Before the Dawn

Chapter five Welcome to the monkey house

Like poison mushrooms, they sprang up all around the country after the Pulse, these villages of ramshackle shacks where people — little more than refugees really — came to live and, frequently, die. Named Jamestowns — after Michael James, the president of the United States when the Pulse hit — the ragtag hamlets were a twenty-first-century variation on the Hoovervilles of the previous century’s Great Depression, those packing-crate communities named after another less-than-stellar president.

This Jamestown, located on the east side of Eureka, California, had been around since just after the LA Quake of 2012. What had started with only a few cardboard hovels had become — following a frontier pattern hardly new to the state — an actual town over the last seven years, complete with bars, trading posts, a church, and even a roughshod school. Covering acres that used to be the Sequoia Park Zoo, the Jamestown had incorporated the zoo’s animal housing for its own varied purposes.

Though most of the zoo had been converted to human shelter, the monkey house had long since become a bar of the same name, also serving humans, at least technically. Bordering the Monkey House (which had a neon sign wired to its bars) were towering ravines of stately redwoods, which most people — even the rough sort who came and went to such Jamestowns — had the good sense to avoid at night. Though the village was more or less peaceful, the woods was where the majority of the bad things around here happened: the usual... murders, rapes, robberies. The foliage of the forest would never lack for fertilizer, thanks to the flow of decomposing bodies.

Across the main walkway from the Monkey House, army-navy surplus tents had been pitched around the former zoo’s structures, providing temporary shelter for the hundreds of travelers who stayed anywhere from a day to three or four months, depending on their ability — financial and/or physical — to move on.

For the last few weeks, the tent city had been home to a band of barbaric SoCal bikers, descendants of a notorious pre-Pulse biker gang called the Hell’s Angels. The New Hellions took their name seriously, were suffused with pride in their mongrel pedigree, and tried to live up to that image every day, in every way.

Strolling at twilight through this nasty-ass post-Pulse slum as if it were a benign street fair was a slim, beautiful, busty black woman with high cheekbones, a wide nose, and huge brown eyes shaded with blue eye shadow; her dark eyebrows curved with an ironic confidence that was no pose and her large, rather puffy Afro had been dressed up with a few pink stripes for good measure.

For a woman alone in a tough town, “Original Cindy” McEachin showed no fear... neither did she feel any.

Her pants were a second skin of leather, jet black, with an orange, midriff-baring top so tight it hardly needed the spaghetti straps, showing off not only her flat tummy but the tops of her breasts and bare shoulders, like a dare. Not surprisingly, many males took that dare, this striking female drawing goo-goo-eyed, drop-jawed stares from the few bikers who weren’t already in the Monkey House.

You damn well better be starin’, she thought; her heels were spikes, but she couldn’t have moved easier in tennies. You ain’t never seen nothin’ like Original Cindy — lookee but no touchee, you barbaric bozos...

Crossing the walkway, shaking what God had given her, Original Cindy all but bumped into a biker couple exiting the Monkey House.

The burly man’s automatic frown flipped into a yellow-green grin when he saw the shapely form he’d almost collided with; he had long, tangled brown hair, which may have been washed at some time or other, and wore only a ragged denim vest with his obligatory jeans and boots. Despite a hairy beer belly, the biker had arms rivaling the trunks of the surrounding sequoias, each bicep tattooed with snakes that curled around and undulated whenever he flexed.

“My bad,” Original Cindy drawled.

The guy had slithered one snake arm around his date, a thin little former prom queen in jeans and a black-leather-and-chains halter, with long blond hair, puffy lips, tired blue eyes, and a sultry air about her; drugs and booze had not yet robbed her of all her appeal.

Original Cindy smiled at the woman, who smiled knowingly back.

The big drunk biker, thinking the smile was for him, said, “I jus’ might accept that apology, Brown Sugar,” and took a step toward Original Cindy...

... which was a mistake.

The first thing he lost was the blonde. Slipping out from under his snake-embossed bicep, the prom queen said to him, “Screw you and the Harley you rode in on,” and stormed off toward the tent city, leaving the biker to stare at Original Cindy.

“Hey, baby,” he said flashing that multicolored grin, his speech only a little slurred. “Three’s a crowd, anyway.”

Original Cindy put her hands on her hips and reared back her Afroed head. “You can’t be serious, Haystack — you think I was smilin’ at your punk ass?”

His forehead clenched as he attempted thought.

Original Cindy continued with his schooling: “I was smilin’ at the sweet squeeze that went thatta way,” one long thin finger pointing in the direction the biker’s chick had gone.

