L. A. Outlaws Read Online Free PDF Page A

seat, too. Then I turn on the interior light as a courtesy, roll down my window, dig my CDL and registration from the center console and watch him approach in the sideview mirror.
    Tall guy, slender like a boxer, light hair, alert. His summer-weight uniform looks tailored because they don’t design them for guys that skinny.
    He’s got a Maglite in his left hand, but his right hand is free, and I see him look at my plate and reg sticker on his way by. He stops away from the door and looks at me.
    “Evening, ma’am.”
    “Evening, Deputy.”
    “In a hurry?”
    “No. Just a fast car.”
    “This the Z06?”
    “Five hundred and five bhp at sixty-three hundred rpm. Just about scalp you in second.”
    “Where are you going?”
    “Home if you don’t mind.”
    “Drinking tonight?”
    “I don’t drink.”
    He nods and stares at me. “I need your license and registration for the vehicle.”
    He steps up and I hand them over. His badge says C. Hood. C. Hood steps back and turns the flashlight on them. The registration will pass a visual from a deputy every time. It won’t fool a document examiner with the right tools. The driver’s license is genuine, and its bearer—Suzanne Elizabeth Jones, SEX: F, DOB 12/26/1976, 5-9, 135, BR N and BR N—has never had a ticket or been arrested. She’s a good girl.
    He stares at me again and I look out the windshield and sigh. He’s got wheels turning behind those eyes. Someday someone is going to look at me and in their mind they’ll put a black wig over my brown hair and a black mask with a crystal on it over my face and I’ll be history, like Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Grandfather Joaquin.
    “I support Sheriff Whatshisname,” I say.
    “Warm night for gloves, isn’t it, Ms. Jones?” he asks.
    “They’re for driving.”
    “Remain in the vehicle.”
    Great.
    A red Porsche 911 turbo goes by eastbound. Beautiful animal. The engine sound alone is enough to get me blushing and bothered. I can lay it off for fifty grand to the right people. Would end up in Mexico City or Caracas or Cartagena, altered and practically untraceable. Then a Mitsubishi Lancer rolls by the other way. It’s the second most often boosted car in America, right behind the Caddy Escalade. It’s worth only three grand, but they’re twice as easy to steal and ten times easier to sell. Bread-and-butter stuff.
    The deputy is back five minutes later, handing me the CDL and registration slip.
    “What are you doing out here this time of night, Ms. Jones?”
    “I was visiting relatives. Now I’d like to get home.”
    “Valley Center. That’s way down in San Diego County, isn’t it?”
    “It’s an hour and forty minutes this time of night, without traffic.”
    He nods. Hood. Handsome Hood. Thirty years old, maybe not even that.
    “Drive safely. You were doing sixty in a forty-five when I pulled you over.”
    “I promise I’ll drive more slowly.”
    “Good night.”
    Hood turns for his car but stops when the old black Lincoln comes past. I flip off the Corvette’s interior light, cursing silently for leaving myself momentarily illuminated.
    As the black Continental drifts by, the driver studies me. Young or old—I can’t tell. His hair shoots straight up from his head, then is planed into a flat-top as black as the extra-long handle of the machete on his belt. Thick neck and a big sharp nose, like a Central American Indian. The red-and-tan shirt is buttoned up all the way, like a school-boy’s. I don’t know why I notice things like this, other than it reminds me of my sons. My scalp crawls.
    Hood is back in his unit by now.
    I start up the ’Vette and guide it back onto the street. The Sheriff ’s cruiser stays put for a beat, then U-turns toward Miracle Auto Body. C. Hood is going to see what I saw. I go easy westbound, come to the signal at Eastern.
    The black Lincoln is pulled over to the right and the guy stares at me as I drive by. Big down-turned lips, head shaved on the sides