Mission Canyon Read Online Free PDF Page B

reached the gate at the top of the drive. The dogs charged it, teeth bared, barking. The sound annoyed her. They were bigger than she expected, mean-looking things.
    She didn’t want to do this. This was aggro. She shouldn’t even be here, but their timing got thrown off at the museum because of the chick in the pink dress and the guy on wheels, variables they hadn’t factored in. Mouthy chick, but she wasn’t the big problem. The plan had bugs, face it. But she knew what would happen to her if she backed out now.
    ‘‘Here, Fido.’’
    She stuck the baton through the gate. One of the dogs lunged forward and grabbed it in its teeth. Cherry pressed the switch. The dog jerked and fell to the ground.
    The second dog kept barking and jumping at the gate. Man, the noise was provoking her nerves. Up at the house, a light came on. Cherry looked over her shoulder, down the driveway to where the Corvette was parked. Inside it glowed the red tip of a cigarette, or maybe a joint. Mickey was watching. She had to finish the game or pay the price.
    She jammed the baton through the railings again, hitting the second dog in the chest. It mewled and quivered and dropped to the ground.
    There, quiet. That was better.
    She examined the baton. It delivered three hundred thousand volts and cost only $64.99. Not bad. Bought off the Net, and, the sweetest part, with Cal Diamond’s own credit card number. Technology wins again.
    Reaching into her back pocket, she pulled out the envelope. Diamond would wet himself when he saw the photos. She dropped it through the railings and rang the buzzer by the gate. Giving the stunned dogs a last look, she walked down the driveway to the car.
    Climbing in, she smelled the weed. Mickey sat behind the wheel, still wearing the stupid Zorro hat. Zorro with long blond hair—right. He took a hit and held the smoke in his lungs.
    She said, ‘‘I did it.’’
    He blew out the smoke, turned, and hit her in the cheek with the flat of his hand.
    ‘‘You didn’t put the tape over the video camera in the gate.’’
    Oh, man. ‘‘I forgot. The dogs were barking, and—’’
    He hit her again. Her fingers curled around the shock baton, and loosened. Not now. It wouldn’t be worth the punishment.
    He started the Corvette. ‘‘But who gives a shit? It’s your head on the chopping block.’’
    Cherry looked at him. ‘‘Yours too.’’
    "Nah." He dropped it into first. ‘‘You’re on camera. I was never here."

3
    Jesse dropped me at home, his face troubled. The mountains shouldered a starry sky. I went through the gate toward my house, a cottage at the end of a deep garden. My friends Nikki and Carl Vincent live in the Victorian house along the street. It’s a comfortable neighborhood near the Santa Barbara Mission, crowded with old houses, overgrown oleander, oak trees, the scent of star jasmine, and the shouts of kids at play. But I felt disheartened and restless.
    Through the Vincents’ kitchen window I saw Carl at the sink, washing baby food out of his pin-striped shirt. The kitchen lights pinged off his owlish glasses. On the back porch in the rocker, looking carved from mahogany, Nikki sat nursing Thea.
    She caught sight of my pink sequins. ‘‘Who have we here?’’
    ‘‘Condoleezza Rice.’’
    A deep laugh. ‘‘And I’m the prime minister of Sweden.’’
    I sat down on the porch steps. ‘‘Franklin Brand’s in town. Jesse’s ballistic.’’
    ‘‘Oh, my God.’’
    I told her about it, realizing as I talked that I felt cooked. When Thea finished nursing, I held out my hands.
    ‘‘Let me see this girl.’’
    Nikki handed her to me. Thea was nine months old and robust. She wrapped her pudgy thighs around me and patted my sequins. I smiled at her.
    Nikki said, ‘‘Heard from Luke?’’
    He had been gone since Christmas. I felt my stomach pinching, a familiar ache.
    ‘‘He’s good,’’ I said. ‘‘Playing baseball. Learning subtraction. ’’
    She watched me.