought up its stats.
Kalashnikov AK-105 (C) Ammo (5.45x39mm): 30/30
Handling: C Damage: C Serial: None
Penetration: C Accuracy: C Value: ???
That brought us to the star of the show. Pargo laid it on the desk and opened it to show us. A truly enormous black rifle broken into several long pieces was disassembled and nestled in thick foam. He showed us one of the rounds. It was thick, heavy and nearly as long as my extended hand. "Fifty caliber anti-material rifle," Pargo said. "One or two shots will kill the engine. They won''t have enough armor to stop this." I was sad that Pargo wouldn''t let me pick it up or even touch it, so I didn''t get to see the stats. He didn''t want anyone messing with it before it was needed. With that, we were ready to go. Pargo had brought his ride, an ancient white Ford Bronco with peeling paint. It fit all five of us and our equipment. We dropped Pete at his bridge and were on our way. 1.58 - The Ambush We were in position for an hour before the Hip rolled by in the Jeep. Hondo and I were hidden in the deep ditch beside the dirt road, invisible from the top. Flattop was on the other side. "Confirm target," Pargo said over our radio channel. Out in the darkness he watched the road through the enormous scope mounted on his rifle. "Confirmed, those are our guys," I replied. "Roger." It was still another fifteen minutes to 02:00 so they were early. The meeting spot was just over a mile away. When they came back loaded up with weed, we''d hit them. The drive to our ambush spot had been quiet, everyone occupied with their own thoughts. Pargo drove fast, even once we got off the highway and onto the dirt roads. He hummed along with the Mexican music playing at low volume on the Bronco''s stereo system. When we were close, he''d pulled the truck off the road and we''d geared up. Each of us got a rifle and three magazines, while Pargo hiked up the stone formation we''d determined would be the best for him to set up on. I was having trouble sitting still. Adrenaline was making me jumpy. Hondo looked annoyed, but it wasn''t like he was any better. "This is going to be a real big score. The biggest since Gato went away," Hondo muttered. I nodded, then realized he couldn''t see me. "Yeah. I''ll just be happy to get these fucking hipsters off our back." "Shit, is that all, Homes? You don''t care about the thirty keys of weed? I''ll take your share." "I know you would. Don''t worry, I think I''ll find a use for the weed too." That little bit of banter was fun, but it didn''t help time pass any quicker. It seemed like forever before Pargo spoke again. "Incoming," he said. Hondo and I tensed, ready to charge up the slope. Headlights lit the road above, and I could hear the Jeep''s engine getting closer. "Come on, Pargo," Hondo said. I couldn''t help but agree. What was taking the man? There was a crack of thunder and a flash in the distance. Then two more in rapid succession. The Jeep swerved wildly as the driver fought for control. One second he''d been doing forty miles an hour, and the next his wheels were locked up after the .50 caliber bullets shattered his engine. The Wagoneer slalomed past us and stopped fifty feet away. Pargo had timed it perfectly. Hondo and I turned on our gun lights and rushed up the slope. There was a moment¡ªjust a single moment¡ªwhere it could have went to plan. Where the targets of our perfect ambush would realize just how screwed they were and surrender. The Jeep''s doors were open and the four men were coming out with their pistols in hand. The three of us had them blinded by the bright beams of our tactical lights and had clear shots. We were even yelling cop-appropriate stuff like ''drop your weapons.'' That makes it sound like there was some kind of pause¡ªsome moment where everyone weighed their options and came to a decision¡ªbut there really wasn''t. Magnus was nothing if not decisive. He didn''t even hesitate to open fire as he ran for the ditch. The rest of the Hip hadn''t got the memo, but backed his play. They fired blindly at the bright lights, and we fired back. Hondo and I sprayed the driver''s side of the Jeep with fully-automatic fire. Hubert danced as our bullets ended him, painting the interior of the Wagoneer with his blood. Magnus escaped the initial fire with his surprising speed but just before he dove into the ditch one of my rounds hit him in the meaty part of his thigh, a thick gout of blood decorating the dirt road. He tumbled into the ditch out of sight. Flattop didn''t have it as easy as me and Hondo had. With the way the Jeep was skewed on the road, the two on the passenger side had better cover. Byron was out of the fight, lying on the dirt road moaning in pain, but Huck was returning fire from behind an armored door. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. There was no way I was letting Magnus get away, so I sprinted after him. There was a thunderous boom and the pistol fire stopped as Pargo ended the fight by punching a fist-sized hole through Huck''s torso. I ran across the packed dirt surface and would have simply pelted down the slope after Magnus, but something stopped me. A faint suspicion, or simply instincts I didn''t know I had. Peaking over the edge I saw Magnus at the bottom of the ditch looking back at me. I jerked my head back just in time to avoid the two bullets he sent at me. There was an audible noise of displaced air as they passed just overhead. I raised the rifle over my head and fired it blind down into the ditch¡ªtwo long bursts. Doing a fast peek over the edge, I saw Magnus was gone. He''d left plenty of his blood behind though, he wouldn''t be going far. Looking back at the Jeep, I saw Flattop sitting on the ground with Hondo beside him. Blood was pooling underneath my friend. I slung my rifle and dashed back. Flattop was pressing his right hand down on his side, hand covered in blood. "Shit. What happened?" I asked, like a complete idiot. "I''m hit," Flattop replied. "It''s not too bad, I''ll be fine." "You dumbass," Hondo said. "That''s a bullet wound, not a paper cut." "Status," Pargo said over the radio. He wouldn''t have much of a view from his position. Neither of the Soldados answered immediately, so I did. "Flattop''s hit, he''s bleeding." "Roger. I''m coming, sobrino." Flattop looked up at me. "Did you get Magnus?" "No. He''s hit but still alive." "Do you know how to fix this shit?" Flattop asked, inclining his head toward the wound. "No, sorry," I replied. "Then go take care of Magnus. At the very least make sure he''s dead. Pargo''s coming, he''ll fix me up." Hondo nodded. "Can''t let that psycho fuck pop back up in a few weeks even crazier." Following Magnus out into the desert at night wasn''t real appealing, but they were right. The Hip were now mostly all dead, but as long as Magnus was around there would continue to be a problem. I seated a new magazine in my AK and tucked the empty in my vest. "Okay. If I don''t come back, come get me." "Just go, he''s getting away," Hondo said, shooing me. Following Magnus''s blood trail made me feel like a master tracker. Large splashes and drips made his trail completely obvious even to a city boy like me. I moved as quietly as I could, but since I needed the light to follow his trail it was likely that was completely pointless. Every moment I was expecting him to pop out from behind a rock and shoot me. I was wound tight, pointing the rifle behind every obvious bit of concealment with my finger on the trigger. If a rabbit or deer or something I had jumped out I would have shredded it for sure. After the gun fight there probably wasn''t an animal for miles. When I finally caught up with Magnus, it was anti-climactic. He had his back up against a large rock with a visible pool of blood slowly growing underneath him. His pistol was on the rock next to him, but his hands were occupied with his belt. It was clear he was trying to tourniquet his leg before he bled out. The silver skull with the red gems was stained with his blood. He looked up into the blinding glare of the tactical light and smiled weakly. "Of course it had to be you, Mack." I pointed the rifle at him and said nothing. "You''ve won. I unconditionally surrender. You''ve killed my friends, destroyed my organization and my reputation." "You''re the one that took it this far, Magnus. You could have just moved on with your life." "Maybe you''re right. Can you help me with this tourniquet? I''m pretty lightheaded." "Push your gun away first." He seemed surprised for a moment, then looked at the gun beside him. "Oh, that. It''s empty anyway. Sure." The gun slid across the rock, well out of his reach even after his weak push. I was torn about what to do. The deepest levels of my mind were screaming that this man was dangerous, and that I should just shoot him and end the threat. The upper levels were the ones that had been built by my family, by school and society. The levels where the appropriate response to aggression was not to fight back, but call the teacher, or a cop. Where good people never broke the law. They never killed their enemies. The veneer of civilized behavior that had been layered onto my psyche all my life was growing thin in places, but it was still in control. I took my left hand off the gun, keeping it pointed at him with just my right. The barrel dipped a little as I stepped forward and reached out with my left hand. "Give me the end, I''ll pull." When he shifted the belt in his hands something in those deep levels screamed a warning and it was the only thing that saved me. I leaned back just as Magnus lashed out with blinding speed. The belt whistled through the air, and the heavy silver skull belt buckle cut a deep furrow in my right cheek. Pain blinded me and I stumbled back a step, raising the rifle. If Magnus hadn''t been half dead, he could have finished me there. Most of his life had spilled onto the desert rocks, so when his last attack failed he simply sagged back in resignation. "Mack-" he started to say. I interrupted him by walking a long burst of 5.45mm rounds up his torso and onto his head. Blood sprayed and his head broke apart.
Title Granted: Victorious +5 Street Cred Reason: Destroyed a hostile organization
Victorious. 1.59 - Consequences It was over. A confusing mix of feelings filled me. Disgust at what I''d just done, but also a raw, screeching animal triumph. I was alive and my enemy wasn''t. I slung my rifle and clenched my teeth against the bile rising in my throat. I pulled the belt out of his limp hands, then rifled through his pockets. It didn''t feel great searching the still warm and bloody corpse, but I was too broke to be picky. I wasn''t going to leave anything here that could help me. Magnus''s roll of cash was stained red with his blood. It was too much for Fast Count so I just stuck it in an empty pocket of my vest. I''d have to count (and wash) it later. When I picked up the pistol I immediately recognized it from the movies. It was huge, heavy and stainless steel with ridges on the top and bottom of the barrel. When the system told me what I had, it was no surprise.
Magnum Research Desert Eagle Mark XIX (B) Ammo (.50 AE): 0/7
Handling: D Damage: C Serial: None
Penetration: C Accuracy: D Value: ???
Magnus hadn''t been lying¡ªit really was empty. Out of sheer paranoia I checked the chamber and the magazine myself. With no possibility of blowing my balls off, I tucked the giant pistol into the waistband of my jeans. The belt was odd in that it wasn''t the belt that was special, it was the buckle. That made sense, really. Magnus was so much bigger than me his belt wouldn''t fit well. I held the heavy buckle in my hands and looked it over. It was covered in blood, both mine and Magnus''s. The system told me what it was.
Silver Skull Belt Buckle (Shadow Focus) +2 to Street Cred Special: Enhances your natural aura of intimidation by 25% Value: ???
Even though the value was still ?? I had a feeling the buckle was worth a ton of cash. It granted a passive intimidation effect boost, and the Soldado skill that was similar did the same thing with a cooldown and a relatively short duration. Maybe it would be like role playing games and I''d start to see crazy boosts as I "leveled up", but this was clearly a magic item. If magic is what you could call whatever the Karmic Mirror did. "Yo, white boy! You alright?" I heard Hondo''s voice calling from the road. He sounded a bit stressed, but I didn''t blame him. "Yeah, coming back now," I yelled back. With one last look at Magnus, I left him there in the desert. Someone would find him eventually, but we''d be long gone. Until then, I''d let the scavengers have their feast. I retraced my steps, just barely able to see where I was going in the faint light of the stars. I made a mental note to get rid of my shoes as soon as I could. I''d seen far too many detective shows where shoe prints were used to bust someone. Not only was I leaving prints in the dirt, I''d probably stepped in blood and was leaving bloody shoe prints everywhere. The slope up out of the ditch onto the road was steeper than I remembered on the way down, and I struggled a bit. When I hit the top I had what seemed like a very long time to take in the scene. Pargo had brought the Bronco and was crouched near Flattop with a first aid kit open beside them. Two brown-skinned men in black stood over them with submachine guns pointed at them. All four men were looking at me, and both of my friends had been disarmed. Hondo was on the road near the front of the Wagoneer with another two men. Another one of the black-clad goons with his gun pointed at Hondo''s head, and then the man obviously in charge of the whole thing. A slim man standing about 5''9", he was impeccably dressed in a grey, tailored suit with a chunky gold watch peeking out from his right cuff. He had tanned skin, curly brown hair and a friendly smile which he was directing my way. At the end of that moment of frozen time there was a path I could have taken where I brought the rifle up and started shooting. That could have only ended with my death and that of my friends. Maybe an action hero could have pulled that off, but I certainly couldn''t. Instead, I stopped and deliberately kept my hands off the slung rifle. The fact that we weren''t already dead gave me a bit of hope. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. "Mack, it''s a pleasure to meet you," the man in the grey suit said. He had a Spanish accent, but not a Mexican one. I needed to know who he was, so the mirror told me.
