Dark Angel Before the Dawn

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?”