His eyes widened and the grin turned upside down. “Jesus! A fuckin’ dyke!”

He took another step toward her, a menacing one this time; but stopped when Original Cindy dropped into a combat stance.

She asked, “You denigratin’ my sexual preference aside... you sure you wanna go there?”

Cindy had been making her way back to Seattle since she’d gotten out of the army, not so long ago. And a woman, veteran or not, didn’t hitch her way from Fort Hood, Texas, unless she knew how to handle her ass.

The drunk biker considered backing down for a moment, but his ego got the better of him and he pulled out his switchblade. The knife opened with a snick, long narrow blade finding light to wink off.

But he might have taken out a kazoo and started playing “Yankee Doodle,” for all the reaction it got out of Original Cindy, who merely smirked a little.

“Know what they say,” she said. “Longer the blade...”

The biker wiped several greasy locks of hair out of his eyes. “Y’gonna really apologize now, bitch.”

She tilted her head and appraised him, as if the biker were fine print she was trying to make out.

“You know,” she said, “you done nothin’ but call Original Cindy names since we met... the ‘d’ word, the ‘b’ word... and you’re just about a consonant away from getting my boot in the crack of your wide honky ass.”

His eyes were white all the way around now, and he blurted another epithet — finally getting around to the “c” word — and charged her.

“That’s the one...” she said, and as he neared, she sidestepped, cracking him along the ear with the back of a fist as he stumbled past her, and kicking him in the ass.

That was the second thing the biker lost: his dignity... such as it was.

“Goddamn it,” he roared, one hand going to the reddening ear. “I’m gonna cut you to fuckin’ ribbons, you black bitch!”

Her response to this name-calling was nonverbal: with a martial-arts jump, she delivered a perfectly placed, spike-heeled kick to his foul mouth.

The biker dropped like a bag of grain, his knife tumbling from his popped-open fingers and rolling under some bushes, as if trying to get the hell out of this. The big man tried to speak again, but the words came out a mushy mumble mixed with the teeth he was spitting up like undigested corn. Blood streaked down his chin onto his bare, hairy chest in colorful ribbons.

“Ooooh,” Original Cindy said, hands on hips again, wincing in feigned disgust. “You do know how to gross a girl out... You wanna call me some more names? You ain’t worked your way to ‘n’ yet... ’Course then I’d have to kill your ass.”

Wobbling to his feet, his eyes narrowing with hate, the biker glanced toward the bush where his knife peeked out from under some leaves.

“Now, you don’t even wanna think about going for that, do you now? Your mama didn’t raise a fool, did she — surely you know when you got your ass kicked?”

The response to this diplomacy was, “Fuck you!”

She waggled her head and waggled a finger, too. “No sir, nada chance, not on your best day... not even if I got some of that sweet thing you chased off afterward.”

Hysterical with fury and embarrassment, the biker lunged for the bushes where his knife awaited. Original Cindy cut off his path and met him with a side kick to the head. Again the biker dropped... and this time he stayed down. Breathing — a bubbly saliva-and-blood broth boiling at his broken mouth.

Turning casually toward the tents, Original Cindy thought, Now where did that fine slice of heaven get herself to?

But the blonde was nowhere to be seen.

“Damn,” Original Cindy said to nobody. “And just when I thought we had us a moment.”

Turning back, she went through the open cage doors into the bar. Two things assaulted her immediately: the raucous roar of a bad rock band in the far end of the room — almost twenty years into the twenty-first century and ZZ Top covers still ruled — and the aroma of sandalwood incense laced with monkey shit. Original Cindy decided the smart money was on breathing through her mouth — which meant she would fit right in with this group.

The joint was packed with the sort of lowlifes who made the road their home, and the combination of sweat, liquor, and bad breath was an invitation to be somewhere else. But Original Cindy ain’t no quitter, she reminded herself, and besides... Cindy was parched. She’d been looking forward to a brew even before she worked up a thirst kicking biker ass. So she elbowed her way to the bar.

The band continued to whack away at their instruments the singer caterwauling into a frequently feeding-back mike; but Cindy knew it would take someone with a Ph.D. in classic rock to figure out which ZZ Top song they were currently butchering.

The bartender — a skinny pale pitiful-looking guy with more hair than his comb could handle and two puffy black eyes, courtesy of a dissatisfied customer no doubt — moved in front of her.

“Beer!” she yelled, over the din of the band and the crowd.

He nodded and walked away.