"La Espada" , Capit¨¢n Regional , Sinaloa Cartel
"Uh, hello," I responded. Fucking Cartel. We were in the shit. "I have to admit that when I heard about this beef my associates had with you and your friend, this was not the result I expected," Espada said with a chuckle. "Where is your friend Manny, anyway?" "He''s left the shadow life behind." "Is that right? Disappointing. I was hoping to meet him. Oh well." That seemed like a not-so-veiled threat and it pissed me off. "I''ll bet. Now you won''t be able to kill him with the rest of us. I can see how that would be disappointing." The goon behind Espada reacted to my disrespect. He shoved Hondo away and snarled as he swung the gun in my direction. Faster than I''d thought was possible I''d brought up the AK and pointed it directly at Espada with my finger on the trigger. I was hopeful I could shred him before I was killed. In my peripheral vision I could see the other two goons had backed off and pointed their guns at me. Espada frowned and spoke fast before the shooting could start. "Det¨¦ngase! Stop! This is not that kind of meeting!" "What kind is it, then? You''ve got my friends disarmed and are pointing guns at them," I asked. "That is for our protection," Espada said. "You did just kill our former associates. If you can agree that we will have a conversation without bloodshed, I will be happy to de-escalate. That is all I want here¡ªa civil conversation. After that we will both go our separate ways." "A conversation about what? What do we have to talk about?" I asked. Espada didn''t answer, instead saying something in Spanish to his three goons, gesturing to them to lower their guns. Reluctantly, they did. The guns were no longer pointed at me or my friends, but it was obvious they could come up and go to work with no effort. He turned back to me. "There. Now, may I ask you to lower your rifle so we can speak on equal footing?" Since the only other option seemed to be a gunfight, I lowered my AK. "Fine. What did you want?" I asked. "Do you know who I represent? If you haven''t, please identify me." When I nodded, he continued. "You''ve killed one of my distributors. They were ridiculous, and Magnus was insane, but they moved weight for me. They were a valuable part of my US operation, and now they are gone." I started to protest, but he waved me to silence. "I understand, it was you or them. That is the reality of our business. Even so, it leaves me with a problem and I dislike problems. I now have to replace that distribution. It''s fortunate for me, then, that your organization seems so capable. You''ll take over the Hip''s distribution responsibilities." "Whoa, hold on. You want us to sell weed for you? You''re not just going to take the weed?" It seemed crazy. We kill their distributors and as punishment we have to take their job? "Why would we take it?" Espada asked, arching an eyebrow. "I''ve already done my job. I''ve delivered the product and been paid for it. And no, you wouldn''t be selling for us. We don''t use that kind of arrangement here in the US. You sell it however you like. In one month, we will deliver another thirty kilos. More, if you''d like, but never less. As the Hip did, you will pay us for it in cash. $14,000 per kilogram." That was impossible. There was no way we could sell 30 kilos in a month. A good day of sales for us was two or three ounces. That was with Manny''s help, which might no longer be on the table. We''d need to sell eleven or twelve times as much per day for thirty straight days. Maybe not impossible, but it would definitely not happen at our current scale. "And what happens if we can''t do that in thirty days?" I asked. He looked at me as if he was disappointed I''d asked such a stupid question. "Then I am inconvenienced, and this," he said and gestured to the carnage around us. "Is no longer a slightly unorthodox change from one distributor to a new one. Instead it becomes an attack on the Cartel." If we didn''t come up with enough cash to buy another thirty kilos in thirty days, we were all dead. Got it. Just needed to scale up eleven or twelve times, no sweat. Espada turned to one of the two guys standing near Pargo and Flattop. "Ve por el auto." The goon nodded and jogged down the road, and Espada turned back to me. "That''s it. Any questions before we leave?" I had a lot, but I knew time and presumably Espada''s patience was limited. At some point I''d expose just how green I was and he''d have second thoughts about trusting us with $420,000 worth of his marijuana. "Do you know who the Hip were selling to?" "No, I don''t. I don''t get that involved in the business of my distributors. You could ask one of the Hip, if you left any alive." "Byron," I said and squatted to look underneath the Jeep to where he was lying in the dirt on the far side. He wasn''t moving. "Bled out," Hondo supplied. Espada''s vehicle hadn''t been too far off, as it pulled up right then. A shining black Escalade with tinted windows. Espada stepped forward and extended his right hand. Out of sheer habit I took it. He didn''t seem to mind that mine was covered in blood and gave me a firm handshake. "Good luck, Mack. I''ll see you in thirty days." Espada and his goons got in and the Escalade drove off. As soon as Espada was gone, Pargo stepped away to recover the weapons the Cartel had taken and tossed into the ditch. The remaining three of us gathered around the open back of the Jeep Wagoneer. Flattop was holding the bandages on his side and looked like he was in pain, but was otherwise fine. The Jeep''s cargo area was nearly full of thick plastic bags stuffed with weed. If we sold it all at retail price it''d be $1.5 million. A fortune. The three of stared at it for a while, and Hondo summed everything up succinctly. "Fuck." Book 2 and writing update! Hey, sorry for the long radio silence. I''ve had a couple emails and realized some of you guys might still care about this, so figured an update was in order. Real Life has been in the way. Taking care of my family comes before my writing, and it''s hard to put time aside for writing when I''m stressed about paying the bills. Hopefully that''s sorted now. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. Capo book 2''s outline is still on the whiteboard, untouched from where I stopped working on it a while back. I''ve still got to figure out my character issue, but that''s just a matter of time (and maybe some rewatching of The Shield). Anyway, I''ll get back to writing again Real Soon Now. As soon as I do, I''ll be posting chapters again. Thanks for giving a shit. Morgan 2.01 - Cleanup I''d had romantic thoughts of leaving Magnus''s corpse in the desert to be feasted on by the scavengers, but it wasn''t to be. After the killing and the confrontation with the Cartel Flattop, Hondo and I were all a bit out of it but Pargo stepped up. "Hondo, Mack. Get Magnus and bring him back here. Leave your rifle here, Mack," he ordered. He didn''t wait to see if we were going to follow the orders. He picked up one of the AK-105s and started to disassemble it with practiced motions. I unslung my AK and set it down beside Pargo after removing the tactical light. "What are you going to do with them?" I asked him. Pargo looked up. "Move, gringo. This is a public road and we need to clean up before we go." Hondo slapped me on the shoulder. "Let''s go, Mack. Pargo knows what he''s doing." I turned on the tactical light and led Hondo back down into the ditch, following Magnus''s blood trail once again. We hurried as fast as we could without speaking, the sense of urgency that Pargo had conveyed settling in. He was right, after all. We''d just had a gunfight on a public road, even if it was out in the middle of the desert. Anyone could show up. That reminded me of something. "What happened with the Cartel guys before I came back? How''d they find us?" I asked. "They just came up out of the ditches like ghosts. Pargo was busy treating Flattop and they had the guns on us. We had no chance. If they''d wanted to kill us, it would have been easy for them to do. "Espada said something about how noisy we''d been when he showed up a couple minutes later. They must have seen you leaving, because they knew your name and told me to bring you back. Sorry, Homes." Some part of me was annoyed, but it wasn''t like there had been anything else he could have done. What should Hondo have done, taken a bullet rather than call me back into a dangerous situation? "Don''t worry about it," I replied, deep in thought. We''d cut it too close with the ambush, or just got unlucky. Somehow when we''d hit the Hip, Espada and his guys had still been near enough to hear¡ªand maybe see¡ªour gunshots. Pargo''s rifle was hard to miss, plus all the full-auto fire from our AKs. They''d come to see what was going on, and caught us. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? I was still unsure. Hondo had obviously had the same thoughts. "We fucked up. Bad." "Nah, you saw the maps," I said as I stepped over a short ridge. "This was where we could hit them. Nothing else worked." "Still, the fucking Cartel." "Hey, some guy I know once told me that no one was going to hand me anything, and that there was risk involved." "Fuck you, Homes. This is different." "Is it, though? We''re going to be just as dead if we fuck up here. I''d say this is better, since the stakes are so much higher. Go big or go home." "You''re crazy, white-" he started and then broke off with a yell when the beam of the tactical light fell on Magnus. "What the fuck!" I''d already seen it, but I still had to clench to keep my food down. It was worse than gory horror movies because it was real. Not only that, I''d done it. I tried not to look at his shattered head. Hondo turned away. "That''s nasty. You couldn''t just shoot the motherfucker? We have to carry that shit back to the road." This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. "Let''s just get it over with," I said. "You grab his left arm and we''ll drag him back. He''s heavy." With a few muttered protests, Hondo grabbed the left arm and we dragged Magnus''s heavy corpse back toward the road. Bits of skull fell off, but I was happy to leave them where they fell. It wasn''t like there was any way we could clean up this particular crime scene. Without computers, could they match the Hip with DNA evidence? Was that a thing here? Getting Magnus out of the desert was one thing, but dragging him up to the road was tough. I was thankful Hondo was there, as there would have been no way I could have done it on my own. Even with his help, when we got to the top we both stopped and took a breather. "Move it. There is no time," Pargo yelled from near the Jeep. Him and Flattop were awkwardly shoving Byron''s body into the Jeep. Huck and Hubert''s corpses were already in there, lolling on the blood-stained seats. The guns were nowhere to be seen. "Put him in the driver''s seat. Vamos!" I had no idea what Pargo was trying to accomplish until we got a little closer and I smelled it. Gasoline. The odor was overpowering. The leather seats were soaked, and gasoline puddled on the floor boards. Hondo and I lifted Magnus off the road and stuffed him into the driver''s seat. It wasn''t easy, but we managed it. Pargo was standing nearby, looking impatient. Flattop leaned against the Bronco, his face pale. "Get away, I light it," Pargo said. Hondo and I backed away. Pargo closed all but the driver''s door, lit a road flare and tossed it underhand into Magnus''s lap from fifteen feet away. With an explosive whump and gout of flame the interior of the Jeep became an inferno. Pargo spared a few seconds to watch the inferno, then we all got into the Bronco and drove away. The Bronco was fuller than it had been when we left, with thirty kilograms of weed in the back as well as everything else that had been looted from the Hip and their Jeep. I pulled Magnus''s pistol out of my waistband and set it on the seat beside me as I relaxed. Flattop and I had taken the rear two seats while Hondo rode shotgun. "Gato would not approve, sobrino," Pargo said after we''d driven a few minutes. "Going into business with a Cartel is stupid." It wasn''t clear which of the Soldados he was talking to, but Hondo just grimaced and Flattop replied. "What the fuck choice do we have? Besides, Gato''s not here." Pargo looked into the rear view mirror, looking at Flattop''s face. He looked me over as well and frowned. "Bandage your face Mack, you are dripping on my seats. There is a first aid kit on the seat in front of you, Flattop." I brought my hand up to the cut on my right cheek. Now that the adrenaline was fading, I could feel it. The blood from my face had soaked my shirt and the tactical vest, but at some point it had stopped bleeding much. It throbbed and hurt, but really just felt weird. The kit on the back of the seat wasn''t a big one, but Flattop found a bandage in it that was large enough for my cut. "Look at me," Flattop instructed. "That''s nasty, Mack. Going to be a hell of a scar. You need to change this bandage and clean it up when we get back." He put the bandage on, not particularly gently. "Thanks," I said. He nodded, sagging back into his seat. "We got time to kill," Hondo said. "How about one of you geniuses back there tell me how we''re going to come up with $420k in thirty days so the Cartel doesn''t hang us from a bridge?" "Might be beheading instead. They like chainsaws," Pargo supplied. "That''s real helpful, OG," Flattop said. Pargo simply shrugged, like of course he''d been trying to help. "We sell the weed. What else would we do?" I said to Hondo. "Thirty kilos of weed? You and your boy can''t move that much in thirty days." That felt like a little bit of Karmic payback, as I remembered a similar conversation I''d had with Manny not that long ago. "Hey, this isn''t a Me and Manny problem. This is an everyone in this truck problem, now. You heard what Espada said, he thinks we''re an organization and he knows all of our names. If we fuck this up, it''s not just me he''s going to kill." "I don''t have time to sell fucking weed-" Hondo started to say, but Pargo rolled right over him. "Quiet, sobrino," he yelled. "The gringo is right. This is our problem and we must meet it together." "You back in, OG? You serious?" Flattop asked. "As you said¡ªwhat choice?" Pargo replied. "Hondo, it doesn''t matter how much me and Manny could sell because that''s the wrong approach. We''ve got to get out of retail sales. We need to find wholesale clients." "Thirty keys is a lot of weight, Mack," Flattop said. "You can''t just find people willing to buy that much on the street." "No shit. That''s why we need to find the Hip''s clients and sell to them." "Who you going to ask?" Hondo said. "We just killed all of them. We all got that Victorious title same as you, Mack. That means we wiped them out." "No, sobrino," Pargo said. "All officers and the leader, but not everyone. The gang is dead, but maybe there are some soldiers left." "Zeke," Flattop said. "Zeke," I agreed. "The guy you shot and put in the hospital. The guy who''s friends we just killed. That Zeke? You''re nuts if you think he''ll help us." "One way or another, he will help, sobrino," Pargo said. Pargo was really beginning to grow on me. I nodded in agreement. "Pargo''s right. We''ll make him an offer he can''t refuse." 2.02 - Cliqued Up "Where are we going to put all this weed, anyway? The shop?" I asked. "Fuck no," Hondo said. "I worry about the fucking roaches around the hood stealing my tools, much less thirty keys of weed." "Shop no good," Pargo said. "Need a stash house. But more important things come first." That confused me. "What''s more important than a place to stash this stuff?" "I don''t have the skills Gato has, OG. It''s not that important. We can do it after we find a place to stash the weed," Flattop protested. "No, sobrino. Even without the skills, it is important we all are bound together." "Fine, we''ll do it then," Flattop said. He was still gripping his wounded side and whatever it was they were talking about, he didn''t seem willing to spend a lot of effort fighting about it. "Seriously, what the hell are you guys talking about?" I asked. "Gotta clique up, white boy," Hondo supplied and Pargo just nodded. "We need to get you and Pargo into the LSS, formally. You''re pretty much in with us now, so I guess we''ll formalize it. You down with that?" Flattop asked. Despite the fact that I trusted the two Soldados as much as I did everyone that wasn''t Manny, I wasn''t about to just say yes. Me jumping feet first into new things here had gotten me into enough trouble. "I need details," I said. "What''s involved, what would be expected of me? Do I have to start following your orders? Do I have to pay taxes, any of that shit?" Hondo laughed and Flattop shook his head. "Nah, none of that," Flattop replied. "We''re not big enough for that kind of shit. No kicking up a percentage of your earnings. Not between the four of us anyway. Pargo and you will be officers. You think Manny is going to want in?" "I doubt it." "Hold on, cuz," Hondo said. "Pargo was Dad''s right hand. Maybe you should give up the top spot to him if he''s coming back." "You want it, OG? It''s yours." Pargo looked into the rear view mirror for a moment and met Flattop''s eyes. "You know better, sobrino. Gato chose you." "He chose me because you were out and Hondo couldn''t organize a blowjob in a brothel." "Fuck you," Hondo said, but there was no heat in it. "I don''t want it, sobrino. You lead, I will follow." "Fine," Flattop said. "I''m going to delegate the weed operation to you, Mack. The rest of us will help however we can, but the weed will be your show. We''ll pay Pete his percentage, and we''ll split the weed proceeds evenly after we pay the gang''s expenses. That work for everyone?" That worked for me. It''d be good to not have to worry about petty bullshit and have a team backing me. We''d proven to each other tonight we could do big things together. "Works for me," Hondo agreed and Pargo nodded, not taking his eyes off the road. "Induct Mack and I now," Pargo insisted. "Really, OG? You want to do it while we''re driving?" Flattop asked. "Yes, sobrino. It is important. Without the bond Mack and I are strangers. With it we are brothers." "What are you talking about, Pargo?" I asked. "When you and I swear, we will be bound by our blood oath to the Soldados," Pargo said. "Which doesn''t mean shit without the skills, OG. You know that." Pargo shrugged, apparently unwilling to argue the point further. "What skills?" "There are gang leader skills that will tell you when someone''s disloyal, or holding out or whatever. I don''t have any of them and I don''t even know what Job it was that granted them. Gato never said anything about it. Anyway, let''s do this. You got $500? It has to be cash you earned." "I guess," I said, and reached into the vest pocket where I''d stashed Magnus''s bloody roll. Five hundred dollar bills came off the top, crusted with blood. With that cash removed there was $1,350 left in Magnus''s old roll. I put it back in the vest pocket. "Anyone got a blade?" Flattop asked. "Wait, what?" I asked. "Blood oath, Homes," Hondo said, looking over his shoulder at me with a smile. Pargo held up a six inch folding knife and Flattop took it out of his right hand. "Yeah, blood''s required," Flattop said. "I''ll cut the palm of your right hand. You hold the cash and swear your oath of loyalty. The words don''t matter, it''s all about the intent." "No, words are important, too," Pargo objected. "Swear loyalty to your brothers and the Soldados." This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. Flattop nodded. "Give me your hand." With some trepidation I gave him my right hand. Without hesitating he drew the sharp blade across my palm, a cut neither deep or shallow. I hissed in pain as the blood welled up in the cut. "Hold the cash in your hand. Hurry up," Flattop instructed. At that moment I wished I''d used my own cash rather than the money soaked in Magnus''s blood for this particular thing. I placed the bills lightly into my right palm, and Flattop pushed my fist closed around the cash. "I am inducting you as an officer of the Lyle Street Soldados. Accept this position by swearing loyalty," Flattop said, looking intently into my eyes. I somehow knew that this wasn''t just a one sided exchange. Flattop was doing his part, maintaining the intent and I needed to do mine and not fuck this up. I clenched the money in my fist and tried to focus my intent on loyalty to the men in this truck and our organization. "I swear I will be loyal to you, my brothers, and the Lyle Street Soldados." The cash in my hand burst into cold flame, green and red colors mixed together. For a moment I felt a connection to Pargo, Flattop and Hondo. I could feel their presence around me, instead of just seeing them. The cool, collected aura of Flattop. Hondo''s amused and mercurial soul. Pargo''s cold and efficient self under a deep layer of paternal protectiveness. Almost as soon as I realized the sense was there, it was gone. Flattop recoiled a bit. "Damn." The cash burned longer than it had in the past, and when the last of the green and red flames had dispersed I opened my hand. All of the blood and the the cut itself were gone, replaced by a healed scar.
Joined Lyle Street Soldados as Officer
"Red flames? What the fuck was that?" Flattop asked. "The blood on the bills? Impurities burning away?" I suggested. I was flexing my hand and marveling at the magical healing that had just happened. Like the other bits of magic I''d seen in this world, it seemed like no big deal to my new brothers. Instead, they were more impressed by the color of the flames. "Nah, that''s not normal," Hondo said. "Not important right now, sobrino. My turn," Pargo said and extended his right hand into the space between the front seats. "You seriously want to do this while you''re still driving, OG?" Flattop asked. "We can''t pull over," Hondo said. "The highway patrol might stop to ask us why we''re stopped and oh, why have we got so many guns and so much weed in the back?" It was a good point, a convincing one. Still, it was crazy to watch. Flattop leaned into the front and cut open Pargo''s palm, almost directly on the scar that was already there. Pargo didn''t flinch or take his eyes off the road at any point. He filled his fist with cash, the blood dripping down onto the floor between the bucket seats. "Pargo, I''m inducting you as an officer of the Lyle Street Soldados. Accept this position by swearing your loyalty." "I swear loyalty to you, my brothers, and the Soldados," Pargo solemnly swore. The money in his fist burst into green flames and disappeared. Out of curiosity I IDed him.
"Pargo" , Lyle Street Soldados
"Now we still need a spot to store this weed until we can get a stash house or two with the proper security," Flattop said. I thought of Manny''s spot in his garden shed, and then it came to me. "We can store it at my place. I''ll need some help though."
