rokhal

Nine PM on a Saturday, the Charger rumbled along two-laned, twisting Mulholland Drive, almost idling with the flow of traffic, and Robbie scanned the house numbers for the address of Salomé's appointment. She was wearing a long black coat that buttoned all the way down to her knees tonight, and tall boots, her bleached and razored hair standing out like chrome trim. She reminded Robbie of an old movie he'd never actually seen, something with guns and computers and robots. The Mesh or something. 7543, he noted. 7551. They were probably another mile from her client's house, cruising along steadily to make her scheduled time, when the Charger started wheezing, the intake charge too rich, the air pump straining, and Robbie felt his chest tighten.

He sank his mind into the car. The throttle was stuck. Eli was holding it closed.

Stop, he said, overpowering Eli to force the throttle open. The engine smoothed out for a moment, but then one of the cylinders misfired, then two, then four, and it started to really chug and jerk against its mounts. The car shook. Robbie thought his way into what he hoped was the spark plug wires, following Eli's interference to identify what he was fucking with, and then Eli moved Robbie's right hand and grabbed the keys. Robbie hurriedly backed out of the car and seized control of his hand. The engine died. He stomped the clutch, put on his emergency flashers, and rolled onto the shoulder.

“Don't tell me,” Salomé said. “We're walking.”

Robbie ground his teeth. “Give me a minute.” He popped the hood, got out of the car without looking for oncoming traffic, opened the engine bay and stared down into it. “What,” he growled. Salomé would be late for her appointment. Her business had been doing well, taking her to more and more expensive hotels and nicer neighborhoods. She already payed him better than Uber, and she'd given him a bonus last month. If she thought the Charger was unreliable, she'd find another driver with a newer and less-haunted car.

Stop sucking up to your hooker boss for thirty seconds and go look up that driveway we just passed, Eli ordered.

What? No. I'm in a hurry.

Yeah. So you can't threaten to slash the tires to get what you want. I'm on to you, you little shit. Go look.

Robbie glared down at the hot engine, grabbed the throttle linkage and flicked it back and forth: it moved freely. Ran his hands over the spark plug cables, checking for worn insulation: there was none. He could be fighting Eli all night over imaginary gremlins if he stood his ground, but if Eli realized that this was a new strategy for getting his way, he could end up doing a lot worse, later. What am I gonna see. Some asshole kicking his dog? I don't need a fight, Eli. I don't have time for a fight.

It's not a fight. I promise.

Fuck off. Robbie peeked through the hole in the hood at Salomé in the passenger seat, and saw her watching him, lips pursed, arms crossed. Her heels were so high she was practically on tip-toes. He couldn't make her walk to her appointment. Driving Salomé was worth a hundred or two each night she called, sometimes three. And he could sleep while she worked. He couldn't lose her business. Okay. He stalked down the road, away from the car. Waved to Salomé and pulled out his phone as though making a call, held it to his ear. Thirty seconds. Which driveway?

7559, Eli said, showing Robbie a flash-image of a blocky white house that sat at an odd angle on top of a six-car garage.

Robbie didn't recognize it. You want me to stalk your old mafia buddies for you?

Always with the paranoia. It's my house! We're in the area, I want to see it!

Robbie groaned. Later!

Don't you dare turn back—keep going! One foot in front of the other, thirty more feet, come on!

Thirty feet up the narrow shoulder, a red brick driveway sloped up the sandy hill. Palms and oleander bushes and a low stucco wall partly concealed the modernist house and the three garage doors. Robbie squinted at it. It was huge and ugly, but beggars can't be choosers: that garage. He let himself imagine standing in it, a workshop against one wall, an oil pit in the floor, and a fleet of cars to play with. American classics. Hondas. With this much space, he could even branch out with a BMW or two; they were notoriously unreliable, but that just meant more practice.

Is that gray? Eli tried to direct his attention to the front door, where a security light shone down. Did they paint it over? Why the fuck would they paint it gray. It used to look clean. Like a, a salt cube. Is that a fountain in the driveway?

Robbie shook himself and put his phone back in his pocket. Eli's house, Eli's garage, bought with money he'd earned by murdering people. He shouldn't be fantasizing about it. It was useless anyway; all the living space was on the second floor, and there was a steep fifteen degree slope down the driveway and right into the road. Gabe wouldn't be safe. Seen enough?

Gabbie's not safe now, Eli reminded him. Back “home.” The bars on his window, are they really secure? I bet people look at our beautiful car, and they think, “That guy, he's a high roller, he must have guns, money, drugs.” They could come in, looking around, and who do they see charging out of his bedroom, swinging his crutches—

I knew you had an angle. Robbie turned around and jogged back to the car. Always a sales pitch. I'm not killing people so I can afford your stupid rich-person house.

You know and I know, it's not about the house. It's the location. Hey, I'm not that attached to the place. Find yourself a one-story ranch with a white picket fence, take a tour. Motivation for when you get the balls to go on the darkweb and get yourself a real job.

So, what, I should go be an assassin like you and die in a firefight by the time I'm forty. That right? He reached the front bumper, lifted the hood off the prop and slammed it shut.

Forty? Eli demanded, incredulous.

Robbie swung himself back into the car. “Engine flooded,” he explained to Salomé, a line of utter bullshit. “Should be safe now. I'm sorry, it won't happen again.”

“Impressive,” she muttered, staring down at her phone. “I'll pass that on to my client.”

“Sorry,” Robbie said again. He stared ahead at the road as he watched traffic behind them in the mirrors, then peeled out with a chirp of tires and a squeal from the blower. I'm not doing it your way. Your way was wrong, and I know you don't care about that, so more importantly, your way doesn't work. It got everyone around you killed. That's not what I want. I want to be there for Gabe, I want to live, and I don't want to hurt people who don't deserve it.

So kill people who do deserve it.

That doesn't help, Robbie replied, strangling the Charger's steering wheel.

We can do great things with this power we have, Robbie. It's the only thing about you that's special. Use it.

You're right about that, Robbie admitted. He felt Eli perk up in the back of his head, and added, There's got to be something people want from us that won't hurt anyone. Something we can do, better than anyone else. Disasters. Firefighting. Hostage rescue.

Like there aren't two dozen real superheroes happy to do all that shit for free.

And the government would find out your name.

The Charger rumbled along, hugging the road's tight curves. Robbie cut a glance at Salomé, saw her watching him back. She paid him well, but not downpayment-on-a-condo well. He needed money for Gabe, tens of thousands, and Eli was right: you didn't get a windfall that could move the two of them into a new house in a low-crime neighborhood through legitimate means. I've got to get back into street racing.

It's like I'm talking to a rock.