She wheeled to have a look at the predominantly biker crowd. Last time Original Cindy had seen this much denim and leather in one place had been at a rodeo near Fort Hood. This was nothing like that... thank God; even the bikers were an improvement over the shit-kicker cowboys in Texas. Original Cindy was not prejudiced, but she had little patience for rednecks.

Or for redneck bands like this one — two guitars, a bass, drums, and a druggie vocalist in search of the key; they sounded like marbles twirled in a garbage can with a couple of fornicating cats thrown in for good measure.

Original Cindy was still shaking her head in disbelief at the sorry state of her cultural and social life at this particular moment, when the shiner-adorned bartender came back with a cold bottle of beer. She got a three-dollar bill out of her wallet — President James on it, appropriately — and the bartender snatched the bill from her fingers.

“Damn!” she said. “Go on and help your damn self, why don’t you?”

The bartender walked away.

“No wonder you a damn raccoon,” she mumbled, then: “Keep the change, Prince Charmin’!”... even though she knew he’d already assumed as much.

She sipped at the beer, hoping to make it last. At these prices being sober was looking like a reasonable option. Besides, this joint with that band and these patrons wasn’t worth more than one beer and fifteen minutes of her life. No one who shared her particular worldview seemed to frequent this establishment, and if she didn’t want more biker run-ins, the best bet would be to drink up and get the hell out of this zoo.

She swigged her suds and, considering this was Original Cindy anyway, kept a low profile. Nonetheless, the bikers stared at her, making her more uncomfortable than she would care to admit.

She wasn’t afraid — hell, nothing scared her, except maybe life itself; but thirty bikers to one black ex-soldier seemed like shitty odds. Killing the beer, she turned toward the door just as the biker she’d pounded came staggering in, drunk (more from her beating than beer), his mouth twisted in an angry snarl, blood still trailing down his chin like a sloppy vampire.

“Now you get yours, you black bitch,” he bellowed, though the words came out slurred and mushy because he was drunk and no longer had all his teeth.

The band kept playing; but every eye in the bar had already turned to the door, and now swiveled to Original Cindy. After all, no one in here had missed her entrance...

“Oh, maaaan... I thought I was done with your sorry ass,” she said, and looked around at the other patrons, to court their support. Once a fight was finished, the fight was finished, right? Get on with your damn lives!

But the bikers were closing into a loose semicircle around her, putting the bar at her back, leaving a path for the drunk to get to her.

Again the burly biker edged toward her, and he had that damn blade in his hand again. The circle began to close in, providing a compact stage for the coming action.

So she struck first, picking up the beer bottle and smashing it over the head of the nearest biker, who collapsed in a heap. The band finally noticed that no one was listening to them and stopped playing, providing an awful, deathly silence.

Original Cindy tore a hole in it: “You want some more of Original Cindy?” She gestured to herself with both hands, entering the center of the circle, oozing bravado, saying, “Then come on — plenty to go ’round!”

Unfortunately for her, they took her invitation.

There was little room to maneuver, this close to the bar, and although she got one biker across the bridge of the nose with a straight right, and another in the groin with a knee, it was only a matter of time before the bikers had swarmed her, pinning her on the floor like a dead butterfly in a collector’s book. They held her down, tight, spread-eagled, and took turns copping obnoxious feels until the burly bastard she’d already defeated outside now fought his way through the crowd.

“You ain’t so cocky now, are ya, bitch?”

She glared up at him, playing the only card she had. “You gutless pussy — afraid to take on a girl by your ownself? Gotta have your buddies hold her down?”

He leaned over and slapped her and it sounded like a gunshot, ringing off the cement of the former monkey house, and her head exploded in pain accompanied by colorful starbursts.

“I’m about to accept your apology, bitch...”

Spitting blood up into his face, Original Cindy said, “I told you to stop callin’ me that!”

He reared back a snake-draped arm to hit her again, but before he could strike, a small hand gripped the biker’s thick wrist.

The olive-skinned young woman in black leather jacket and pants was petite if shapely, and she had slipped through the circle of bikers without anyone thinking to stop her. Those who’d noticed merely admired her lithe yet voluptuous figure; a few others were amused to see such a little thing walk out into the center ring of this circus.

But now they all froze, including Original Cindy’s antagonist, whose nostrils flared and eyes widened, as he turned to see who dared interrupt him — and who it was that belonged to the viselike grip on his wrist.

“Walk away,” the young woman advised him.

“You... gotta... be... kiddin,” the biker said, upper lip peeling back over a smile that now had a few holes in it.