Twenty minutes later we parked in front of the Orange House. Even though it was after four in the morning the house blazed with light. "Looks like somebody''s up," Flattop remarked. "He might have just forgot to turn off the lights," I said. "Stick to the plan. Let''s go," Pargo said and we all hopped out of the truck. Each of us took one of the enormous black duffels in the back of the Bronco. Pargo took that and the long, grey case that contained his rifle. He seemed unbothered by the weight. Pargo had thought ahead and brought a bag for every ten kilos of weed. The fourth was full of gun parts¡ªthe remains of the AK-105s minus the barrels. We''d also stuffed our extra mags and the tactical vests in that bag as well. There was no way we could leave any of this in the Bronco. I put the Desert Eagle I''d looted off Magnus in the bag and was wearing the belt despite the fact it was far too big to hold up my pants. I lead my brothers up the walk with my keys in hand. The goal was to get all our cargo inside without the neighbors noticing anything out of the ordinary. The front door was unlocked, and I shoved it open. My bag was too heavy for just my left hand, so I set it down just inside the front door and gripped my holstered Glock with my right hand. My head was full of terrible possibilities. Had the Hip found this place while I''d been taking refuge in Nirvana? Would I find Smokey and Gloria all chopped up in the basement? Instead of that, what I found in the living room was a lot more prosaic. The conversation pit was about half full of people blitzed out of their minds. The floor was covered in empty beer cans and bottles, and the fireplace was full of shattered glass. The house stank of spilt beer and weed, along with a tiny whiff of vinegar which I now associated with heroin. The party had obviously been raging earlier, but was now just embers of its former self. I''d bet Joel would get another complaint tomorrow. Fucking Smokey. Only a few of the people were aware enough to look up at us as we entered. The four of us must have been a sight. We were all dressed in black. Flattop had a bloody bandage on his side, and I had one on my face. When I''d asked the guys to help me with this, I''d expected a much simpler scenario. I had no idea what we were going to do. Pargo didn''t have that issue. He stepped forward into the living room and set the bag and case down at his feet. "All of you, get up and get out! Party''s over!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs. Some of the party-goers stirred, but even Pargo''s bellow wasn''t enough to move all of them. "Pargo, we''ll stash the bags and come back to help," I said. He nodded. Pargo continued to yell and started kicking people that were ignoring him because they were either passed out or too drunk/high. There were a few people passed out on the stairs leading up to my room, but they were easy enough to move. When they saw the three of us they were eager to get out of our way. "Get the fuck out of here, party''s over!" Hondo yelled as they squeezed past us. I was happy to find that the padlock on my door was still in place. We piled the bags into the room, and Hondo went downstairs to take Pargo''s. When everything was in the room I padlocked it again. I''d trust the solid door and lock with our score while we cleared the house. With our loot secure, Flattop, Hondo and I helped Pargo move people out of the house. A few young guys got aggressive but never long enough for it to turn violent. They sobered up enough to realize that fucking with four men walking in shadow would be a bad idea. At least one young woman was so drunk that she had to be carried out, but since she was with her girlfriends I figured she''d be okay. Not my problem in any case. After about ten minutes, the ground floor was clear. We''d found the last one passed out in the bathroom, a pool of vomit on the floor beside the toilet. He''d barely been able to walk, but Hondo and I had hoisted him off the floor and walked him out the front door. Smokey hadn''t made an appearance despite all the noise we''d been making. We hadn''t gone downstairs at all, and there was no doubt more people were down there in the lounge. "Basement is next. Smokey will be down there," I said. Flattop wasn''t looking good. The exertion of rousting people must have hurt. He did still have a bullet hole in his side, after all. Pargo saw it too. "Sobrino, stay up here and watch the doors. We will go downstairs and finish." Flattop nodded, holding his injured side and leaning against the kitchen island. "I''ll make sure the ones you send up actually leave." With that, the three of us went downstairs into the basement. It was time to get Smokey the hell out of my house. 2.03 - Smokey The basement was a repeat of the main floor, with fewer people. They were sprawled out everywhere on the floor and couches. One couple in the far corner were even mostly naked. When Pargo loomed over them and ordered them out, they dressed and fled. "This place is balling, Mack," Hondo said. "Well, it was once." "It reminds me of the seventies. Too much drugs, alcohol and women," Pargo said. "That a bad thing, OG?" Hondo asked with a laugh. "It is when you can''t remember very much of it, sobrino. Let''s get this done. Your house is disgusting, Mack." "Yeah, I know." We''d cleared out the entire basement except for Smokey''s room. His door was firmly closed. I pounded on it. "Smokey, it''s Mack. Open up and let''s talk." There was no answer. After a few repetitions I thought he must just be passed out like the last time and reached out to open the door. Pargo grabbed my hand to stop me. "No," he whispered. "Junkies are not predictable. We must do this cautiously." Pargo unholstered a small, silver automatic from his right ankle and moved to the side of the doorway. Hondo and I drew as well, me with my Glock and him with his chunky revolver. We took the other side of the door. When Pargo tried the knob it wouldn''t turn. He turned to us and whispered. "I will kick it in, cover me." "Hold on, Pargo," I said. "This is all a bit much, isn''t it? We''re not cops. He''s probably just passed out in there." "Maybe he is. Or he heard us clearing out the party and he''s waiting on the other side with a gun. I told you, they are unpredictable." "If you kick open the door and he''s got a gun he''s going to shoot you, Homes," Hondo pointed out. "No, you two will cover me. If he''s there you shoot him first." I had a lot of respect for Pargo, but it was clear he wasn''t an expert in everything. Hondo was right, this was a dumb plan. I had a little trouble believing that Smokey was on the other side of that door with a gun, but if he was it''d be really bad. Pargo would be silhouetted in the doorway and Smokey would be hidden in the blackness of his bedroom. He could easily pop Pargo. "He''s right, Pargo. We need another plan." Pargo seemed annoyed that we''d shot down his idea, but backed off. "What then? I didn''t bring any tools with me. No explosives, either." "Damn, OG. Don''t blow up Mack''s new house," Hondo whispered. "I told you I didn''t bring any!" he hissed back in irritation. The options raced through my mind. I''d never done this kind of thing in anything but a table top game. It was a common problem in dungeons. Did you enter quiet, or loud? Did you scout the room first, or try for a surprise round? Since the door was closed and locked it seemed the element of surprise was gone. As far as I knew there were no windows in his room, and no other entrances. It was down to this door or something radical like going through a wall or the ceiling. "Let me take a look," I said, and laid down on the floor at the base of the door. The shag carpet was incredibly annoying. Thick, black and very dirty. Because of it, however, the gap under the door was very large. Once I''d pushed the carpet dreadlocks out of the way I could see into the room. It was much the same as I had seen it last. Dim light emanating from under the round bed, stereo on the wall shelving lit up and faintly playing music. I couldn''t see anyone in the room. The bed was empty. The wall to the right had the bathroom, but I couldn''t see into it from where I was. "I don''t see anyone," I whispered. "Maybe he''s out and just locked up his room?" Hondo said. It seemed pretty unlikely. What kind of host leaves his house full of passed out party-goers? Maybe a junkie did, if he needed to get more heroin. I made the call. "Alright, Pargo, kick it in. We''ll cover you." The older man nodded with satisfaction. Hondo and I took up shooting positions to either side of Pargo as he squared up with the door, aiming our pistols. With a bang the door flew open, flimsy wood exploding into splinters as Pargo''s powerful kick landed with all of his weight behind it just beside the door handle. The shag kept the door from rebounding, exposing the empty room to our guns. A heartbeat later, the shooting still hadn''t started and I exhaled. Pargo reached in, finding the light switches just inside the door and flipping everything on. The black hole of a room suddenly became visible, and I could see why Smokey preferred it dark. Black showed stains and dirt pretty well, and the room was filthy. The walls were actually black velvet, but I had no desire to pet them. We made our way in, carefully checking the corners. The room, the walk-in closet and the bathroom¡ªall empty. Smokey wasn''t here. "The junkie is gone. I will change the locks and when he returns you can help him to leave, Mack." "Thanks, Pargo," I said as I picked my way through the room. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. The mysterious piles I''d seen on the floor the first time I''d been in the room were dirty laundry. More heroin detritus was on the bedside tables, a mix of empty plastic packets, syringes and other paraphernalia. "Fucking junkies," Pargo said with contempt as he looked it over. The stereo installed in the wall was a real museum piece. Every component was silver, with big inviting dials and gauges. Backlit, analog VU meters bounced as the music softly played. More prog-rock. I hadn''t liked it back in my world and it wasn''t doing it for me in this world, either. I loved the stereo, though. The niche it had been installed in had obviously been built just for it. The speakers were hidden in the walls and ceiling. I was trying to work out how difficult it would be to uninstall it and move it upstairs when I noticed something. The amplifier was off center on its shelf, pushed to the left more than it should be. That annoyed some part of me and I had just started to push it back when a glint in the back of the shelf caught my eye. The green lights of the amplifier were spilling out of the cooling vents on the back and lighting something up. Something made of metal and plastic. Something out of place. A keypad. Without thinking I reached out to touch it and then stopped myself. I stepped back. "Guys, come check this out." The two men looked up at me and walked over. When they were close enough I pointed to the keypad. Pargo frowned and Hondo let out a low whistle. I still had no idea what I was looking at, but Pargo seemed to have some idea. He pushed me out of the way and reached to the back of the amplifier, pulling connections free by the handful. "Whoa," I started to protest, but Hondo drew me back. "Let the man work," he said. Pargo worked fast, and the amplifier was disconnected and set aside in less than a minute. The rest of the components followed and were set on the stack. Wires disappeared into the back of the shelf, and the keypad was fully exposed. After a thorough inspection of each shelf and the wall it was mounted in he stepped back to where we were standing. "No firing slots that I have found," he reported in a low voice. "Firing slots? What are you talking about?" I whispered back. "Behind the shelf is a hidden, secure room. Some call it a panic room. I think we know where the junkie is, now," Pargo replied, still keeping his voice down. A panic room. I''d never seen one in real life, but in plenty of movies. The armored closet you hid in when bad guys broke into your house. The ones in movies always had a phone and screens to monitor security cameras inside the house. The phone wasn''t an issue, but cameras could be a problem. "Can he see the rest of the house?" I asked. "No cameras, Homes," Hondo said. That was right, if there had been cameras they would be big and bulky. Obvious. Smokey, if he was in there, was blind. Maybe not deaf, though. It was possible he could hear us out here. Pargo inspected the shelf and wall again. Hondo and I watched. Even having been assured there was a room behind the shelf, I couldn''t see it. How was he so sure? If it was a door, how would it open? The shelves were inset into a notch above the ground. Would the whole wall swing out? I didn''t know what Pargo was looking for, but after a minute he stopped and pointed up at where the black velvet wall joined the black ceiling just above the shelves. It took a moment to see it, but then I did. The glint of reflected light on a tiny bit of glass. A lens. Not a camera, but something else. "Periscopio," Pargo muttered. If Smokey was in there, then he could see and maybe hear us. He would have seen us kick down his door and come in with guns drawn. The chances of him coming out if we asked him nicely seemed just about nil. I was suddenly glad he''d let the telephone get disconnected. If he hadn''t, I was certain the cops would have already been here. "I can go get some tools from the shop. My cutting torch, one of my big angle grinders. We''ll cut the door open and drag his ass out," Hondo said, no longer bothering to lower his voice. I smiled, appreciating Hondo''s strategy. We wouldn''t have to open the door ourselves if we could convince Smokey to open it for us. That was assuming he was even in there, of course. If he was, he was staying quiet. Still, I didn''t want to destroy the panic room trying to pry Smokey out of it. "That''s an option. Pargo, you seem to know your way around this stuff. Can you open the door? Hack the keypad or something?" I asked for our theoretical audience. "Hack? What is hack?" Right, no computers, and the word hack had never entered the mainstream. Too bad, since it was originally about opening locks and not computers. "I mean can you compromise it somehow, get it to open by itself?" He thought about it. "Maybe yes. I will need my tools and some time. I will retrieve them." Pargo moved to leave, but I had a moment of inspiration and stopped him. I pulled him close and whispered in his ear. He nodded his understanding. "I''ve got a better idea," I said out loud, for Smokey''s benefit. "We don''t need to deal with this now. Can you disable the door from out here? Make it so that it won''t open any more, even from the inside?" "Yes, I can disable the locking mechanism," he replied at full volume. "Great, do that. We''ll come back in a week and open it. Our problem will have solved itself in that time. There''s no way he''s got much food or water in there, and there''s no phone service." "Or heroin!" Hondo said with a laugh. "Okay," Pargo said and produced a leatherman from his belt. He unfolded it and approached the keypad. He''d made a couple of scraping noises with his tool when Smokey finally broke his silence. "Wait! Stop! We''ll come out," Smokey said, his voice coming out of a hidden speaker above the hidden door. Hondo grinned and slapped me on the shoulder. Pargo put his tool away and drew his pistol again. I followed suit with the Glock. "Alright, Smokey," I said. "We''re not going to hurt you, we just need you to get out of there. Open the door and toss any guns you have out." Pargo stepped to the side of the shelving, holding his gun low. Hondo and I followed suit. With a loud click, the entire wall surrounding the stereo shifted and hinged open slightly. Bright light spilled out. With a thump a black, pistol-grip shotgun hit the floor. Pargo snatched it up, ejected the chambered shell and tossed it farther away. "Is that it?" I yelled. "That''s all your guns? We don''t want to shoot you, but if you come out and there''s a gun in your hands we will, Smokey." "That''s it, I promise!" he yelled back. "Okay, then come out slowly with your hands in plain sight." Hondo and I were pointing our guns at the slice of doorway as it widened, exposing the safe room behind it and the disheveled forms of Smokey and Gloria. Smokey had his hands in the air, a terrified look on his face. Gloria''s hands were behind her head, tangled in her hair. Tears had left mascara tracks on her face and her eyes were red. She was wearing the same skimpy outfit as that time in the kitchen, but she''d lost every ounce of appeal she''d once had. Pargo grabbed Smokey''s elbow and pushed him out of the doorway, toward Hondo and I. He stumbled, as he looked down the barrels of our guns, his eyes wide. Gloria took the opportunity to make her move as Pargo was distracted. Her right hand dropped from her hair, and with a mechanical click a blade appeared out of her clenched fist as if from nowhere. She lunged for Pargo''s exposed stomach in what seemed like slow motion. That same slowness prevented me from bringing my pistol to bear in time. The Glock moved as if immersed in molasses. I shouldn''t have worried. Pargo batted the knife aside with his right hand¡ªstill holding his pistol¡ªand stepped around the lunge. His left hand cupped the back of her head and he effortlessly pivoted to smash her face first into the wall beside the open vault door. There was a crunch as small bones broke and Gloria crumpled to the ground, unconscious. "Puta," he pronounced as he pulled the knife out of her limp hand and stepped back to glare at Smokey. Smokey squeaked in distress, but didn''t move to assist his woman. No one did. "She''ll be fine," I said. "Now, it''s time to pack your shit, Smokey. You''re moving out today. Right now, in fact." 2.04 - The Big Day "What do you mean? This is my house," Smokey protested. Smokey stood in the center of the triangle formed by Pargo, Hondo and I. He looked nervous, like a hunted animal flushed from hiding by predators. I almost had sympathy for him. Almost. "No, it was Kutta''s house," I corrected. "You''re just the freeloader who''s been squatting here, not paying the rent or the bills. That''s over now." "Hey now, I may have been a little late paying the bills but I''ll get around to it." "Sure you will. Is that what you used that $450 I gave you for, the bills? Which ones did you pay?" "I had other expenses," he said weakly. "Yes, I know. Heroin." He had no response to that and just looked at the floor and swayed slightly on his feet. "Anyway, like I said¡ªpack your shit. You''re leaving. This is no longer your house. You are evicted as of right fucking now." "I can''t just pack. What about my furniture? I''d need to get a moving van." I looked around the room. The lie was obvious. "Bullshit. Everything here came with the house. There''s nothing in this house that is yours, is there?" "That doesn''t matter anyway," he said and straightened as he found a bit of courage somewhere. "You can''t evict me. This isn''t your house, you''re not even on the lease. The landlord has to get the sheriff to evict me if he wants me gone. What you''re doing is illegal. I could call the police." Pargo growled, and Smokey started at the unexpected sound. I waved the OG down. This was my show. "You know what''s interesting to me about this room, Smokey? It''s the walls. Who the hell puts velvet on the walls? Black velvet. That and the shag carpet. It''s like being inside a fur lined bag." Smokey just looked confused at my non-sequitur but Pargo spoke up. "The 70s, hombre." "Anyway, I bet it''s a great sound insulator. I could probably fire my gun in here and no one out on the street would hear a thing." "No doubt. We could just close that door to make sure," Hondo said, and walked toward the door. "Hold on! Let''s not get crazy, guys," Smokey protested. "Crazy? We''re just going to close the door," I said with a smile and shifted the Glock in my hand. "I''ll go! I''m sorry, I''ll pack my stuff and go. Can I make sure Gloria is okay first?" With the last of his resistance crushed, things went relatively smoothly. Gloria''s nose was broken and had bled a fair bit on the black shag. She woke up crying and never stopped. I felt a bit bad for her, but she had tried to gut Pargo so not that bad. Smokey really didn''t have a lot of possessions. A few things in the bathroom, and a lot of dirty clothes. It all went into a ratty old suitcase and a collection of black garbage bags. "Where will I go?" he asked faintly after everything was packed. "You said you''ve got a trust fund and rich parents. Go home," I said. He looked pained. "It''s not that simple." "No one wants a junkie for a son," Hondo said, cutting to the heart of it. "I''m not a fucking junkie," Smokey protested. "Whatever. Not our problem. Pargo, can you give him a lift where he needs to go?" I asked. Pargo nodded. "Yes, and I will return with the tools and supplies needed to change the locks." At one point I went upstairs to check on Flattop. He had dozed off in the conversation pit. After making sure he wasn''t quietly bleeding out and the house was secure and otherwise empty, I went back to supervising Smokey. When Smokey was done gathering his junk we herded the two upstairs and out the front door to the waiting Bronco. Pargo frisked them both before they got in the truck. Gloria had already proven to be a little stabby and I was sure he didn''t want a repeat performance in the front seat of his truck. "Get in, let''s go," he said after he was done. The two meekly climbed into the truck and a minute later they drove off. The house was mine.
Hondo and I checked out the panic room. It wasn''t large, just about ten feet deep and five feet wide. The door behind the shelf was four inches of steel with multiple bolts an inch or so across. It would have been incredibly painful to force our way in here. At the far end was a chair, a desk built into the wall and a bank of six small CRT monitors set into the wall. None of them showed anything when you turned them on. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. "Why the monitors if there are no cameras??" I wondered aloud. "Maybe Smokey sold them?" Hondo speculated. That seemed plausible. One thing was clear though. "This will be a perfect place to stash the weed," I said. "Yeah," Hondo agreed. "Pargo can probably figure out how to change the combination when he gets back. We''ll still need a stash house though. You don''t want to keep it here for long." I checked the time.
San Tadeo, California, 05:45 Thursday March 12, 2020 Safe House: The Orange House Walking in the Shadows
"Shit, it''s Thursday," I said. I pulled up my debts screen.
Loans - "Mack"
None
Debts - "Mack"
Creditor: "Brass Lee" Amount: $6,000 Vig: 3.0%/7 days
Other responsible debtor(s): "Manny"
Next payment of $180 due Today.
