“Like, all over. Up and down this part of the coast. Venice, Long Beach, Oceanside. I’ve hit some hot spots in San Diego, too.”
He shrugged. “So you’re some rich bitch who goes slumming.”
“I’m not rich.”
“You ain’t poor, neither. College?”
She was hardly going to admit to having a psych degree. “Two years.”
“That’s two years more’n I got.”
“You didn’t miss anything. It was boring.” She let a tone of seductive languor steal into her voice. “Of course, I’m easily bored.”
“No, you ain’t.”
“Aren’t I?”
“Nah. If you was, you would’ve offed yourself by now. ’Cause you’re the most boring goddamned cunt I ever met.” He snorted laughter. “Mission Viejo. Fuck.”
He swaggered off, and she was left alone and frustrated. She’d sent out every sexual signal in her repertoire, and he’d blown her off. She had to assume he had other things on his mind. The alternative was that she was losing her allure, a hypothesis too far-fetched too entertain.
She returned to the bar and ordered another vodka. In the mirror she saw Dylan rejoin his buddies, his expression more sour than before.
Her best bet now was to tail him when he left the bar, which would probably be around closing time. She would leave shortly before two and watch the parking lot from her car.
Tailing a motorcycle would be tough. The chopper could cut through traffic in ways no car could match. There was a good chance she would lose him.
Damn. She was so close, but she hadn’t gotten him to bite.
But maybe there was still a chance. She saw Dylan’s nervous-looking friend pointing at her and nudging. Apparently he’d seen them talking in the alcove, and he was prodding Dylan to go for it. Dylan brushed off the advice, but the other guy was persistent. Abby silently encouraged him. Peer pressure could be a potent force.
She watched the pantomime show in the mirror. From Dylan’s body language, she could tell that his resistance was breaking down. He had gone from arms crossed-a defensive posture-to arms open.
The friend’s voice rose above the general din. “Fuck it, man, she’s hot!” Abby almost smiled, even if the compliment did emanate from a sociopathic scumbag. Then she remembered that if Dylan and his crew had been better shots, she wouldn’t be so hot right now. She would be cold, morgue-cold.
She felt another twist in her gut and found herself taking a bigger swallow of vodka.
In the mirror, Dylan rose from his seat. His friend’s final line of argument seemed to have closed the deal. The biker came toward the bar, carrying his beer.
She looked away from the mirror and nursed her drink until he sat down on the barstool beside her. Then she glanced at him.
“That wasn’t very nice,” she said coolly. “What you said about me back there.”
“Yeah. Well-I’m feeling kinda snarky tonight.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Bad day at the office.”
“What sort of work do you do?”
“The sort I don’t like to talk about.” He gulped a swig of beer. “You ain’t Mex, are you?”
“What?”
“Dark hair, brown eyes. You a Latin?”
“Anglo.”
“Good thing.”
Yeah, Dylan was a real catch. “So, that matters?”
“Fuck, yeah, it matters. Goddamn taco benders are taking over this town. Before you know it, they’ll be all over Mission Viejo, too. You just wait.”
“What have you got against Mexicans?” she asked, her voice neutral.
He regarded her as if she were mentally defective. “What do I got against ’em? Well, they’re fucking scum, to start with. And illegal. Not one of ’em has a green card. They take work away from Americans, too.”
“Most of those jobs aren’t so great.”
“You wait. Before long, goddamn border jumpers’ll be taking everybody’s job. Like yours, maybe. What do you do?”
“Secretarial work.”
“One of them strawberry pickers could do that job, at least one that can read and write and speak English. And he’d do it cheaper than you. Then you’re out on your butt with not so much as a thank-you for your years of loyal service.”
“Something like that happen to you?”
“Not me. I got a skill, see. I’m a mechanic. I know my way around an engine. Those campesino assholes-half of ’em ain’t never even driven a damn car.”
“You’re safe, then.”
“Not hardly. I can’t charge what I used to. Wetbacks come in and lower the pay scale for everybody. You got an American who was trimming trees for fifteen bucks an hour. Speedy Gonzales shows up and says he’ll do it for half that much. American is either out of work or he has to cut his pay to compete. Then he can’t spend so much on getting his car fixed when it breaks down, so I gotta charge less if I want to get his business.”
“You’ve thought about this a lot.”
“When your livelihood’s at stake, you got to think about it. And find ways to bring in extra money.” He turned pensive.
“You mean, doing some repair work on side?”
“Repair work. Yeah. That’s a good way to put it. Fixing things.”
“Cars,” she prompted.
“Problems,” he said. “People got problems, I fix ’em. Until today I always got it done. Today everything went to shit.”
“People understand when you make a mistake.”
“I dunno. With some people, it’s all about results. You get the results, or you don’t. And if you don’t…”
“If you don’t?”
He showed her a crooked smile. “You’re screwed, blued, and tattooed.”
“You’ve already got the tattoo.”
“Yeah, you’re right about that, Sandi from Mission Viejo.” He looked her over. “How old are you?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m twenty-six. You gotta be, what, thirty?”
At least he’d underestimated. “Something like that. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t usually go for older women.”
She reminded herself of all the reasons why she couldn’t splash her drink in his face. “You don’t?”
“Nah. Guys who’re into that-they got, like, a mother complex, you know?”
“I’m not old enough to be your mother.”
“Yeah, I know. You got a nice body, too. Work out, I bet.”
“Every day.”
“I can tell. You get all buff, and you come to dumps like this to meet guys like me.”
“Pretty much.”
“Scary hobby.”
“I guess I need a certain amount of stimulation to stay interested in things. You know what I mean?”
“Not really.”
“I need the rush. I need to put it on the line sometimes. You ever feel like that?”
Dylan got it. He nodded, his grinning mouth flecked with suds. “Baby, all the time.”
“What gives you a rush?”
“You tell me first. Tell me what turns you on.”