The young woman smiled back. From the floor where the other bikers still had her pinned, Original Cindy basked in the radiance of the stranger’s smile, expecting the sweet thing to soon be joining her on the floor, where together they’d pull a horrible biker train...

“Yeah,” the young woman said, little smile, little shrug. “I’m just kiddin’ around.”

Still holding on to his wrist, the black-clad girl thrust a sideways kick that caught the biker behind the knee, and sent him to the floor, kneeling hard. From her awkward vantage, Original Cindy couldn’t focus on what happened next.

The leather-clad woman became a dervish, striking, spinning, striking again, again, kicks knocking the bikers every which way. Suddenly finding herself free, Cindy jumped to her feet, catching only the blur as her unlikely rescuer threw dropkicks and fists into one biker after another, like a damn Bruce Lee movie; but that burly biker who’d started it all was getting onto his feet, that knife still in one hand.

Original Cindy slammed a small hard fist into the side of his head and sent him down, even as the girl in leather threw a casual kick sideways, knocking the knife from the man’s grasp. The biker was still on his feet, but groggy; Original Cindy doubled him over with a knee in the groin, and his mouth gaped in a silent scream until she closed it for him with a hard right.

And for the second time tonight, the big biker with the tiny mind fell to the floor barely conscious, spitting teeth like seeds.

In less than thirty seconds, the only people still standing in the bar were the band, the bartender, and the two women. The others were in various stages of semiconsciousness, moaning, rolling into fetal balls, a few crawling off, looking for a corner to bleed in.

“I’m Max,” the young woman said.

“Original Cindy.”

Max raised a fist and Original Cindy touched it with a fist of her own; neither had even bloodied a knuckle in the brawl. The bartender was smiling — maybe whoever had given him his shiners had gone down in this melee; he handed the two victors cold-sweating beers and held his palms up: no charge.

Toasting with the brew, Max said, “You can handle yourself, girl.”

“Sister girl,” Original Cindy said as she surveyed the damage, “you got a move or two your ownself.”

“Think maybe we should bounce?”

“Yeah, things’ve kinda died down around the ol’ Monkey House, don’t you think?”

“A little dull?”

“I don’t think these people wanna party no more.”

Winding casually through the casualties, the two women walked out of the bar.

“Those peckerwoods are lucky you come along,” Original Cindy said, hitching her shoulders.

Max gave her an amused sideways glance. “They’re lucky?”

“Oh yeah — jus’ ’fore you stuck your teeny nose in, I was about to bust loose on their asses, and cause some serious harm.”

Max laughed lightly. “You shoulda said somethin’ — I wouldn’ta spoiled your fun.”

“How did you even know to come in?”

“I don’t know — I can sorta smell trouble.”

“Original Cindy hears that — ’specially when there’s that much of it and it smells that rank.”

The night seemed suddenly chilly to Original Cindy, and she hugged herself. Max slipped out of her jacket, revealing a baby blue, well-filled sleeveless T-shirt, and passed the leather garment to Cindy.

Who said, “Thanks,” and pulled the coat on.

“We probably shouldn’t hang around here.”

“All bullshit aside, girl, we best watch our asses in this Jamestown, else we get caps popped in ’em.”

Max stopped in front of a sleek black motorcycle. “This is my ride — you got wheels?”

“This is Original Cindy’s wheels.” She held up a thumb. “My stuff is hidden in the woods.”

“Stuff?”

“You think these is the only clothes Original Cindy owns?” She grinned. “Got me some stylin’ threads out there in them woods.”

“Can you find your stash in the dark?”

“Does the pope shit in the woods? Is a bear Catholic?”

Max laughed and threw a leg over the bike. “Climb on, O. C. — we’ll get your stash and put some distance between us and that biker brain trust.”

“You don’t have to tell Original Cindy twice.” She climbed on behind Max, her arms locking around the middle of the leather-clad rider.

Max turned the key, gunned the bike, and, kicking a dirt cloud, took off into the forest. They picked up Original Cindy’s backpack from its hiding place and hit the road. Max kept the speedometer pegged at nearly one hundred, making conversation impossible until they stopped at a small, roadside coffee shop on the far side of Redwood National Park.

Clean by post-Pulse standards, the place had six booths along one wall, a counter with a dozen or so stools, and behind the back counter a wall with a pass-through window to the tiny kitchen. At this hour, the cook and the waitress were the only people in the place; they sat next to each other at the counter, each reading a section of newspaper. Wearing a white T-shirt and blue jeans, the cook rose when they came in. A paunchy man in his late forties, with bug eyes and greasy dark hair, he moved back toward the kitchen without a word. The waitress wore tan slacks and a brown smock. She had short dark hair, a birdlike body, and a drawn, cowhide-tough face. She stayed put until the women had chosen a booth.