"Yeah, I''ve got to pay Brass Lee today. The vig if nothing else. Can I direct one of his guys to the shop?" I asked. Hondo shrugged. "I guess." I really didn''t know how I was going to do that. I could find my way back to the shoe shop, if I had a car, but that was just one of Brass Lee''s shops. I''d have to get to a phone and try to track him down and let him know where we were set up. Hondo and I went back upstairs while we waited for Pargo to return. "This place is nasty, Mack." "Yeah, I know. It''s going to be a lot of work to clean it up. Once I''m done though, it''ll be great." "There are some ladies round the way could help you out, if you paid em." That sounded like a good plan to me. "Thanks." With a bit of work we cleared a couple more spots in the conversation pit near Flattop to relax and wait for Pargo''s return. Once we were settled I spoke. "I''m curious about something, Hondo." "What?" "I''m new to this gangster thing-" I started. Hondo interrupted me with a belly laugh. "No shit!" "Come on, let me finish. Anyway, like I said I''m new. The one thing I am surprised at is just how straight everyone is. Like you guys trusting me with thirty kilograms of weed. How do you know I''m not going to just load it in my car and take off? That''s what gangsters in the movies do, they screw each other over." He shook his head. "I don''t know what gangster movies you been watching." "What do you mean?" "Think about it. Let''s say you take this weed as soon as the rest of us leave. You toss it in the back of that Comet and leave town. What happens? Where you going to go?" "I don''t know. Somewhere else." He snorted derisively. "It doesn''t matter where you''d go. When the Cartel marked you as an enemy, you''d be as good as dead. Your glasses ain''t gonna block that shit. The first banger with a Cartel association sees that enemy tag on you pops you. You won''t even see it coming." "Okay, granted. But that''s with the Cartel involved. What about smaller scale stuff?" "What, you mean like Smokey taking your rent money and spending it on drugs?" "Yeah, like that." "Same deal. There''s no real anonymity in our world. You can hide your name, but not your enemies. If Smokey had really fucked you over, I mean really, then Flattop could tag him as an enemy of the LSS. Then any of our allies would see that mark on him when he was in the shadows. The Hip could have done that to you and Manny, but nobody liked those fuckers." I was starting to get it. There was a pronounced lack of anonymity on both sides of the mirror. You might be able to screw someone over, but their friends and allies could see it when you had. If you were going to make enemies you''d better make damn sure you could win, decisively.
It was another hour before Pargo returned. He''d dropped off Smokey and Gloria without incident at a big house in Beverly Hills. It seemed Smokey hadn''t been lying about his rich family. They''d opened the door and let him in, anyway. I''d taken the opportunity to change out of my dirty, bloody clothing into a new outfit from Kutta''s closet. I kept Magnus''s belt, though. Just looking at the skull made me smile. I left the chain Manny had given me on my first day in my closet. With the belt buckle I no longer needed it for a shadow focus. "I will change the combination on the safe room door first, so that we have a secure place for the product." That didn''t take him long. While he was doing that, Pargo and I humped the bags into the basement and set them down in front of the panic room. I opened up the bag with the guns, curious, and looked through it. The Hip''s pistols were in there, and a pump shotgun that must have been in the Jeep. Our AKs were all disassembled, but something was missing. "Hey, where are the barrels?" I asked. Pargo looked up from his work. "In their truck, chico." I hadn''t realized why he had immediately disassembled the rifles until right then. If we had a bag of AK parts that was one thing. If we had the barrels as well, then that meant we had three murder weapons. If they were in the truck with the Hip''s charred corpses, they couldn''t put the bodies on us directly. "Wait a minute, does that mean the barrel of your sniper rifle is in the Jeep, too?" Pargo looked embarrassed. "No. Is very expensive to source a new barrel. It is buried in the desert. In a month or two I will recover it and have an armorer restore it." I didn''t understand what he meant, but from context I assumed there was a way to change it enough so that it would no longer be a ballistics match. Once Pargo was done changing the combination, we tested opening and closing the door with Pargo inside. Everything worked. Whoever the original owner of this house had been, he''d built the safe room well. It was like a hidden bank vault. One that we filled with weed. I put my Sunshrouds into their fancy wooden box and left them in the room as well. I wouldn''t need them anymore, for now. Once that was done, Pargo spent a little time changing the rest of the locks in the house. He was hiding his job, but whatever it was he made it look easy. When he was done he handed me a ring of keys. "You guys should have keys, too. You might need to get in here when I''m not around." We split up the keys, a set for each of us. Unlike with Smokey I didn''t have any qualms about these men having access to my living space. Even with locked doors it wasn''t a fortress, but it felt good to have a space of my own. "I must go. I have business," Pargo announced. "You''re our ride, OG. We''ll come with," Hondo said. The sun had come up, and I was feeling the effects of a long day and night. Despite our success, I couldn''t just crawl into bed and sleep the day away. I had to pay Brass Lee, and get a start on our new, bigger drug business. "Let''s go, then. I need a coffee, hopefully the Ball and Bean is open," I said. Flattop woke up with some difficulty, but staggered upright with a bit of prodding. We took the guns, locked the house and drove off. 2.05 - Paying the Vig The Ball and Bean wasn''t open. A small group of old men milled around on the sidewalk outside. We''d dropped off Flattop a couple blocks earlier in front of a non-descript house and he''d disappeared inside with some vague promises of seeing us later after he slept some more. Pargo left us at the front gate of Hondo''s shop and drove off without a word. He was in a hurry. "Damn it, I need that coffee," I said. Hondo shrugged. "I''m just going to have a nap on the couch. Don''t need no coffee when you''re sleeping." That sounded good, but there was no sleep for me for at least a while. He slid the gate wide open after unlocking the giant padlock securing it and gestured that I should come inside. The Comet I''d stolen¡ªmy Comet¡ªstill squatted just inside the yard. "Right, I gotta scrub this for you, too," Hondo said. "You sure you want this thing? It''s like a Mustang for people that couldn''t afford one. Not fast, not beautiful and doesn''t even handle well." I felt a bit offended, for some reason. Sure, it was just a car and not a particularly nice one. It was my car though. The first one I could ever conceivably call my own. I was going to keep it. Maybe one day it would have a place of honor in my massive garage full of exotics with a plaque: "First Car I Ever Stole." "I''ll keep it," I replied simply. "Maybe you can make sure it''s in decent shape mechanically, too?" "Sure thing, Homes. These cars are basically tanks, though. It''s real hard to kill them." That was good to hear. It probably sucked pretty hard when your getaway car broke down. Not that I planned to need one anytime soon. Hondo unlocked the shop and slid the big doors open. The Jaguar was still there under its tarp, but the Volkswagen had disappeared. The LSS had made use of every part of the kill. My stomach was still growling in protest at the lack of food and coffee, but with the cafe closed it''d have to wait. I''d try to be productive. "Can I use your phone?" I asked. "Mi casa, su casa, Homes," Hondo said and disappeared into the shop. "Thanks, man." I needed to get a message to Brass Lee. I doubted the Brass Dragon Tong was listed in the phone book. The one thing I didn''t want was some kind of late fee, or Lee sending the turtle brothers by to break my legs or whatever. It was too late to call Manny. He''d be gone to school already. I''d have to try to contact Lee without his help for now. I picked up the phone and dialed 411. A bored sounding lady answered. "What name?" "Sammy''s Super Shoes" I replied. "What city?" "Glendora, California." There was a pause, and I suddenly wondered what was happening. Without a computer, how was she finding the number? Did she have a phone book in front of her? Was she an expert in phone book usage? Or was this some kind of skill. Did she have the "Directory Assistant" job? I didn''t have a chance to ask before she came back. "The number is 626 963 2710." "Shit, hold on," I said as I looked around for something to write it down. "On the back of door!" Hondo yelled. A clipboard with some paper clipped to it and a pen on a string. Perfect. The lady wearily repeated the number and this time I wrote it down, thanked her and hung up. No wonder in my old world software did that job. It had to be totally mind-numbing. Hondo started up the Comet and drove it past me into the shop, slowly easing it onto the hydraulic lift. When it was in position he killed the engine and stepped out. The sweet smell of gasoline wafted up and then drifted away. "Gas in the exhaust. She''s running too rich," Hondo muttered and reached inside the car to pop the Comet''s hood. As interested as I was, I turned my attention back to the phone and dialed Sammy''s. After a couple of rings, a woman answered. "Sammy''s Super Shoes, where the deals are always super. How can I help you?" I couldn''t tell if it was the same woman I''d met, but there was a definite Chinese accent. "Hi, I need to get in touch with Lee. I''ve got some money for him." There was a definite pause. "I''m sorry, sir. There''s no one named Lee here. Maybe you have the wrong number?" "I don''t. Brass Lee. My name is Mack, and I need to pay him today." "Again, I''m sorry, sir. There''s no one here by that name. Is that all I can help you with today?" This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. I sensed a hangup was imminent, so I spoke quickly. "Hold on. Let me give you my number. If you happen to see Lee, Leo or Raph you pass it on." Another pause. "What''s the number, sir?" Shit, what was the number? I put the phone to my chest to mute the microphone and shouted. "Hondo, what''s the number here?" "On the phone," he yelled back, hidden by the long, open hood of the Comet. Sure enough, there it was. Printed on a little label in a clear plastic recess was a phone number with area code. I read it to her digit by digit. "Have a good day, sir," she said, and hung up. I could only hope that would do it. Short of going to see Manny at school I had no other way I could think of to get Brass Lee''s contact information. Maybe Big El could hook me up, but I already owed him. Hondo was elbows-deep in the engine of my Comet, muttering to himself. I hovered nearby watching as I waited for the phone to ring. "How does it look?" I asked. He started as I broke his flow. "Oh it''s fine. A little unloved, but nothing major. A bit of oil leakage, a bit of coolant leakage. Air filter is dirty, oil filter is dirty. I''ll have her running good in an hour or two. She''s never going to be fast, though." He continued to work and I tried not to disturb him. Ten minutes later the Ball and Bean still hadn''t opened, but the phone rang. I picked it up. "Hello," I said. "Is this Mack?" a familiar voice asked. "Yeah. Leo?" "You got it. Where are you? I need to come by and collect the vig. I was expecting Manny to call me last night, but he didn''t. Everything alright over there?" "Things are good," I said. I was distracted for a bit when I saw Guillem walk up to the front door of the Ball and Bean and begin to open up. "Come on, Mack," Leo prompted as I trailed off. "Don''t waste my time. I''ve got other shit to do today. Where are you?" "Yeah, sorry. You know Lyle Street in Compton?" He didn''t, but I gave him the address and he agreed to meet me at the Ball and Bean in an hour. I hung up the phone and as soon as Guillem had finished setting up his tables I crossed the street and claimed one. Hondo begged off, saying he''d come by for something later once he was ready. Guillem nodded at me and without taking my order served me coffee and some food five minutes later. I was a little surprised when I saw that I was the first one he served. Did he somehow know I''d joined the Soldados? I drank my coffee and ate my tortilla in quiet solitude. Through the open gate and doors I could see Hondo working on my new car. I had idle thoughts of getting it painted properly and souping it up. Maybe it''d never be as fast as the Mercedes, but I was sure it could be a lot faster than it was now. Did I need a fast car? No, of course not. Still, it had some appeal. Maybe after we''d sold some of this weed and the sword hanging over our head¡ªthe Cartel¡ªwas feeling a bit less imminent. After a few days wearing sunglasses, it felt odd to be out in the sunshine without them. I felt a little exposed, but not afraid. If there were any snitches nearby trying to sell me out, they wouldn''t find anyone to answer on the Hip side. My mind drifted and I''d almost fallen asleep in the sun when something woke me up. A strange sensation, it made the hairs on my neck stand up. I looked up to see Leo standing ten feet away, looking me over with an odd expression. Had I felt him IDing me? "Mack, I can see things have changed since we last met." My brain was still a bit foggy and I had no idea what he was talking about. How did I look different? I was wearing the same low-key clothes I normally did. The bandage on my face, maybe? In any case, I stood up and extended my right hand. "Hey, Leo." He shook it firmly, his expression a bit amused. "Victorious, huh? We''re not usually so friendly with our debtors, but I guess-" he started to say and then stopped as he looked at my waist. "Holy shit, I know that belt buckle." The silver skull was glinting in the sun, the red eyes shining. I just smiled back. "Fuck me. You took out the Hip," he said in a low voice. I hadn''t intended to advertise that, but it would be obvious to anyone that saw my new title and had met Magnus. I also couldn''t help but feel a little smug about it. Magnus was a psycho and I was glad he was dead. In response to Leo, I just nodded. "You want a coffee? It''s good here." "Alright," Leo said, and sat down heavily in the chair opposite me. We didn''t have a chance to talk more before Guillem was there, standing beside our little table. He glared down at Leo, his posture tense. "It''s cool, Guillem," I assured him. Leo didn''t seem to notice the tension, only glancing briefly at Guillem. "Coffee with milk, please." I marveled at Leo''s lack of situational awareness. Guillem was definitely territorial about his coffee shop, and if I hadn''t spoken up I was fairly sure Leo would have been on the receiving end of a beat down. Instead, Guillem nodded and left without a word. Leo leaned back in his chair, scratching his hairless chin. "Listen, Mack," Leo started, the chair creaking as he leaned forward. "This complicates things a bit. I''m just a soldier, but I know Lee''s going to need to talk to you and Manny once I tell him what I''ve seen just now." "What do you mean, complicates things?" "You''re not just some dumbass that owes us six large anymore, are you? You''re clicked up, and you wiped out the Hip." "What''s that got to do with Lee?" I asked. "Not my place to say. Just remember that not everything is simple in this life. You make a big move like you did, it affects a lot of other people. A lot of other groups of people, you get me?" I did. We''d taken thirty kilograms of weed out of the supply chain. At the very least we might piss off the people Magnus would normally be selling it to when their supply never appeared. There might be other fallout too, but I had to take things as they came. Worrying about stuff I couldn''t anticipate wouldn''t help anything. "Yeah, I get it. Did Lee get his weed from the Hip?" Leo smirked and opened his mouth to say something when Guillem reappeared and set a coffee in front of him, with a bit more noise than he usually made. The bulky gangster glanced up absently. "Thanks." Guillem stalked off again, talking to the old men at the other tables. I could see he was keeping an eye on our conversation. I focused my attention back on Leo, who was sipping his coffee. "You''re right, this is pretty good stuff. Anyway, I can''t say much. It''s my nuts if I tell you something I shouldn''t have. You''ll have to talk to Lee." "Your nuts? I thought they chopped off your pinky if you fucked up?" I said with a smile. Leo laughed, hard. "That''s the Yakuza, you fucking racist." I laughed along with him. "My bad!" "Anyway, I can''t stick around. You got the vig for me?" I handed him a small bundle of cash I had ready. $180 in bills that weren''t soaked in Magnus''s blood. Leo pocketed the bundle without looking at it. Either he trusted me or he had Fast Count. "Great. Can we call you at the number you gave me to set up a meet with Lee in the next few days?" I nodded. It wasn''t like I had another phone number to give him, so the shop would have to do for now. "Then I''ll see you again soon. Thanks for the coffee." Leo stood up, and I stood with him. We shook hands and he left, walking down the street to an older, black BMW. He climbed in, started it up and was gone a minute later. I sat back down, relaxing in the morning sunshine and sipped the dregs of my cold coffee. I hadn''t slept and despite the caffeine I could easily doze off in my chair. There was no way that was going to happen, though. With an effort of will I stood up. It was time to get back to work. 2.06 - Claiming the Comet Even with the coffee, I was feeling the long night. I wanted nothing more but to go home and climb into that big bed and sleep for the rest of the day. That''s what Flattop was doing, and I envied him a bit. Unfortunately I didn''t have the excuse of a bullet hole in my side. The clock was ticking¡ªif we didn''t sell enough weed to buy our next shipment in thirty days, we were all dead. From what I knew from movies and TV, they might do our families as well. I crossed the street back to the LSS shop. The hood of the Comet was down and I could hear Hondo deep in the shadows of the garage. I laid my right hand fondly on the white-painted steel of the car''s roof. It was warm from the early-morning sunshine and the faint whiff of gasoline filled the air. I smiled. Hondo emerged from the shadows of the garage, wiping his hands on a rag. "I remember my first car, too, Homes. It was a piece of shit just like this one." "Come on," I protested. "Is it really that bad?" "Nah, I''m fucking with you. She''s running good now. These cars are tanks. I''ve given her a new VIN and re-keyed the locks and ignition cylinder. Miguel is on his way over to do the registration." "Awesome. What do I owe you, man?" He waved a dismissive hand. "We family now, Homes." Unexpectedly, I was choked up for a second. It took a second to get my voice back. "Thanks, Hondo. Where are the keys?" "In the ignition. Get in and start her up." I did as he asked, opening the long, white door and plopping down in the red-pleather bucket seat. Hondo had replaced the ignition I''d drilled out, and the key turned smoothly. The Comet''s starter turned over and the 302 cubic inch V8 came right to life. The radio came on and the engine purred happily. I couldn''t help but smile at Hondo as he stood nearby. "Thanks, man. Sounds great." "Like I said, she''s running good now. Take care of her and she''ll run forever." Hondo looked up at the gate. "Hey, Miguel''s here." I glanced back and saw the older man walk primly into the yard. I turned off the Comet and got out, pocketing the keys. Miguel walked up to where Hondo and I were standing. He took us both in, and chose to address me. "Is this the vehicle that needs to be registered?" "Yes." "I''ll need a set of plates and my fee," he responded. I looked at Hondo, who nodded and hurried into the garage. I fished my roll out of my front pocket and peeled off $300. Miguel took it without comment, again pocketing his $100 fee. Hondo returned with the plates and handed them to Miguel. I idly wondered why we couldn''t just give the Registrar the plates that had been on the Comet when I''d stolen it, but I guessed there was probably some leftover magic in "active" plates that prevented them from being reused. Or maybe it would just be in poor taste to give this legit guy the plates from the car he was helping us steal. Hard to say. Miguel looked me over with the plates in one hand and the cash in the other. Flames consumed the money and the letters on the plate shifted into a new configuration, the magic of the registration making the plates new again. When the letters stopped moving, he handed me the plates. "There you are. Will there be anything else?" Miguel asked. "No, that''s it. Thanks, Miguel," I said. Miguel nodded to me and left without even glancing in Hondo''s direction. Once he''d left the yard I turned to Hondo, who had a bemused expression. "That guy really doesn''t like you." "Dad fucked Miguel''s wife, just before he went in. It''s a whole thing." This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. I snorted. "Gato sounds like quite a character." "He''s a great man. He was real good for this hood when he was running the Soldados. Anyway, you''ll meet him. We''re going to have to bring you to see him." "What, like go to prison?" "Yeah, Homes. Cause that''s where he is. In prison," Hondo said, raising an eyebrow and looking at me like I was slow. "Sorry, I''ve never been to a prison. I''ve only seen them on TV." "It''s fine. We''ll drive up there, grease the right guard and get some private time with him so he can check you out. Flattop''s running the Soldados, but Gato''s still the boss, know what I''m saying? He''ll be out one day and we need to make sure he knows who we''re clicked up with." The idea of going to prison to get inspected by the former head of the LSS wasn''t real appealing, but it seemed like Hondo thought it needed to happen. I''d go and try to make a good impression. "Sure, but can that wait? We''ve got so much shit to do in the next thirty days." I said. Saying that out loud made me realize that I wasn''t sure what all of those things were. I tried to make my brain work, but "You ain''t lying, Homes. We''ll get it done when we can find the time. I''m going to hit the sack, but before I do that I''ll call my auntie and find you some cleaners. That place isn''t livable, Homes." I just nodded, leaning against the car. The warm solidity of the steel fender held me up. Hondo went back into the shop and a moment later I could hear him talking on the phone in Spanish. My mind was churning, trying to figure out what was on my "to do" list. Get some equipment to weigh and package the weed. Find some buyers. Figure out who the Hip were selling to. Get Old Pete his share. Talk to Zeke. That was just the ones near the top of the list. There was too much. At some point I also wanted to stop hustling so hard and have a little bit of fun. Maybe spend some time with a girl¡ªwas that so much to ask? "Fuck," I muttered to myself. I really wanted to check in on Manny, as well. I needed to tell him he didn''t have to worry about the Hip any more. I''d have to see if I could catch him going to school, since I was so close. One thing I was sure of, almost all of the stuff I needed to do seemed like insurmountable peaks right that moment. I was bone-tired. The long night in Nirvana combined with the hit on the Hip had taken everything out of me. I needed to sleep. I may have nodded off for a bit as the next thing I remember was Hondo shaking my shoulder. "Hey, don''t fall asleep here. Go home and get some sleep. My tia''s rounding up a few of her friends to clean your sty of a house. I''ll let her and the ladies in if you''re not awake when we get there." Going home and collapsing into bed felt like a great plan. I''d paid the vig and, really, everything else could wait for a bit. "Okay, that works. We can trust your aunt and her friends?" I asked. "Yeah. What, you think they''re going to steal all the extra crack pipes or whatever Smokey left behind? They''ll clean the place and they won''t rob you, Homes. Auntie Angela is good people. Even if she wasn''t, no one''s getting into that stash without some serious effort." I nodded. He was right, of course. We''d gotten lucky that Smokey was in there and we''d been able to convince him to come out. "Alright, thanks man." Hondo slapped me on the shoulder. "Get out of here before you fall over." I took his advice, getting back into the Comet and starting her up. Hondo opened the gate and waved as I drove off. Driving through San Tadeo had a dream-like quality to it. Nothing felt real. Traffic flowed smoothly around me and if I hit a single red light I don''t remember it. The warm wind stroked my face through the open window and the bright, sunny blue sky seemed to go on forever. I drove by the school near my house that Manny went to. It was your typical high school, a featureless multi-story block of concrete and steel surrounded by fences. A few students could be seen outside, but as class was in session it was as sealed up as any other prison. I noted absently that the name of the school was Harvey Keitel High. Once I was past and the sign was out of view I wasn''t sure if I''d dreamt that or not. The dream continued to smoothly pull me toward my house and my bed. The spot directly in front of the house was open and I slotted the Comet into it, putting it into park. The engine grumbled happily at me and I turned off the ignition, putting my new ride back to sleep. I locked the front door behind me and tried to ignore the absolute state of the house. I kicked trash out of the way heedlessly, making my way up the stairs and through the steel door I''d left unlocked. I just managed to kick off my shoes before I collapsed into bed fully dressed and fell asleep.
Some time later I started awake to a deafening roaring noise. I groped for my gun but couldn''t find it. I vaguely recalled the holstered weapon digging into my back and pulling it free, but where had I put it? I struggled upright out of my deep sleep and the tangled sheets into a fighting crouch on top of the bed. A large, hispanic-looking middle aged woman with her hair tied back looked up with a slightly amused expression. She turned off the vacuum cleaner, causing the roaring noise to die away. "Perd¨®name, se?or. Est¨¢ muy sucio aqu¨ª, terminar¨¦ pronto," she said. I got the gist. Something about being done soon. "Ah, okay." I identified her as she switched the vacuum back on.
Angela Hernandez, Domestic Engineer (F3)
Mutually Allied With: Lyle Street Soldados
So this was Hondo''s aunt. She was an LSS ally as well, which made me feel better about having her in my space. I rubbed my eyes. They felt like they were full of sand and I was so tired I was actually kind of sore. I laid back, resigning myself to waiting for her to finish vacuuming before I could go back to sleep. It must have been a whole thirty seconds before I was out. When I came to, the house was silent and my room was shadowy, lit only by the bathroom light and whatever was coming through the hole I''d torn in the newspaper covering the window. I had no idea how long it had been so willed myself to see the time. The whole day had gone by, but the night was young. Maybe it was time to have some fun. Not a chapter, but an update I quit writing for a while. You may have noticed. I had a bunch of kids. Still do. They''re bigger now. I still love Capo, I''m very proud of it and I do want to write more of it. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. I''ve got my tools back in shape, and I''m going to try to get some more writing done. I can''t promise that Capo will be updated anytime soon, but I want to. I need to get these characters back in my head, and remember where I left off. Thanks for the reviews guys, I hope there''ll be some more to read sometime soon. 2.07 - Out On The Town Out on the town My first stop was in the bathroom. I felt like my eyes were still full of sand and I needed to clean them. I didn''t look too bad, but the bandage on my face from the wound that Magnus had given me with his belt buckle was nearly soaked through with blood. I peeled it off carefully, examining the cut. It was tender, but Pargo had done a good job cleaning it. I rooted around in the bathroom and found another bandage of roughly the same size, pasting it onto my face with some care. Before Smokey had tossed Kutta''s bathroom looking for whatever he had been looking for¡ªdrugs, I assume¡ªit had been quite well stocked. With that done, I changed my shirt and put my new skull belt buckle onto a belt I''d found in the room that actually fit me, unlike Magnus''s. The eyes of the skull gleamed at me after I polished it. It was just too cool not to wear out. I tucked my holstered pistol under my shirt in the back. It was starting to feel like it belonged there, a natural part of leaving the house. Keys, cash, sunglasses and gun. The aunties had really done an amazing job on the apartment, on the house. There was no trash on the floor downstairs anymore, and with it gone, I could see that the floors and the carpets were all clean, as much as they could be. There were stains here and there that they were unable to get out. The downside of having a junkie live in your expensive house for so long, I guess. That reminded me, I needed to get the landlord the rest of his rent money. We had to make some sales and make them quick. But that was a problem for tomorrow. I grabbed my keys and left the house, locking it behind me. The Comet waited for me on the curb, its white paint glowing faintly in the streetlight. I got in and started it up without issue. It purred at me and then growled as I pulled out onto the streets of San Tedeo. The gates of the LSS shop were open when I pulled up a few minutes later, light and music spilling out of the bay. I pulled in, stopping in front of the open garage doors and turned off the Comet. Hondo wandered out to see who it was and when he saw that it was me, gave me a wave. "Yo, get enough sleep, homie?" he asked. "Yeah, I''m good. Feel a lot better now, actually," I replied. I wandered into the garage and saw that Hondo had the tarp off Gato''s Jaguar and was working on it. "I thought that thing was finished?" I asked. "No piece of art is ever finished," Hondo replied with a grin. Flattop chose that moment to emerge from the back office. "What he means is, if it were finished, he''d have to think about selling it. Ain''t that right?" Hondo just snorted and waved off Flattop''s statement. He went back to work, dismissing the two of us. "What''s up, Homes?" Flattop asked. He walked up to me and clasped my hand in a bro-hug. "I know we''ve got a shitload to do. Gotta sell lots of weed. But I need a little time off. Maybe we can go get a beer?" "Ha! My man. I can do better than that. You remember that Blades chapter nearby?" I nodded. "They''re having a block party tonight. Those are usually off the hook. We need to go." "You want to go to a Blades block party? That doesn''t sound smart." "No, it''s cool. We''ve got no beef and they know us. Nobody will fuck with us. Not unless we fuck with them first. We''re good neighbors. You in?" Flattop asked. I only had to think for a heartbeat or so. "Sure," I answered. "Cool. Give me a second. We''ll go. Hondo, you coming?" Flattop asked. "Fuck no. I got shit to do. I don''t need to get drunk in the street with a bunch of strangers." "All right. We''ll see you later, Homes," Flattop replied. Hondo waved absently, not looking up I was trying to think what I was forgetting and then it came to me. My gun. "Wait, I''m still carrying. Should I bring it?" Flattop looked at me like I was stupid. "You serious? Stay strapped or get clapped, Homey. Just don''t pull it unless you really have to." A few minutes later, we were on our way. Even though it was literally only a couple blocks to the Blades territory, this was still LA. Or rather, it was San Tadeo. Nobody walked. Walking was the thing you did if you had no other choice. We piled into Flattop''s Javelin and drove it a couple blocks, parking it near a blocked-off street. "What''s happening here?" I asked as we stepped out of the Javelin. The street had been blocked with a bunch of different items. Well, not trash, but not a city barrier or anything. A bunch of planters, large wheelie garbage bins, parked motorcycles, you name it. An impromptu roadblock. "It''s a block party. You don''t want cars driving through the middle of your party, so the Blades block it. Nobody living around here minds, anyway. This area is all Blades around here, and a few old people. Everybody else left." The music up ahead was loud, and it wasn''t just one beat. Four or five different beats at different volumes carried through the night air. Also in that air was the scent of cooking meat and the powerful smell of marijuana. Just up ahead behind the barrier were the first signs of the block party. A couple of barbecues and a couple of tables full of food. Standing around all over the place were groups of people talking. A quick glance and I was seeing nothing but people walking in shadow. Blades and others. Flattop walked right in like he''d been invited, rocking up to the first table and smiling at the pretty black girl behind it. She was short, stacked and had long straight black hair that was set off by shockingly bright violet eyes. Either colored contact lenses were a thing or she was magical. Maybe both. "Charisse, how you doing princess?" Flattop asked her. She looked up and when she saw it was Flattop, the happy expression on her face turned a little sour. "Don''t you give me that princess bullshit, Flattop. I ain''t one of your baby mamas." Flattop fired back quickly with a big grin. "Not yet." She made a dismissive sound with her lips and teeth before looking at me and smiling. "Mack? You new LSS? Hi baby, I''m Charisse," she said. "Hey. Yeah, I''m new." "What happened to your face, Hon?" she asked. "Cut myself shaving," I replied, only just keeping myself from reflexively touching the bandage. She snorted a laugh. "Haven''t heard that one before. You guys come in and make yourselves comfortable. Help yourself to food, and the booze is over there in the front yard of number 38." "Thanks, Princess," Flattop replied. With an exasperated expression she waved him off. I snagged a hotdog already dressed with mustard and onions as Flattop wandered further into the block party. "Bye Charisse," I called to her as we left. "Have fun, honey," she called back. Flattop was already a bit ahead of me. "Got to get something to drink, then we can mingle and find us some honeys." I followed him as he wandered down the street, saying hi to the occasional partier. "Sup Tig," Flattop said. "Hey Banz." "Do you know all these people?" I asked. "No, not all of them. But most of these Blades are from the hood, so I know them. The ones that came from other chapters I don''t know, but it''s all good. There''s no beef between the LSS and the Blades." House 38 was big and sprawling for this part of town, a single-story stucco bungalow with what passed for a large front yard. It was mostly dirt with a few sprigs of grass, bravely struggling to survive, but was big enough for the 30 or so people that were standing around in loose groups behind the steel fence, drinking and laughing. Off to one side was a long table full of bottles, and underneath that a few coolers with their lids open. A large stack of solo cups were obvious at one end of the table. Even that was the same here in San Tadeo. I wondered if it was even the same brand. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. Flattop walked in like he owned the place, nodding to the occasional person. I followed in his wake, and soon we were beside the table full of booze. One of the men beside the table was tall, muscular, with dark black skin and a shaved head. He turned with a grin on his face, and I saw that he was a lot younger than I thought. Just barely out of high school, but I couldn''t tell exactly. I identified him.
Sharp , Blades
"Sup Sharp, good party," Flattop said. Sharp pulled Flattop in for a bro hug. "Glad to see you could make it, homie. Help yourself to the drink, we''re gonna get blitzed. We''re celebrating, graduating as a probationary chapter to a full-fledged Blades chapter." "Shit, already? Good work, man," Flattop replied. "Who''s this?" Sharp asked, looking at me. "Hey, Mack," I said, and extended my hand. Sharp shook it, not trying to crush my hand and also not trying to pull me in for a bro hug. Politely, and with respect, it seemed. "Victorious. And you''re new LSS, are you? You guys expanding again, Flattop?" "Shit, Mack, you showing that title? Take that shit off. People are going to come at you with that on there," Flattop said. Another guy who''d been standing around watching us talk smiled at that. He was small, a little shorter than me, slim and wiry with olive skin. He had close-cropped hair and a goatee that looked like he spent a lot of time grooming it. A quick identify brought up his nameplate.
Juicebox , Blades
"Fuck that, Flattop. Be proud of that shit. Those guys were assholes and I''m glad you put them in the ground." He raised his solo cup. "Fuck the Hip. Here''s to the victorious Lyle Street Soldados!" A ragged chorus of "Soldados" and "Yeah, fuck them," rang out amongst the nearby partygoers. "Yeah, Juicebox is right, but so is Flattop. You keep that title on all the time and people will want to run at you. You good enough that you can do that?" Sharp asked. "Even if I was, I don''t want that. There''s no money in shooting people. Or at least, not as much as I like," I replied. It wasn''t exactly what I thought. It was cooler than what I really thought, which is why the hell would I ever want to have people running up on me, trying to kill me because of a title? With a thought, I willed my intent to make the Victorious title disappear, and I felt a slight change as it did. "Smart," Sharp simply replied. "So this is your new blood, is it? You gonna take him to meet Gato?" Sharp asked. "No doubt. He''s gotta get the sign off," Flattop replied. "Anyway, fuck all that shit. You''re here now, have a drink. There''s plenty of drink, plenty of food and plenty of honeys. Help yourself, all of the above," Sharp said. Flattop had already got to the table by that time anyway, and had been pouring himself a rather full cup full of what looked to be just straight vodka and a bit of ice. I''d never been much of a drinker, in that if I could drink hard alcohol, it needed to be with a lot of mixer. Those people that could drink straight vodka or straight whiskey always puzzled me. How can you do that? So, instead of pretending that I could hang with Flattop, I pulled a cold beer out of one of the coolers and cracked it open, taking a sip. It wasn''t bad. Another member of the Blades came up and joined Juicebox and Sharp with us. He was a little taller than Juicebox, but built like a brick shithouse. He had light brown skin, a large soft-looking afro, and was wearing a muscle shirt that revealed a beautiful tattoo of a black panther coiling around his neck. I identified him.
Black Beast , Blades
He nodded to me and Flattop. "Sup." "This is Beast, he''s my right hand. He doesn''t talk much, but if you need something from us, and I''m not around, he''s the man," Sharp said. "As long as it doesn''t involve talking. If it does, you''re shit out of luck," Juicebox chimed in. Black Beast didn''t respond, simply giving Juicebox a casually lifted middle finger. Flattop, in the meantime, had spotted a couple of girls nearby and had wandered off. A tall, light-skinned black girl with shoulder-length brown hair and a trim athletic build and a shorter Latina with long black hair, completely stacked. Flattop was already chatting them both up, but seemed to be paying a lot more attention to the Latina. I identified them both quickly before I nodded to Sharp and his boys and moved off to join Flattop.