“Coffee, you two?” she asked as she rose.

They both said, “Yes.”

The waitress moved quickly for someone in the middle of a graveyard shift and gave them each a cup of coffee and a glass of water. “You ready to order?”

“This is fine for now,” Max said.

Original Cindy said, “Yeah, me too.”

Nodding, the waitress returned to her seat and picked up the paper. “False alarm, Jack!”

The guy in the kitchen came back out and picked up his paper, too; this time though, he stayed on his side of the counter.

“Original Cindy just wanted to thank you for steppin’ in tonight.” Sitting forward, she leaned across the booth and patted Max on the hand. “A sistah coulda looked at them odds and walked the hell right back out the door.”

Shaking her head, Max said, “Wouldn’t do for sistahs to be lettin’ each other bump uglies with the likes of those dickweeds.”

“They ain’t Original Cindy’s... type anyway.”

“Low-life bikers.”

“Dickweeds.”

Max gave her a look.

Original Cindy explained what had started the altercation with the biker — namely, the blonde. Watching Max carefully, she said, “You gotta do what floats your boat.”

“None of my business,” Max said, “where people put their paddles.”

Original Cindy smiled and Max gave her half a smile back. They sat and sipped their coffee for a while, letting the silence grow, both of them comfortable with it.

Finally, Original Cindy sat forward again, saying, “What the hell was that back there, girl?”

Max shrugged, playing it low-key. “What was what?”

Original Cindy made a couple of mock Kung Fu hand gestures. “That Jet Li, Jackie Chan action — what was up with that?”

Another shrug. Avoiding eye contact, Max said, “Had some training.”

The other woman waggled a finger. “No, girl, no no... Original Cindy was in the army and she had some training, can take of herself... but whew, nothin’ like what was goin’ on in that bar.”

Max stared into her coffee. “Let’s just say I’m a good student.”

“You wanna leave it at that?”

Max held her coffee cup in both hands, as if warming them. “You don’t mind?”

“That’s cool. That’s where we leave it then.”

A smile blossomed on the heart-shaped face. “Thanks.”

“You thankin’ me? That’s whack.”

“If you say so.”

“Anyway, Original Cindy just wants to say she owes you big-time.”

This seemed to embarrass Max, who said offhandedly, “I was just jealous, all the attention you were getting.”

“Well, you my girl now — you need anything, anytime, Original Cindy got your back.”

Max saluted her with a coffee cup, and said seriously, “That’s good to know.”

“From now on you my Boo.”

Max frowned, and looked vaguely nervous. “I, uh... thought I made it clear I don’t go that way.”

Original Cindy cracked up, the laughter bubbling out of her; but Max just studied her.

“Bein’ a Boo ain’t about... that, Max — it’s about bein’ stand-up, it’s about I got your back, you got mine... it’s about bein’ tight. You my Boo.”

A natural smile blossomed on Max’s lovely face. “Well, then... you’re my Boo... too.”

The rhyme came out awkward, and made Original Cindy start laughing again, and this time Max got caught on the wave, and the two young women just sat there and giggled for maybe a minute.

Then Original Cindy extended a fist, which Max bumped with her own.

The waitress brought them refills on the coffee, an act that served as a time-out. When the waitress left, the two women sipped and talked, the conversation shifting gears.

“So,” Original Cindy said, “where you headed?”

“Seattle.”

“No kiddin’?”

Max looked at her curiously. “Shouldn’t I be?”

“No, girl, it’s just... I’m headed home myself.”

“Seattle is home?”

“One of ’em. Spent some time in the Emerald City.”

Max’s eyes tightened in confusion. “Emerald City?”

“Yeah, that’s what the peeps used to call Seattle back before the Pulse. You know... like Wizard of Oz?”

Max got a funny expression on her face. “I’ve heard of that...”

“’Course you have!” Original Cindy looked at Max like the girl was speaking Esperanto. “Who hasn’t seen the best movie ever made?”

“Me,” Max admitted.

“Back in the old days, every kid saw that movie.”

“Well... I had a kind of sheltered childhood.”

“Oooh, Boo, we got to introduce you to the finer things.”

Grinning, Max said, “I’m up for that.”

“Look, chile, here’s the dealio: Original Cindy needs a ride to Seattle... and you’re already goin’ that way.”

Max looked into her cup. “I need to haul. I’m sort of... meeting someone there.”