Monica Denova, Student (F2)
Yasmine Marcus, Junior Aesthetician (E1)
It seemed odd that the girls weren''t walking in shadow, but I didn''t know if that was a good or a bad thing. I guess it meant that they weren''t part of the Blades, and were just here at the party. So good, I guess? As I joined Flattop, he turned to me and gave me an introduction. "Yo, yo, yo, this is my boy Mack. Mack, this is Monica, and this is Yasmine. These young ladies are at their first ever block party," he said. The tall, slim, brown girl was Monica, and the short Latina was Yasmine. My initial impression had obviously been correct, as as soon as he gave me the introduction, he pulled Yasmine away to talk to her one-on-one. Monica, fully aware of what was happening, went along with it and turned fully to greet me. "That right, first block party? Mine too," I said. "Nah, he''s full of shit. I don''t know where he got that from, I''ve been to plenty of block parties. Just not usually where nearly everyone''s a gangster. You''re walking in shadow, Mack, are you a gangster?" she asked, a twinkle in her eye and a challenge in her voice. "Gangster? No. Businessman." "Yes, a businessman with a belt buckle like that. I bet if I checked, you''re carrying too, aren''t you?" she shot back. I couldn''t tell if she was actually offended by the fact that I might be a gangster or not. There was so much playfulness in her voice, it could go either way. I''d never been great with the ladies, but the Victorious title and the gun in my back seemed to put some steel in my spine. "Stay strapped or get clapped, you know what they say. You like the belt buckle, huh?" I asked. She reached out a finger and touched it, running a fingertip lightly across the glossy skull and touching the ruby eyes. "It''s a bit creepy, a bit scary, but yeah. It''s cool." I grinned at that. "Yeah, I think so, too. It was hard earned." "Oh? Tell me the story, but I need a drink first," she replied. She moved a little closer, and for a moment I blanked. The proximity of a beautiful woman like her was starting to trip breakers in my brain. Her perfume was intoxicating, and the closest I''d come to the unending river of pussy that ee-sky books promised to their protagonists had been Smokey''s girlfriend, not an encounter I wanted to repeat. I snapped out of it. "Come on then," I said, putting my arm around her waist and guiding her towards the drink table. A few minutes later she had a drink, rum and coke, and we''d moved a bit off away from the table, which was a traffic hot spot. We were leaning against the house, our heads close together as we talked. I''d managed to deflect the story of the belt buckle, telling her that I''d tell her the real story when I knew her better, and probing for information about her instead. She was a cosmetologist, or studying to be one. I didn''t know exactly what that was, but I think it has something to do with hair and nails. I''d just finished my second beer and was going to get another one when somebody slammed me against the side of the house. The bottle fell out of my hands and I turned to see an angry-looking guy with long dirty blonde hair, a broken nose, and dark tanned skin, glaring at me angrily. He was big, taller than me, and while not exactly jacked, he was no stranger to hard work. I quickly ID''d him.
James Damore, Senior Mechanic (D4)
"What the fuck, man," I barked at him. "What the fuck are you doing talking to my girl?" he barked back at me. "James, get out of here," Monica yelled, but he was ignoring her. All his attention was fixed on me. "Get the fuck out of here before I break you, little boy. You think walking in shadow scares me? I eat pieces of shit like you for breakfast." I couldn''t resist and laughed. "You eat pieces of shit for breakfast?" That was it. He swung. Either he was drunk and slow, or I was fast because I simply moved aside and his meaty fist smashed into the stucco beside my head, breaking it apart. I shoved him hard, pushing off from the house, trying to get him away from me before the follow-up punch. Getting pinned up against the side of a house by a guy much larger than me seemed like a really bad idea. I had no idea where Flattop was, but I had to assume that I was on my own for at least a minute or two. A lot could happen in a minute. James staggered back a few steps, and then came back in swinging. I did my best to block but I really hadn''t ever been in a fist fight. His fist hammered into my ribs and knocked the breath out of me, and then the follow-up shot smashed into my face, bouncing me off the side of the house. I slumped a bit, unable to help myself, and James rushed in, leaning down with his right arm cocked back. I fell the rest of the way to my ass and his blow missed, grazing my ear. In a frozen moment I could see pieces of stucco embedded in his knuckles, blood flowing freely. Either he was high or really drunk, because he didn''t seem to feel any pain at all. I was just about to change that. He was close enough that when I drove the heel of my shoe directly into his nuts, I had a lot of leverage. He actually lifted off the ground before falling backwards, squealing in a ridiculously high-pitched tone. It didn''t knock him down, but he staggered back and grabbed his balls, shrieking. He wasn''t quite out of the fight yet so I got to my feet. Before he could charge me again, my gun was in my hand and pointed at him. I hadn''t been watching what had been happening around me. The fight hadn''t gone on long, again, less than a minute, but Sharp, Beast, and Juicebox hadn''t gone far. Beast''s punch took James hard in the stomach, knocking any remaining wind out of him. Grabbing one of his arms, he twisted it around behind James'' back and began to frog march him toward the front gate. "Yeah, get the fuck out of here. Don''t come back. If we see you in this hood again, that''s it for you, motherfucker," Sharp called at him. "Sorry about that, Homie. You can put the piece away," Sharp said as he came over and stood beside me. I holstered my gun, pulling my shirt to cover it again. "Thanks," I said to Sharp. "Don''t mention it. Have fun," he said, eyeing Monica with a grin. "I knew you had a gun under there. What else are you hiding?" Monica said as she grabbed my arm and pressed herself against me. She smelled great. 2.08 Planning and Scheming Planning and Scheming Early the next morning I crawled out of bed, the light from the torn newspaper and the sunrise behind it illuminating the room. Monica didn''t stir, and I tried not to wake her. I pulled on a new pair of jeans and a new shirt, buckling the belt. I quickly wrote her a note: Monica, Had to go to work. Let yourself out, help yourself to whatever is in the fridge. I had a good time. Hope to see you again soon. I pulled up the time.
San Tadeo, California, 08:21 Friday March 13, 2020 Safe House: The Orange House Walking in the Shadows
The coffee shop would just be opening when I arrived, but that was fine. Even if the boys weren''t up yet, there was a ton of work to do. Zeke, selling the weed, meeting with Brass Lee, raising money for my rent, it was a lot. That wasn''t even an exhaustive list; I was sure I''d forgotten a few things. I hesitated for a moment before going down to the basement, opening up the panic room and pulling out a vacuum-sealed kilogram of weed. My bankroll wasn''t as small as it had been the day I turned up in Martin''s basement, but it was still far smaller than it needed to be. I had lots of money that needed to go out, and this was the only source of it that I had. At worst, I could just go back to what I''d been doing before and sell it myself. That wouldn''t work in the long-term, or even the short-term, but it would raise some cash. I tucked the weed into a plastic shopping bag I found in the kitchen and walked out to my car, closing the door behind me. The new locks were set up to latch themselves when the door closed, so I made sure I had everything before I left. It would be embarrassing to creep out on Monica and then wake her up with a doorbell because I''d forgotten my keys. The door latched behind me, and a moment later I was behind the wheel of the Comet. The familiar smell of the vinyl interior greeted me, making me smile. That, and the slight whiff of gasoline as I started it were both good smells. "Smells like freedom," I muttered to myself. The gates of the LSS shop were closed, as I expected, so I parked on the street nearby. The Ball and Bean was open and Miguel had a table ready for me. I sat down and a few moments later he deposited a caf¨¦ con leche and a plate with a potato tortilla on it. I nodded gratefully and dug in. Once I''d finished my coffee and tortilla, I caught Miguel''s attention again. "Excuse me, Miguel. I''d like to get into the shop, but I know Hondo and Flattop are probably still sleeping." "Yes. But I can wake them. They both live nearby." I thought about that for a second. It seemed like a dick thing to do. I wasn''t their uncle. And I sure as hell wasn''t their boss. I was just a new member of their gang, without even the official sign-off from the real leader in prison. Waking them up seemed like a stupid idea. "No. It can wait. There''s just some stuff we need to do, and I''ve got some product that needs to be processed, if you know what I mean." The product in question I''d left in the locked trunk of the car. It made me a bit nervous. But since I could see the Comet at all times from my table, it wasn''t that bad. Miguel, somehow, understood exactly what I was talking about, it seemed, and nodded. "We don''t have anything to process it with here. The LSS never was into that. You''re going to have to buy some, or borrow some equipment. Flattop can help," Miguel replied. "I can let you into the shop, if you want." Without scales or a vacuum sealer or even little baggies, we couldn''t divide up the weed to sell it. Manny had had that stuff, supposedly in his backyard shed, but I had no idea where that was. With the way we''d left it, it seemed unlikely that he was ever going to come back, despite him also being in the Brass Lee debt. Maybe he''d just do what he threatened, which was to leave the shadow and never come back. I wasn''t sure if that was something he could do or not. He''d seemed to like being a gangster, despite how serious things had gotten. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. "Yeah, that''d be good," I said, answering Miguel. He nodded. "You need to get that stitched up, it''s still bleeding," Miguel said, pointing at my face. I touched the bandage I''d almost forgotten and my fingertips came away faintly tinged with blood. "Shit, yeah. Where can I do that? Is there a free clinic or something around here?" "Si, but no need. Go to the shop and I''ll send someone by to fix your face, she''s good with a needle and thread," he replied. That seemed a little bit ominous, some random woman was going to stitch up my face, but who was I to complain. For all I knew, if I didn''t get it stitched up, I would look like a monster for the rest of my life, a real-life Scarface. A few minutes later, Miguel crossed the road and unlocked the smaller door for me, motioning me over. Once I got there, he handed me the key without another word and went back to work. The trust felt good, I''m not going to lie. It felt good to be part of something bigger than myself, of having people trust me, that I could trust as well. The shop was as I''d seen it the other day, except with the tarp back on the Jag. I went in and sat down on the ratty couch in the office, trying to figure out what the next step was. It boiled down to Zeke. We had to get to him, and get him to tell us who The Hip were selling to. But since the last time I''d seen him, I''d shot him and then proceeded to kill most of his friends, it seemed unlikely that he would help. It was at that point that not having my phone in my pocket felt like a real lack. Back in my old life, I''d be performing web searches like, "is truth serum actually a thing" and "can a hypnotist make you spill secrets" or "how to trick someone into telling you their greatest secret," shit like that. That or watching torture videos. It might come to that. The idea made me a bit sick to my stomach, but not as much as it should have. For some reason, the idea of hurting Zeke just to get something I needed out of him didn''t seem like it was completely beyond the pale anymore. Who was this new Frank? Was it still me? I didn''t know, and I really didn''t care. Whoever he was, I was starting to really like him, for the first time that I could remember. I heard a loud knock on the side of the garage, near the door before the door opened, and a short Latina woman bustled in. She had her long brown hair up in a ponytail, and was wearing blue scrubs with the top covered in cartoon animals. I identified her.
Wendy Mendoza, Registered Nurse (E2)
Mutually Allied With: Lyle Street Soldados
"You Mack?" she asked. "Yes, hi," I replied, standing up. She nodded and started pulling things out of her extremely large purse. A sewing kit, a bottle of isopropyl alcohol, cotton swabs in a roll, et cetera. She laid them all down on the table in the office and then looked at me sternly, and pointed to one of the hardback chairs beside the table. "Sit there, chico," she ordered. I sat. With gentle but firm hands she removed the bandage from my face and tisked as she saw the state of the wound. "This isn''t good, you should have had this stitched up when it happened. Not let it bleed. This is going to hurt a bit, you a big strong gangster or not?" Wendy asked. Well, there was only one answer to that, of course, so I nodded. I wasn''t that big or that strong. Cleaning out a half-healed wound with isopropyl alcohol and cotton swabs hurt like hell, a lot more than getting cut had. A few minutes later though, she was done, and I hadn''t embarrassed myself as far as I could tell. She had the needle and thread sterilized and ready to go in what seemed like seconds. She pinched the flesh on my face together and quickly stitched it up. The poke of the needle and thread was nothing compared to what she had just done, only feeling a little odd. She was done more quickly than I had expected. "That''s going to leave a scar, chico. It won''t be too bad, you''ll still be pretty," she said, lightly patting the unscarred cheek with her hand, and giving me a friendly smile. "Thanks, Wendy, do I owe you anything?" I asked, reaching for my roll. "Nah, LSS is family. Just keep Hondo and Flattop out of jail, will you? They''re good boys, they don''t need to end up like their dads." I nodded. I wasn''t sure I could keep myself out of jail, but what could I do but say yes. "Yeah, I''ll try." "Good boy," she replied. A few seconds later she''d packed up her stuff and bustled back out the door, leaving just a whiff of antiseptic, alcohol and perfume in her wake. I tried not to touch the newly stitched up wound on my face and instead of running out the door and trying to find something productive to do, I forced myself to sit still and think and write. At first it was hard, much harder than it ever had been for me in my past life. I had always been writing things down and planning and thinking, but my new life here in San Tadeo had seriously de-emphasized that kind of thing. It took a while to shake the rust off. Despite my lack of recent practice, 40 minutes later when Flattop came into the garage, I was ready. The Plan was ready. "Hey, homie, good to see you. A little early, but I think I''m starting to get used to that. You made quite an impression on Sharp and the Blades," Flattop said as he flopped down onto the couch. "Yeah, they seem like good guys. And I had fun," I replied. "Yeah, I bet you did, Homey," he replied with a big grin. "What''s all that?" he asked, pointing to the pile of papers. "I''ve got some plans. We need to go see Zeke, right now," I said. 2.09 - Where The F Is Zeke? Where the F Is Zeke "What are you talking about? We can''t go see him. We don''t know where the fuck he is," Flattop replied. "He''s in the hospital, we know that much. We just have to figure out which hospital," I said. "We can''t just call around, he''s in shadow. They''re not gonna know who he is. They''ll treat him, sure, but they don''t have him on the books. He''s just like a homeless guy to them, someone they know they''re not gonna get any money out of. Another gangbanger with a gunshot wound. We''re not gonna find him," Flattop said. I couldn''t accept that. There was no way Zeke was just going to disappear. Even if he made it out of the hospital without us finding him, I was fairly certain he''d come looking for us. Or me anyway. We needed to find him first. "No, I''ve got an idea. Do you want to drive or should I?" I asked. That was a stupid question. Five minutes later we were in Flattop''s Javelin and cruising. Never ask a Wheelman if he''d rather you drive. The answer was always going to be no. "Why the hell are we going to the movie theater? It''s not even going to be open, it''s hella early," Flattop complained. He turned on the radio, and the muted sounds of a death metal radio station filled the cavernous interior of the Javelin. It was kind of a surprise, but Flattop was an unusual guy. "It''s open," I replied, mostly sure that it was. I couldn''t check Google Maps, but in LA I had gone to the morning shows at this theater many times. "And as to why we are going, it''s because that''s where I shot Zeke." "So what? You think he''s in a hospital near there? There''s a few, we can check them," Flattop said, glancing over and then returning his gaze to the road. It was interesting watching him drive. He was always watching all the traffic around him and never getting distracted for more than an instant. I wondered if that was because of his profession or if it was the other way around. Was he a Wheelman because he''d been a good driver, or vice versa? In any case, the ride was smooth, fast, and without drama. I liked it. "Yeah, we could do that if what I have in mind first doesn''t work out," I said. He raised his eyebrows at me but didn''t protest. "So what then? Hospitals nearby first?" "No, theater first." The trip was shorter than I thought, and before I knew it we were pulling up into the parking lot outside the Cineplex. I wasn''t dressed like a weed clown this time so I was hoping the security guards wouldn''t recognize me. If they did this might be a bit more exciting of a trip than I wanted. As it was, I wanted it to be quick and drama-free. "Okay, we''re here, you ready to tell me the plan yet?" Flattop said, a little irritation in his voice. "It''s real simple, we''re going to talk to the security here and see where Zeke got sent." "You going to talk to the rent-a-cops? You don''t think they''re going to recognize you from the last time?" "No, I look a bit different. We''ll see anyway." "You want me to sit out here with the engine running?" he asked. I couldn''t imagine any scenario where I''d come running out of the theater and need a quick getaway. Not to say that couldn''t happen, but if it did, things had already gone completely tits up. "No, come in with me and watch my back, would ya?" "You know it, homie. Let''s go." We piled out of the AMX, and were in the early morning California sun. The black leather interior of the Javelin had started to heat up, and now outside of the car, it felt a bit chilly. California weather. Luckily for me, the cinema was open, and had been for a little while. We''d missed the first showings, and the second showings of a few movies were starting in about 40 minutes, but we weren''t here to watch a movie anyway. It only took a moment to spot one of the uniformed security guards standing off along one wall, his hand on his shoulder-mounted microphone as he eyed the two of us entering the cinema. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. "Let me go talk to this guy," I said. Flattop just nodded, looking at the giant wall of movie posters inside the lobby. The guard wasn''t the same guard that I had a run-in with last time. He was short, a little fat, and was glaring at me with suspicious eyes as I approached him. His pale skin made it look like he never got out into the sun, and his thinning brown hair was going bald. I quickly ID''d him.