“Haulin’ ass is fine with Original Cindy. The sooner we get there, the sooner we’re there... right?”

Max’s eyes widened but she also smiled. “How can I argue with that logic?... Let’s blaze, Boo.”

Original Cindy’s face exploded in a smile. “Boo, the Emerald City ain’t never been hit by a pair of witches this fine...”

Going inland and traveling on the interstate might have been faster, but Max still took precautions to avoid any possible contact with Manticore; so they kept to the winding PCH and moseyed up the coast at a leisurely eighty-five to ninety miles per hour.

They stopped only for food and the call of nature — and to gas up the bike, which at eight or nine bucks a gallon was burning a hole in her bankroll, as Max had known it would. The roar of the motorcycle and the wind kept conversation to a minimum, but the two young women somehow knew that each had finally found the sort of friend they needed.

There weren’t a lot of questions about each other’s past; instinctively they both knew the other had secrets not for sharing. Nevertheless, they just sort of fell in together and the start of their friendship felt like they were already in the middle of it.

The last five hundred miles of the trip flew by and before they knew it, Max and Original Cindy were tooling through the streets of Seattle, still a striking city despite the squalor of post-Pulse life.

“Everything’s so green,” Max said, over her shoulder.

“That’s why it’s the Emerald City, Dorothy girl.”

“Dorothy?”

“Boo, you ain’t got no sense of culture whatsoever.”

“I might surprise you, Cin...”

At Fourth and Blanchard, Max eased the Ninja over to the curb in front of a place called Buck’s Coffee. The sign looked as though it used to have four letters before the B, but they couldn’t be made out.

“Caffeine calling,” Max said.

“Original Cindy hears it, too.”

Inside, the pair of striking women walked up to the counter behind which stood a heavyset man barely taller than Max, a lascivious grin forming on his fat, five-o’clock-shadowed face. At a counter behind him, a blowsily attractive blond woman about their age — wearing knee-high pink boots, a blue miniskirt, and a pink top that bared both her midriff and most of her formidable chest — hovered over a sandwich in the making.

“Ladies, don’t even bother orderin’ no frappes, lattes, cappuccinos,” he said. Staring at Original Cindy, he added, “I serve my coffee just like I like my women — hot and black.”

The blue-cheeked guy seemed proud of himself, under the illusion he had minted this deathless phrase.

Max could tell that Original Cindy was considering jumping the counter to bitch-slap the white right off this horse’s ass; so Max gently said, “Come on, Boo — let’s go someplace where we can get a grande.”

“Yeah... instead of the limp mini this mope is peddlin’.”

Max giggled, and the blonde toward the back giggled, too... but the counter guy did not laugh; in fact, he reddened and fumed.

He started to say something, but Original Cindy cut him off with a wave of a finger accompanied by a sway of the head and shoulders. “Don’t hate the playah, baby... hate the game.”

Max and Original Cindy bumped fists and the blond woman laughed out loud.

The counter guy turned on her. “You know what’s really funny? A skank like you lookin’ for a new job in this market, is what’s really funny.”

The blonde fell silent.

“Hey,” Max said, taking a step toward the counter.

“Butt out,” the counter man said. “This ain’t no concern of yours. And you...” He turned to the blonde. “... you’re movin’ on to bigger and better things. Get your fat butt outa here!”

Max leapt the counter, landing between the blonde and the counter guy, who was startled and a little afraid by this sudden impressive move. “Hire her back.”

“What do you—”

Max lifted him up by the throat; his eyes were bulging as he stared down at her, too afraid and in too much discomfort to be properly amazed by the petite woman lifting him gently off the ground, a fact neither Original Cindy nor the put-upon blonde picked up on.

The blonde touched Max’s arm. “It’s all right... he can’t fire me, ’cause I quit... I’m tired of workin’ for this sexual-harasshole.”

“Good call,” Original Cindy said.

Max shrugged and put the guy down.

He was leaning over the counter, red-faced, choking, when the three women strolled out onto the street together. They stood at the curb, near Max’s bike, and chatted.

“My name’s Kendra Maibaum,” the blonde said, extending her hand.

Max shook it. “Max Guevera — and this lovely lady is Original Cindy.”

“Pleased,” Original Cindy said and shook hands with Kendra too.

“How did you do that?” Kendra asked. “Handle Morty like that, I mean.”

Original Cindy raised her eyebrows, smirking. “Girl had training.”

Max at that moment realized she would have to watch herself, from now on — she had been entirely too careless around Original Cindy.