Darren Simmons, Mall Cop (F1)
"Can I help you, sir?" he asked, a bit of bite in his tone. "Yeah, there was a shooting here not that long ago. I want to know what happened to the victim, can you tell me what hospital they took him to? I''ll make it worth your while," I said. He opened his mouth and then stopped himself before speaking in a loud voice. "Fucking gangbangers, get the hell out of here. Come on, let''s go," he shouted, and I could see the ticket sellers in the nearby windows heard him and perked up, paying attention. He grabbed my shoulder and started to push me towards the door. "Fine, fine, I''m going," I said, turning and brushing his hand off my shoulder. He walked closely behind me until we got nearer to Flattop, who was looking on with a smirk. "Get the hell out of here, don''t come back," Darren said, his voice raised as he pointed outside. "Smoking door behind the theater, 15 minutes," he added, his voice pitched to carry to only the two of us. He continued to point and taking the hint, the two of us left. Flattop raised his eyebrow at me. "Thought you struck out there, but that''s promising." "I guess he doesn''t want to be seen talking to us. Probably bad for his job." A quick scout in the Javelin around the building and we found what Darren had been referring to, an unmarked door in the back of the building with a lot of cigarette butts on the sidewalk and parking lot nearby. Flattop pulled into the spot directly in front of the door, and we settled in to wait. When the door opened, not that much later, I was unsurprised to see it was Darren. He pushed a garbage can from inside to hold the door open and then walked a few feet away before lighting a smoke. Flattop and I climbed out of the Javelin to approach him. "Let''s make it quick, I''ve only got a five-minute smoke break. You want to know what happened to your friend, let''s see the cash," Darren said, getting right to business. I pulled out my roll and peeled off a couple hundred, holding it out to him. He took a deep draw of his smoke and didn''t reach out for the cash. Another hundred joined it and finally he decided that was probably enough and took the money, tucking it into his front pocket. "Okay, if your buddy hadn''t been a gangbanger, just a civilian, they would have taken him to St. Francis Memorial, right nearby. But since he was in shadow and this was a gang thing, they don''t bring the gangers to that hospital. It''ll be Our Lady of Mercy instead." "Our Lady, that''s nowhere near here," Flattop said. "I don''t make the rules, I just know that''s where they take the gangbangers when they get into shit around here. They''ve got a secure floor, he''ll be on that." "Why?" I asked. "I know why," Flattop said with a disgusted expression. "The cops are sweating him, hoping to get him to admit guilt, or get him on some charge, before they have to release him. It''s bullshit, unconstitutional bullshit." "You''re right there, but you want to bang, that''s what you get. All part of the game, isn''t that right?" Darren said with a smirk. "Fuck you, Darren," Flattop said. "It''s people like you that make this city so shitty, you hypocritical motherfucker." "Hey, I''m doing my job, not shooting people, or robbing them," he replied, straightening up and flicking his cigarette away as he squared up to Flattop. "Hey, cut it out. We''ve got what we need, let''s go. Thank you, Darren," I replied, stepping between the two of them. "Yeah, bye," Darren said, standing there while I moved Flattop away, putting some distance between the two of them. Flattop continued to eyeball Darren until they got about 12 feet apart, and then the two of them, as if by mutual agreement, turned away from each other, Darren returning to the cinema and Flattop to the Javelin. "What the fuck was that about?" I asked, as soon as the cinema door closed with a solid thunk. "I just hate people like that. Fucking bent-ass security guard giving me shit about being in the game. Fuck that guy, homie." I couldn''t help but agree, although I didn''t feel as strongly about it as Flattop. I simply nodded. "Okay, so we go to Our Lady then. That''s where Zeke is," I said. "Weren''t you listening, he''s on the secure floor. That means that the doors are locked and guarded by police. He''s basically in a prison, until they release him. It''s bullshit, man. Totally unconstitutional," Flattop said, raging a little bit. "If the doctors can get in there and the nurses can get in there, that means we can get in there. We can figure it out," I said. "Then what? Let''s say you''re standing beside Zeke''s bed right now. You''re the one that shot him. He''s doped up a bit, what do you say to him to get him to tell you what you want? I still don''t know how this works. Come on, you made the plan, you tell me," Flattop said. I had made the plan, and I had thought of this. I didn''t have a foolproof answer, but I''d gone down the same logical paths that Flattop had in that instant, and the plausible options had closed one by one. Zeke being under guard didn''t change much. "He won''t tell us anything in the hospital. He won''t have to, and he won''t want to. That means one thing, and one thing only. We have to get him out of the hospital, and then, we make him an offer he can''t refuse." 2.10 - The Best Actor of Our Time The Best Actor Of Our Time "An offer he can''t refuse? What the hell do you mean? Of course he can refuse it. I mean, sure, we can kill him, but we can''t make him do what we say," Flattop protested. I guess they didn''t have The Godfather in San Tadeo. Sad. "It doesn''t literally mean an offer he can''t refuse," I said. "It''s from a movie I saw once. It means if he refuses it, we''ll kill him, and he knows that. You know, that thing with Frank Sinatra''s agent and the mob?" "Who the fuck is Frank Sinatra? You know what, don''t tell me. Whatever." "You''re right, it doesn''t matter," I replied. "First things first, we have to get him out of there." "How are we going to do that? It''s basically a prison. But this one is guarded by the STPD." "Great, but it''s a prison that also has doctors and nurses. If they can get in, we can get in." I still wasn''t sure how, and it certainly wasn''t obvious. If we were in shadow, we couldn''t pretend to be doctors in any kind of credible way. The cops would ID us, see that we were in shadow, and that would be it. If we went in in the light, then everything was exposed and we couldn''t pretend to be a doctor. Even if we were an actual doctor, somehow, our ID plate would say that we weren''t employed by this hospital. Flattop had been using the slight pause in our conversation to think himself and now spoke again. "We could go in hard and fast. Put the masks on, your Sunshrouds. Run up on one of the gates, disarm the cops, go in, yank Zeke and get away fast. I could steal something with some balls, we load him in the back and we''re out of there. It might work." "Shit, bro, am I rubbing off on you? That sounds like something I would propose." "Yeah, you''re right. It''s kinda dumb," Flattop said with a grin, giving me a slap on the shoulder. "Fuck you. Anyway, I have a splinter of an idea. Is there any way to spoof the information people see when they identify you when you''re in the light?" I had read all of the book that the librarian had given me, but it hadn''t mentioned this. Nothing at all about it. At least that I remembered. "No, you can''t lie when you''re walking in the light. Every bit is exposed and everyone can see it. That''s the whole point." "Well, back to the stupid plan then," I said. "Although maybe we can kidnap a doctor?" "No, hold on. The doctor idea is good, but you just reminded me. Do you ever see that Bruce Campbell movie where he plays a crook? The Sting?" I spluttered for a moment as what he said sunk in. "Bruce Campbell? Big dude, big jaw? ''This is my Boomstick!''? That Bruce Campbell?" "I have no idea what the fuck you''re talking about, homie, but yeah, he''s a big guy with a big jaw. Fantastic actor," Flattop said, looking puzzled. "Anyway, in that movie, he''s playing a conman. One of his abilities is that he can pretend to be somebody else in the light. In the movie, he uses it near the end to pretend he''s FBI. They ID him and they get what looks like a legit walking in the light nameplate. I always heard that was a real job, but I''ve never met one." I chewed on that for a moment. If it was a real thing, which seemed likely, then of course you would never know you met one. They would always be pretending to be something else. Why wouldn''t they? This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. "Okay, but if you''ve never met one and you''re not even sure they''re real, how are we going to hire one? There''s no fucking Craigslist," I said. "Are you a fucking alien, Mack? I swear, half the shit you say is nonsense. What the fuck is Craigslist?" Flattop asked, halfway turning towards me. I really did need to get out of the habit of referencing my old world. It couldn''t be endearing me to anyone, and it just made me stand out. "It doesn''t matter. Okay, you don''t know a con man, we don''t have a place to hire a con man... wait. Yes we do," I said, halfway through my thought, changing my mind. Flattop just looked at me with an eyebrow raised. "Where do you go when you need something and you don''t know how to get it?" I asked. "Fixer," Flattop said, picking up what I was putting down. I nodded. "I can''t go to Big El right now, though. I owe him a favor, and I bet this one is going to be really, really expensive. I''ve only got a couple grand, what about you?" "Yeah, I''m pretty light. I had to give the baby mamas some money, and the money for the car isn''t in yet, so things are tight." I''d figured as much. "We can fix that. We just have to sell." "I ain''t no fucking drug dealer, man," Flattop protested. "You want me to drive you someplace, great. You want me to help you shoot some people, yeah, I guess so. But standing on the corner selling weed? Fuck that. I got better shit to do." I did get it. I didn''t want to do it either, but it''s not like I had a lot of other skills that would make money. Anyway, my plan didn''t include Flattop. Not for this bit anyway. "Miguel told me that the LSS doesn''t have any scales or anything to package our stuff for sale, but he said you can help." "Oh, he did, did he? Fucking Tio, always signing me up for more fucking work." I waited for him to stop complaining, which wasn''t long. "Yeah, you met the guy that can help us. We need to go talk to Sharp. One of their safe houses is full of vacuum packers and scales. I bet for a little bit of cash or some product, he''ll let us use their stuff. We can''t go see him now, though. He''ll still be sleeping after that party last night." I nodded. I thought back to Monica in my bed, thinking about how if that Cartel sword wasn''t hanging over my head, I could still be in that warm bed, with her. Or having some nice breakfast. Not sitting in a sun-baked parking lot outside of a cineplex in the middle of nowhere, planning my next criminal enterprise. "Alright, that''s fine. We got a little bit of prep work to do first anyway. Come on, let''s go." We made a couple stops. The first was a print shop. I borrowed some colored markers and some paper. Ten minutes later, we left with a stack of stickers. Green monster. At the second stop, we picked up a few rolls of vacuum seal baggies for dime bags and a single roll for ounces. We had a lot of weed to pack, and if we were going to do it for retail, we needed to be prepared. The third stop felt weird. Harvey Keitel High School. We weren''t at the actual high school, but about a block away on a side street, parked behind Manny''s Crown Vic. Both of us recognized it immediately. Only a few minutes after we heard the lunch buzzer at Harvey Keitel High in the distance, Manny walked up, looking at the ground and completely failing to notice the giant, shining Javelin parked behind his car. He looked up when we got out, his eyes hidden behind his Sunshrouds. "Manny, we need to talk, brother," I called out. He glanced around nervously, before looking a bit resigned and walking up to us. "What do you want? I told you, I''m out," he said. "You don''t look out, homie. You walking in the shadows, that''s not out," Flattop replied, sitting down on the hood of his Javelin. Manny looked a little ashamed. "I don''t have a car on the other side. And I love this one. It makes me feel alive when I drive it. I don''t know what it is. I need to get rid of it, but the thought of taking the bus or letting my mom drive me to school is... I just can''t do it." "Anyway, I gotta go. The Hip. Somebody could spot us." I exerted my will a moment and felt something click. Victorious. "Manny, look at me. ID me." "Huh?" he said. And then he did. He looked me over. I could see his body language change as he read my shadow profile. "Victorious? What? And that belt buckle. What the fuck, bro?" "The Hip are gone, Manny. We''re okay. Bounty''s off. We won. I paid the vig, but there''s a bunch more work to do before we can pay off Brass Lee. I need your help," I said. "Seriously? Magnus is gone?" he asked, again looking around nervously as if expecting one of The Hip to pop out from behind a bush. I nodded, and Flattop couldn''t resist. "Mack here popped his fucking head. He''s gone, homie. You''re all good." Manny absorbed that without a word. "So, I need you Manny, you in?" "Selling weed again? I don''t know, bro. It feels like it was years ago, when we did that. I was ready to leave the shadows and never come back." Flattop and I waited, neither of us speaking into the silence. Manny''s face showed his emotions roiling, but finally he lifted up the sun shrouds and set them on his head to meet my gaze directly and smiled. "Fuck it bro, I''m in." 2.11 - A Reunion and a Deal I couldn''t help myself. I broke out in relieved laughter. I thought I was okay with Manny potentially not coming back, but I hadn''t been. Doing it without him would have felt wrong, despite how much closer I was feeling to the LSS boys. I pulled Manny into a hug, slapping him on the back. "Welcome back, Manny. Come on. We got to get going. We got lots of work to do today. There''s time pressure, you know," I said. "Shit, bro. I can''t cut. I''ve got chemistry this afternoon," Manny protested. I heard Flattop snort from where he was still resting on the hood of his Javelin. "You ain''t got time for school, Manny. Get in the damn car." "No. My moms will kill me." "Listen, Manny. Things have changed. We have to sell a bit more weight than we did before. And we need your help. We''ve got a lot of work to do before we start selling tonight. We need to find some more guys, too," I said. He started sputtering, multiple questions fighting each other to get out, but I just started leading him towards the passenger side of the Javelin. "Wait. My car," he said in one final protest. "Nah. Leave it, Manny. You can come get it later. We gotta go," Flattop replied. I nodded in support. This wasn''t the time to split the party. Manny climbed in the back, and I took my previous spot in shotgun. Just like that, the Javelin roared to life and left Harvey Keitel High School behind. Manny was perched in the middle of the long bench in the backseat, looking a little shell-shocked. "What''s going on? What do you mean we have a little more weight?" he asked. "Look in the bag back there," I said, pointing out the duffel bag in the footwell near his left foot. He unzipped it, exposing the vacuum-packed kilo of weed. A solid brick, dwarfing the 10 ounces we had acquired from Brass Lee. "What the fuck, bro. We can''t afford this. Where''d this come from?" he protested, pulling the brick out and turning it over and over in his hands. I opened my mouth, but Flattop beat me to it. "We can''t tell you, Manny. Sorry. Not unless you''re in." "In? What do you mean?" he asked, looking a bit puzzled and then it obviously clicked. "Wait, you''re a member of the gang now, Mack? When did that happen? Why?" "I joined up the other night. It needed to happen, and these guys are great. I''m not gonna say you should join too, but if you want to, as far as I''m concerned, you''d be welcome," I replied. "But, Flattop is right. We can''t tell you where it came from unless you''re one of us. It''s just too sensitive." I felt a bit bad about it, but honestly, he''d be better off not knowing. He might stroke out if he found out our new relationship with the cartel. "I don''t like it, bro. I don''t like this. If you got in deeper with the Brass Dragon Tong, we''re screwed. You know that, right? Those dudes do not fuck around." I shook my head, sadly. "Sorry, man, can''t tell you anymore. Anyway, we need to sell. And we need to sell a lot, today, tonight." "Yeah, homie, you got a plan for that or not? I''m driving, but I don''t know where." "Yeah, we''ve got two things we need to do," I said. Fifteen minutes later, gravel crunched as we pulled to a stop in front of a nondescript single-story house with a chain-link fence and a barking dog in the yard. Deep in the Blades territory neighboring LSS turf. Manny looked nervous. "This isn''t good, man, we shouldn''t be here. What are we doing?" "I told you, Manny. Chill out. These guys are friends. We''re going to ask G-Mog to help us packing this weed for sale. We don''t have what we need to do it." "What do you mean, Homes? I''ve got all the shit in my shed at home. Scales, everything," Manny protested. "Yeah, but we needed to go a little faster than that and we can''t have your mom getting involved. There''s a lot more weight to pack than just the 10 ounces we had before." Manny was still protesting weakly as we all piled out of the Javelin and walked up to the chain link fence. The gate was closed and the dog behind it was barking fiercely at us, a large black and brown Rottweiler looking like it meant business. It wasn''t charging the fence or anything, but it was clear it would be a bad idea to enter. I wondered how G-Mog got his mail. There''s no way a postman would do anything but drop it at his front gate, and there was no pile of mail there. Stolen story; please report. "What do we do now, then?" I asked, not seeing any way to get to the front door to ring the bell or knock. "No need for a doorbell when you''ve got a dog," Flattop said, settling back on his heels. We all did for a minute before the front door of the house opened and a harried-looking middle-aged black woman wearing a bathrobe and slippers came out. "Sauron! Quiet," she barked and the dog immediately stopped barking and sat, his eyes not leaving us. "What do you boys want?" she asked, eyeing us. I identified her.