“Training but no coffee,” Max said. Her X5 skills would have to be better concealed. “And we haven’t even started talkin’ about findin’ a place to crash.”

Kendra asked, “You guys need a place to crash?”

“We’re kind of new in town,” Original Cindy explained.

“Like five minutes new,” Max added.

The blonde shrugged. “If you don’t need a lot of space, you can stay with me. I’ve got a place. Room enough for two, maybe three.”

Original Cindy glanced at Max, who shrugged, asking, “Why would you do that for us? You don’t know us from nobody.”

Kendra gestured toward the coffee shop. “You stood up for me with Morty.”

“Cost you your job, you mean,” Max reminded her.

Laughing, Kendra said, “Yeah, but it was worth it, seein’ Morty, scared shitless... and, anyway, that job sucked. Besides, it wasn’t my only means of income.”

“Workin’ girl?” Original Cindy asked, again glancing at the pink top filled to the brim and the postage-stamp miniskirt.

Kendra’s hands went to her hips. “Why would you ask that?” She didn’t sound hurt, exactly — more surprised.

Original Cindy’s eyes widened. Max frowned at her friend, who said nothing about the former waitress’s provocative attire, merely saying. “Uh... uh, don’t know, girl, it just sounded like maybe you, uh...”

“Oh, I work a lot... but not at that. I do some translating, language training, transcription work. I’ve done a buncha things, but never that.”

“Sorry — Original Cindy didn’t mean no offense.”

Kendra shook her head. “Not to worry. Anyway, ’fyou guys need a place to crash, I’ve got room.”

“Sweet,” Max said. “Where?”

“Not far.”

“Walking distance? I hope so, ’cause it’s gonna be a bitch gettin’ three of us on my bike.”

“Oh yeah,” Kendra said, with a dismissive wave, “easy walking distance.”

They wound up walking for most of the next hour, Max pushing the Ninja, Original Cindy lugging her backpack, but they didn’t complain — after all, a roof was a roof. But Max didn’t know quite what to make of Kendra. For a woman who knew languages well enough to work as a translator, the blonde seemed remarkably like a clueless airhead.

Nice one, though.

Finally, when Original Cindy gave Max a rolling-eyed look, signaling she was sure she was about to drop, Kendra said, “That’s it over there! Told ya it was close.” And pointed to an apartment building two doors up and across the street.

The building didn’t look like much, six stories, most of the windows plywood-covered; and, as they got closer, a piece of paper tacked to the front door became all too evident.

“The place is condemned?” Original Cindy asked.

Kendra shrugged a little. “Not really condemned — more like... abandoned.”

They got to the door and Original Cindy studied the notice on the door. “Original Cindy ain’t no translator, but she reads English... and this says ‘condemned.’ ”

Shaking her head dismissively, Kendra said, “That’s just to keep out the, you know, riffraff.”

Max asked, “How many people live here?”

Kendra shrugged. “Fifty or so.”

“Fifty?” Original Cindy blurted. “Fifty people live in a condemned building? Thank God you’re keepin’ out the riffraff!”

“Come on in, girls,” Kendra said. “You’ll see — it’s not that bad. Really.”

When the trio got to the fourth floor — up a freight-style elevator, Max walking her Ninja along — Max and Original Cindy discovered that Kendra was right. Like the building itself, the apartment was unfinished, a study in taped drywall and plastic-tarp room dividers; but the place had running water, two bedrooms, and some decent secondhand furniture. They all crashed in the tiny living room area, Kendra in a chair covered with a blue sheet, and the other two on a swayback couch covered with a paisley sheet.

“Kendra, you right,” Original Cindy said, leaning back, getting comfy. “Kickin’ crib.”

“And nobody bothers you in here?” Max asked.

Kendra made a small face. “Well... there’s Eastep.”

“What’s an Eastep?” Max asked.

“He’s a cop. Who collects from all us squatters.”

“He’s crooked?”

Kendra smiled a little. “I said he was a cop.”

“They all bent in Seattle, honey,” Original Cindy said to Max; then to Kendra, she asked, “What’s the goin’ rate?”

“Too much,” Kendra said, and proved it by telling them.

“Ouch,” Max said, but asked, “Are there any empty apartments left in this building?”

With a shake of her blond mane, Kendra said, “None fit for humans. Hot and cold running rats... holes in the walls, missing ceilings... no water, no electricity... you name it, they’ve got the problems. All the habitable apartments have been taken.”

“Great,” Max muttered. She turned to Original Cindy. “Any ideas?”