Shela, Blades
"Ma''am, we''re here to see G-Mog. We''ve got business," Flattop said, using the most polite voice I''d ever heard him use. Shela eyed him from the porch, giving it a moment''s thought. "LSS? Gato''s in prison, what business do we have with the LSS?" she asked. "Yes, ma''am. We''re coming back up. Can we talk to G-Mog?" he asked again. She snorted, before turning back into the house. "G, visitors," she shouted, and the armored screen door slammed shut behind her. A minute later, G-Mog emerged, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. He was wearing boxer shorts and nothing else, his chest covered in fantastical tattoos, bright colors and images reminding me of the pictures from my D&D manuals. He nodded when he saw us, walking up to the front gate. When he reached Sauron, he clicked his tongue and pointed to a ratty dog bed in the corner of the yard. Sauron immediately relaxed and ran back to his bed, flopping down and chewing on a bone, paying us no further attention. "What''s up, boys," G-Mog said as he opened the gate. He shook hands with Flattop, myself, and then we introduced Manny. "This is Manny, he''s a friend of ours. He''s going to help us with sales and packaging," I said. "Great, come on in, we can talk business in the living room," G-Mog said. He closed and locked the gate behind us, and a minute later we were sitting on a plastic-covered couch in an immaculately clean living room. "What can I do for you guys?" he said as he flopped down in a similarly plasticked easy chair. The coffee table between us had three artfully arranged coffee table books and not a speck of dust. There wasn''t even a TV in the room, only pictures of relatives on the walls. I''d never been in a place like it before, only having seen it in movies. G-Mog caught my glance around the room. "Yeah, it''s my mom. Thinks if the plastic never comes off, it will last forever," he said, scratching his chin. Like she had been lurking in the other room, Shalo entered carrying a tray of four clinking glasses full to the brim with rich brown liquid. She set it down on the coffee table. "You know it''s true, boy. Ain''t this furniture lasted forever so far?" she said before looking at us. "You boys help yourself to some sweet tea. I''ll get out of your way." I picked up a glass and sipped along with my friends. It was super sweet, but cold and refreshing. G-Mog had already started off the business talk, so after a few sips, I spoke. "We''ve got some weed that needs to be packaged for sale, and Pargo said you might be able to help." G-Mog nodded and set down his glass, making sure it was securely on a coaster. "Yeah, we can help you with packing, or at least provide the scales and vacuum sealers, etc. But we can''t do it for free," he said. "What you need, brother? We''re a bit tight on cash these days, need to sell first," Flattop replied. Like the rest of us, he was desperately trying to keep his sweating glass from dripping on anything that wasn''t covered in plastic. "I get it, cash flow, the bane of startup businesses. Just give us a percentage of the weight, call it good," he replied. I tried to think of what kind of percentage would work for him. I honestly had no idea. How valuable were his services? My experience in haggling for commission-based things was pretty low, but I took a stab at it since Flattop didn''t immediately jump in with any kind of offer. I knew he was trying to leave this kind of thing to me. I quickly did the math in my head. The number hurt a bit. "What''s good then, five percent?" I asked. Fifty grams of weed, nearly two ounces, was nothing to sneeze at. He made a funny sound with his mouth, a kind of clicking sound of him sucking on his teeth and looked like he''d eaten something sour. "A little low. We got to pay the packers, we got to pay the security, plus provide bags, et cetera. It adds up," he replied. "I can pack," Manny spoke up. I nodded. "Yeah, Manny can pack, and we have the bags and stuff. We just need the scales and maybe a packer or two to help with Manny''s work." "Okay, then how about this? 6% and we''ll keep the security and keep one packer helping you. It''s not being used right now, so it''s fine, but if you need it in the future, you''re going to have to let me know in advance so that we can make sure the house is clear for you guys. Cool?" I looked at Flattop and he was completely unreactive, leaving it to me. I turned back to G-Mog. "Deal." We finished our drinks and 10 minutes later, we were past the thick armored door inside the stash/pack house the Blades operated in this new territory. A row of 10 scales and vacuum packers stood empty and clean, except for the very first station. A very short, very old woman sat on a stool in front of it. "Abuela, help these guys package their product. Take 6% as commission and put it in the safe. Entiendo?" G-Mog instructed. She nodded, saying nothing. "Here you go. You should have everything you need. Let me know if there''s any problems and when you''re done, just leave and the security will make sure everything''s locked up." We had passed on the way in, a collection of teenagers, skinny and with thousand-yard stares, obviously packing, floating around the house, looking alert. If anyone tried to rob the house, this deep in Blades territory, it wouldn''t go well for them. "Manny, you okay to stay here?" I asked. He looked a bit uncertain, but then straightened up. "Yeah, I''ll get it done. But how am I going to get out of here when I''m done?" G-Mog spoke up. "I''ll have one of my guys run you where you need to go when you''re finished. Just let them know that you need a ride." Then it was handshakes and back into the Javelin. Ready for the next part of the process. Recruiting. 2.12 - Recruiting My thoughts were whirling and it was a moment before I snapped out of thinking three steps ahead and realized we were back in the Javelin and rapidly leaving the Blades neighborhood. "Where are we going?" I asked. "We need some new guys, yeah? I have an idea where to find them. It''s a bit sketchy, but most of the LSS guys were, are in prison or dead. And we never dealt drugs anyway," Flattop replied. Ten minutes later, we rolled into a giant parking lot, only half full of cars this Friday morning. At the other side of the enormous paved expanse was the giant safety yellow box store. DIY Dave''s. "DIY Dave''s? Are we going to buy some tools?" I asked. "Nah, you''ll see in a minute," he said, pulling the javelin around to the side of the store. Lined up against the wall of the store were what I could only assume were mostly Mexicans. Day laborers, wearing a motley mix of work boots, flannel, and high-vis vests. "Home Depot," I muttered to myself. "What??" Pargo asked. "Nothing, don''t worry about it," I replied. I didn''t see how we were going to get a drug dealer out of this crew of construction workers, though, but Flattop was ahead of me. We slowly rolled down the line, Flattop closely inspecting all of them as he drove by. Once he saw whatever it was he was looking for, he stopped, waving a short, stocky, dark-haired man over. He was wearing old but clean jeans, a baggy white button-up shirt, and work boots. And his hands and arms were covered with blue ink tattoos. I identified him.
Flaco
Flaco. No job listed, but he was in shadow. The man approached Flattop, nodding as he got within five feet, stopping a respectful distance away. "What you need, Holmes?" "We need guys to do some sales for us. You bid in?" He asked. Flaco just nodded. "I''m straight now, Homes." "Not that straight, you looking for work here. You need a job or not? You''re walking in shadow, not too many upstanding citizens going to hire a Mexican walking in shadow to work on their pool." Flaco looked like he tasted something sour at that, but didn''t disagree. He looked over at me, giving me a quick glance and I assume identifying me. "LSS? I don''t know you guys, you must be small time." "Yeah, we''re a small organization. Coming up, though. You want the work or not?" "Sales?" Flaco asked, his voice doubtful. "Yeah, you got the corner boy job? Yeah, you got the dealer job? It doesn''t matter if you don''t. We need somebody who can handle themselves and isn''t afraid to do the work." "What are you paying?" "We give you weight, you sell it, you give us 85% of the money back and whatever you didn''t sell at the end of the night. You good with that?" I was glad Flattop knew what the fuck he was doing. "What about heat? You guys got turf to sell on? I don''t need beef with Blades or Gats." I took the cue and enabled my victorious title again. His eyes widened when he saw it. And I turned off the display immediately afterwards. "Shit, I''ve heard of you guys. Okay, I''m down. Can I bring my brother? He needs some work too." "You vouch for him?" "Yeah. He''s good. Last bid we did together. But he''s not trying to go straight. I know for sure he''s got the dealer job," Flaco replied. "Sure. We need a few more bodies. Meet us at our shop on [insert address of LSS shop here]. At 7 o''clock tonight, you got it?" Flattop asked. Flaco nodded. "Anybody else here we should talk to?" I asked. Flaco shook his head, and at the same time, Flattop also did. They''d both seen what I hadn''t. "Nah, everybody else here is walking the light. Legit folks." I nodded, and a few minutes later, Flattop and Flaco shook hands, and we were on our way again. "That worked well. What''s next, another DIY Dave''s?" "Nah, the next one''s almost an hour from here, and by the time we get there, all the guys will be gone. I am kind of stumped about where else, actually. Down by the library, maybe? Or maybe we ask the Nirvana guys if any of their dudes want to sell?" Flattop mused, merging back into traffic. The sun came through the open windows and made me remember just how much I loved driving around in L.A., well, San Tadeo. "Yeah, I don''t know if they will. They don''t seem like drug dealer types. Although if we need some guns, they can definitely help with that." We drove for a minute longer before I had an idea. I wasn''t proud of it, but it might work. "I''ve got it. Turn down here," I said, indicating West Adams Boulevard. "Where are we going?" Flattop asked. "Give me a sec, I''ll tell you. I think it''s down here." Five minutes later, our destination came into sight as we crossed Figueroa. St Vincent de Paul, the church I''d walked past so many times on my way to a game store nearby. It was one of those typical community churches where things were always happening in the basement, and in the outbuildings. One in particular I was interested in was the morning meeting. "Right there, pull up. Let''s see what we got." Flattop was looking like curiosity was going to kill him at this point but was following my lead without too much complaint and we opened a large wooden door covered in posters and notices to enter the basement of the church. It was a cool echoing space, long and wide hall with beautiful stone floors and magnificent but scarred wooden walls and ceiling. I followed the signs to the end of the hallway where I could smell burnt coffee, sweat, and stale doughnuts, if only in my imagination. Flattop and I entered, closing the door behind us. Only about 20 of the folding chairs were full, so we sat down near the back. Just as someone was applauded off the front and a new person came up to speak. "Hi, my name is Loosy, and I''m an addict." "Hi, Loosy!" The crowd echoed back to him in a somewhat ragged manner. WIthout thinking I threw out an id.
Loosy
Loosy gave them a smile, and for some reason I immediately didn''t like him. It took me a second to realize what had triggered that reaction. His teeth were rotten, just like the meth head in Mr. Kim''s store. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. "Now like a lot of you here, I''ve been in recovery for a while. For me, 18 months," he said, holding up a chip with 18 on it. There was scattered applause and a woo somewhere at the far right of the room. "Thanks. But the reason we tell our stories is so that other people can recognize our trials as similar to their own. So today I''m gonna share a moment when I hit what I thought was rock-bottom. One of the times I quit meth. My love. My addiction. My master." "Fuck, a meth addict, this was a mistake, let''s go," I muttered to Flattop. "No, we still need guys, this was your stupid idea. Let''s ride it out," he replied in a low voice. A somewhat insane-looking Karen, two rows up, turned around and glared at us, willing us to be quiet with only her mind and her sharp glance. Loosy was continuing. "I was in a squat, not that far from here. It was just me and my boy. We''d been doing shit together since high school, we had each other''s backs, always. Meth had us both, though, but it had its hooks into me more than him. He still had a job. I was spending my days hustling, trying to get high any way I could. Begging, taking anything not nailed down and selling it. You know, the usual junkie shit." "That day, I''d just scored, and I''d come home to the squat, and my boy, Jake, wasn''t there. He''s at work, bussing tables or washing dishes or some shit. I never much paid attention. It was a restaurant job, I know that. He''d bring home Italian food every day, it was all we ate. He once joked we were going to be the only fat tweakers in San Tadeo," Loosy said, to scattered laughter before pausing, his eyes glistening a bit. "I''d promised I was going to wait for him so we''d get high together if I scored, but I''m a fucking junkie. I held out for maybe twenty minutes and then I smoked up half. I left the other half for him and I couldn''t sit still. I started cleaning and organizing the squat. We didn''t have much, but the one thing we did have was cleaning products. I made that fucking kitchen spotless, but then I thought I heard something. I checked where I left the half for Jake, and it''s fucking gone. One of my goddamn junkie neighbors got in and ripped us off. I was furious. I was going to kill whoever''d done it." This was a twist in the story I hadn''t expected, and I leaned forward, getting drawn into the story a bit. Flattop looked similarly engaged. "I checked the windows and the door. All still locked tight. Skinny fucker must''ve crawled in through a vent. I almost went and pounded on the neighbors door. I knew it was that fucker. I could almost smell him in the air, that kind of rotten yogurt smell some junkies get. Yelling at him through the door wasn''t going to fix anything though, and my mind was sharp. Meth makes you a fucking genius with a supercharged brain. At least, it makes you think you are. I set a trap for the thief. He''d stolen once, he''d do it again." He paused and scratched his stubbly cheek, taking a sip of water before continuing. "The cleaning supplies I was using were old and crusty. Around the lid of one of the bottles some crystals had grown. If you were a stupid tweaker, you could even mistake them for shitty meth. I scraped them off, and put them in an empty little baggie on the table where the half I''d reserved for Jake had been. Steal that, mother fucker. Then, I waited. I mean, I cleaned some more, and tried to act casual, and stayed away from the vents that bastard must have used. But then the high started to fade, and my mind got fuzzy. I sat down to drink some juice and just passed the fuck out." "When I woke up the squat smelled like pizza. You know that smell. I remember my stomach rumbling, and I ran out to the living room. The pizza was there, and so was Jake. He was twisted up like a pretzel, his mouth covered in foam and vomit with a little blood. His eyes were open. His pipe was on the floor nearby. He''d smoked the crystal I left out for the thief and it had killed him. Now that I''ve got some distance from it I can admit that there wasn''t a thief. I realized as soon as I woke up and smelled pizza that I''d smoked the rest of the meth in my cleaning frenzy when the high first started to dip. I''d just forgotten." "Anyway, I went fucking mad. I torched the apartment and almost died of smoke inhalation before I dragged my ass out into the street. I stayed sober after that for 6 months, just white knuckling it. It didn''t stick though. My addiction got me again at a low moment. I let myself get really drunk, and I had a little money and was feeling good. It sunk its claws back into me, and it didn''t let me go for another two years. It took another bounce off the bottom before I quit for good. But that''s a story for another time." "That''s all I got," Loosy said. He left the podium, sitting down in the chairs near the front. "Damn, that was fucked up," Flattop muttered to me. "Yeah, he murdered his friend," I replied dismissively. I still didn''t like the man, and his story hadn''t made him more likable. "Fuck that, Homes. Drugs can make you do some stupid shit," Flattop replied. There were a few more stories, but none of them were as dramatic as that. A few minutes later, the meeting broke up, the majority of the attendees streaming outside either to get on with their day or smoke a cigarette in the sun before doing whatever it is recovering druggies did during the day. Most of them didn''t look like they had a job, and they were just there for the free donuts and coffee and interaction with people not pushing a shopping cart. Flattop was scanning the crowd and so was I. Almost everyone here was in shadow, and most of them looked like their lives were hard. It was only after everyone stood up that I realized how much me and Flattop stood out. We were wearing clean, intact clothing, shoes that weren''t covered in dirt, and both of us had showered. My skull belt buckle was just the cherry on top. The meeting facilitator walked up to us as the room emptied out. "Can I help you guys? You got any questions?" I identified him, and his nameplate popped right up.
Richard Weintraub, Community Advocate (E2)
"No, we''re okay, thanks Richard. Some very moving stories," Flattop said. Richard''s eyes narrowed as he looked at the both of us. Obviously seeing what I had just realized. "Listen, if you''re here to sell, don''t. Some of these guys are just barely hanging on. They don''t need you pushing them over." I hadn''t thought of that, my moral compass wasn''t that broken, yet. He was right, selling drugs outside of an NA meeting would be like shooting retarded fish at the bottom of a very deep barrel. "Nah, man. You''re good. We''ll just be on our way," Flattop said. I nodded, following his lead out the door. Just outside the church, after the city enforced buffer space, were a good percentage of the NA members, desperately inhaling their cigarettes. Loosy was one of them, and Flattop went to approach. "Yo, what you doing? You thinking this guy, no way," I protested. "Your idea, we need guys, suck it up," he replied. "Yo," Flattop said as he squared up with Loosy. "Hey, guys," Loosy said, taking a drag to finish his cigarette before flicking it away in an orange blur. "That was a brutal story. Thanks for sharing it," Flattop said. I cocked my eyebrow at Flattop, not understanding where he was going here. Did he really find Loosy''s story of negligent murder to be moving? "Thanks. You guys don''t look like you''re using, why are you here?" he asked. "We''re hiring, you said you were a hustler, you still hustling?" Flattop asked. "No, not really. Trying to get some education, that''s all. Anyway, not sure what you would need me for. I''m not much of a gangster," you said. "You don''t need a lot of skill for this job. Just sell our product, be honest, don''t get jacked. You got any problems with weed?" Flattop asked. "Nah, weed''s cool. It''s not like alcohol, if I drink too much I''ll use again, but for some reason weed doesn''t do that to me. It''s not exactly the way you''re supposed to do things, but it works for me. Any rules aren''t set in stone." "So okay then, if you want the job, you just got to show up tonight at," Flattop started, but I''d had enough. "Hold on, you want this guy? He just told us a story about how he murdered his best friend," I protested. "For fuck''s sakes, Mack," Flattop said, exasperated, but Loosy raised his right hand and tried to still the conflict, speaking up. "No, Mack, you''re right. I did murder him. It was me, it wasn''t the drug. It was me. I did it. That''s the only way any of this works, is if I take responsibility for it. Yes, the drug was laced, and it made me do stupid shit, but ultimately, it was on me. I killed Jake. I didn''t want to, and I cried every day for at least a month after I woke up and found him dead. It wrecked me, and it still hurts. But it was me. That''s the only way you get anywhere, managing your addiction, is when you acknowledge your responsibility for your actions, and you ask for help from a higher power." With that, he lifted up an unobtrusive crucifix to his lips and kissed it, looking up at the sky. "God? You''re religious now, Loosy?" I asked. "Yeah, I found God, or he found me, whichever it was. In any case, he saved my life. I''m not as worthless as I once thought I was, at least not in God''s eyes." I must have snorted or otherwise seemed skeptical because Flattop spoke up in Loosy''s defense. "You don''t know what it''s like, Mack. I''ve got a few cousins in NA. They did some heinous shit when they were using. If you can''t forgive them, that''s fine, but when they''re family, you''ve got to." Loosy wasn''t my family, and I wasn''t feeling forgiving, but his seemingly genuine belief was wearing away at my instinctual doubt and hatred of him. "I don''t know," I said, turning away a bit, trying to wash my hands of it. That was stupid, this was my idea, but it felt wrong to just say no to the guy because he looked like the scumbag that had shot me in the back. "Listen, give me a trial run. Without the meth in my life, people call me reliable. I''ll do a good job for you guys, and I need the work." "Good enough for me. Mack?" Flattop said, looking at me. I got the impression that Flattop was treating this as my decision, which felt odd but also appropriate. "Fine, we''ll give you a trial. But if you fuck us, you''re going to find out how I got this belt buckle. Understand?" I asked, willing my Victorious title visible. There was a moment while his eyes unfocused and then sharpened as he must have ID''d me and read the title. "Understood. You guys are serious, got it. Where do I go, and when?" Flattop gave him the address, and the time - 7 p.m. sharp. "We''ll give you transport wherever you need to go from there," he said. After that, Flattop and I spent another hour half-heartedly driving around and trying to find other N.A. meetings or construction workers, but time was running out. It still stuck in my craw a bit that we had hired an admitted meth junkie that had murdered his best friend. What kind of organization were we running here? If something ought to be disqualifying, wasn''t that? Were my morals becoming so flexible? Time passed quickly, and as the sun was setting, we pulled up in front of the LSS garage. Time to sell, Friday night.