“Original Cindy’s got a friend she could stay with for a while.” She shrugged regretfully. “But girlfriend’s only got room for one more... We got to think of somethin’ else, Boo.”

“No you don’t,” Kendra said. “You two have to live together?”

The two women looked at each other.

“Not really,” they said in unison.

“You aren’t a couple?”

“We friends,” Original Cindy said.

“Just friends,” Max said, overlapping Cindy’s answer.

“Fine,” Kendra said. “Max, if Original Cindy’s got a place to crash, why don’t you move in here? I could seriously use some help payin’ Eastep’s rent... and it’d be nice to have somebody to talk to. But I just don’t have enough room for all three of us.”

“Sounds prime,” Original Cindy said. “My friend’s place ain’t that far from here; she was sort of expectin’ me, anyway. We can still hang, Boo. No big dealio.”

Max looked back and forth from Original Cindy to Kendra. Finally, she said, “Cool — let’s do it.”

“Next thing,” Original Cindy said, “we got to find a way to get some cash.”

Screwing up her face, Max said, “You mean like a job?”

“What else you gonna do, Boo... steal for a livin’?”

Max said nothing.

Kendra perked up, getting an idea. “We should go talk to Theo!”

The two women turned to her.

“Theo?” Max asked.

“Yeah, he lives next door with his wife, Jacinda, and their kid, cute kid, Omar. Place Theo works is always looking for help.”

Max and Original Cindy exchanged glances — that was a rarity in this economy.

Original Cindy said, “Well, let’s not keep the man waitin’... Original Cindy needs some money, honey, to allow her to live in the high style she’s become accustomed to... Luxuries, like eatin’ and breathin’ an’ shit.”

Kendra led the way and they knocked on the door to the adjacent apartment. A tiny, knee-high face peeked out, his eyes big and brown, his skin a dark bronze.

“Omar, is your daddy home?”

The adorable face nodded.

“Can we come in?”

Omar looked over his shoulder and a female voice said, “That you, Kendra?”

“Yeah, Jacinda — I’ve got a couple of friends with me. They’re cool.”

“Well, come on in, then.”

Stepping back, Omar, who couldn’t have been more than five, opened the door for the three women.

Max took in the apartment, which looked a lot like Kendra’s. A thin black woman in a brown T-shirt and tan slacks stood in front of the couch, an Asian man — shorter than his wife, his hair black, his eyes sparkling, his smile wide — standing next to her.

“Jacinda, Theo,” Kendra said, “this is Cindy and Max.”

“Original Cindy,” the woman corrected.

“Original Cindy. They both need jobs and I thought maybe Theo could hook them up.”

The smile never faded as he waved for the women to sit down on the couch. Jacinda moved to a chair with Omar climbing into her lap, Theo standing next to them, a hand on his wife’s shoulder.

“There’s been a ton of turnover lately,” he said. “It’s a hard job... very physical, and you go into dangerous parts of the city, sometimes. Lots of times.”

Original Cindy asked, “What kinda job we talkin’ about, Theo? Repairing power lines? Filling in potholes?”

The smiling Asian asked, “Either of you young women ever been a bike messenger?”

They looked at each other and shook their heads.

Theo asked, “You got bikes?”

Max half grinned. “I do — Ninja, two-fifty.”

Theo’s smile actually grew wider. “Bicycles. Either of you have a bicycle?”

“No,” Original Cindy said.

“But we will by tomorrow morning,” Max said.

Original Cindy looked at her disbelievingly, but Theo took it in stride, his smile unfailing.

“Excellent,” he said. “You can go in with me. The place is called Jam Pony Xpress. Normal, the fella that runs it, he’s a bit uptight... but he’s not evil. Pay’s lousy, hours are worse; but the other riders are a nice, easygoing group.”

“Original Cindy’s up for givin’ it a shot, least till somethin’ better comes along.”

“What is it exactly we’d be doing?” Max asked the Asian.

Original Cindy answered for him. “We ride around on bikes delivering packages to different places, what else?”

“I don’t know anything about the city,” Max said.

“You will, Boo, you will. Original Cindy’ll show you the way. Middle next week, you be tellin’ taxi drivers how to get around this town and shit.”

Theo said, “Bike messengers cover the whole city. Very interesting... they see everything and everyone in Seattle.”

That made Max smile.

“What you thinkin’, Boo?” Original Cindy asked.

“I’m thinking we were lucky to meet Kendra,” Max said, “and luckier to meet Theo.”

But she was thinking: Bike messenger. Ride all around town... an invisible person, wheeling here, there, everywhere... That could work.

That could work...