Chapter One
I swerved around the car and pedaled, faster and faster, away from my blood-soaked memories. A car honked, and the Prius in front of me slammed to a stop. I skidded between the metal bollards protecting the open Metro tracks, and braked in front of two startled commuters exiting the station.
“Get off the walk!” the man said, raising a protective arm around the woman.
“Sorry. The car.” I glanced over my shoulder to indicate the traffic jam, but the Prius was gone and the road was clear.
What the hell had just happened?
I had no idea, but it wasn’t the first time. The last month had been filled with close calls, angry people, and lost gaps of time. I needed to get my act together. But how could I when my sleep was stolen by images of blood-stained mattresses and gaping bullet wounds?
I darted across the boulevard to Exposition Park and coasted down Victory Walk. The air smelled like trees. Fresh and clean. Alive. I dropped my arms and let the bike glide on its own. No memories here, just one-hundred-sixty acres of verdant government-owned land and some of LA’s most interesting museums: Natural History on the right, California African-American to the left, and my favorite, the Science Center, up ahead—home of the Space Shuttle Endeavor.
I grabbed the handles of my racing bike and skidded to a stop as a boy ran across my path and sprinted toward the rose garden. A teenage girl followed, chased by three stocky men whose strides were shortened by the low crotches of their baggy shorts. Crew socks, fancy kicks, striped tees—they reminded me of some members of a Mexican street gang known as the Varrio Norwalk 66.
I jerked my bike in front of them causing them to stumble into each other to keep from crashing into me. “Sorry, fellas. Didn’t see you coming.”
They grunted but didn’t respond and resumed their chase. Two ran up Victory Walk. The biggest of the three charged into the sunken rose garden. He zigzagged through the grass around the rosebush grid, following the same route as the kids. I headed straight for the stone fountain in the center and made a hard right up the widest grassy path.
The kids cut in front of me and bolted toward the Science Center. They were running for their lives, desperate and terrified. I couldn’t let those men catch them. I just couldn’t.
One thug burst into my path and pivoted after the kids, powerful legs pumping in spite of his baggy shorts. He was bigger than both of them put together. If he caught them, they wouldn’t stand a chance. I pedaled up beside him and kicked the side of his leg. He crumpled like a bag of chips.
I swerved and chased after the kids as the other men charged down State Drive to intercept. When the kids darted into an outdoor dining area, I followed, riding low on my handlebars to avoid the arms of the patio umbrellas. The haphazard arrangement of tables slowed me down, but at least there weren’t any people to dodge—why endure the August heat when you could sit in an airconditioned café?
The gangbangers closed in on the fleeing kids.
“Get away from them,” I shouted, jamming the brakes and leaping from my bike.
The men had trapped the kids in a dead end against the building. The shorter man shoved his buddy in my direction. “I got this. Deal with her.”
As the baggy-shorts-wearing punk stumbled in for a tackle, I stepped aside, parried his arms out of the way, and smacked his groin. He howled. When the other guy turned to help, I rammed the heel of my palm up his nose. Blood spurted through his fingers as he tried to stop the bleeding. I slipped around him and headed for the kids.
The girl shoved the boy out of the corner. “Run,” she yelled, and together they bolted to freedom.
“Wait,” I yelled. “Are you okay?”
As I turned, a fist slammed into my face.
I relaxed my body and went with the motion of the hit, absorbing the impact and lessening the pain. A patio table stopped my momentum. I grabbed the edge and rocked back onto its surface, tucking my legs for a powerful double stomp to my assailant’s chest—the shorter one with the busted nose. He stumbled back into his friend, who was still clutching his injured testicles. I rolled off to the side and landed in a Kosei no Kamae floating-hand fighting stance.
“What the hell, lady?” Busted Nose asked, rubbing the spot on his chest where I had kicked.
Smashed Testicles pushed his friend away. “Forget this shit.” He bent to reach under a chair and came up with a conservative vinyl handbag, the kind my Norwegian grandmother might have owned. “At least we got it back.”
Busted Nose spat at my feet. “With no help from you.”
I dropped my hands. I had a bad feeling about this.
“What are you talking about? Whose purse is that?”
“It belongs to an abuela back at the museum. What? Did you think we were purse thieves?”
A grandmother?
“I thought…”
He wiped the blood from his nose. “I know exactly what you thought, you racist shit. You saw a bunch of Mexicans chasing down some white kids and assumed the worst. Did it ever occur to you we might be trying to stop a crime?”
I shook my head in bewilderment. “You reminded me of someone else. So did those kids. I’m… I’m really sorry.”
Smashed Testicles looked around. “Hey, where’s Johnny?”
While they were distracted, I ran to my bike, whipped it around, and raced out the narrow patio.
Busted Nose yelled after me: “That’s right, bitch. You better run.”
I didn’t wait to hear the rest of his comments. I needed to check on their friend, the one whose knee I had stomped. He might need medical attention or, at the very least, an apology.
Chapter Two
Bells chimed as I opened the screen door to Paco’s Tacos, home of the sweetest tamales on Earth. Although I hadn’t been here for a month, the scent of frying lard and corn made my mouth water.
“Dumpling! Mi amiga. You’ve come back. What can I make for you today?”
Paco smiled as exuberantly as he had on my first visit, when I’d saved his weekly earnings and zip-tied his would-be robbers. I had just discovered an important link on a case I was working—a link that had led to dubious alliances and death.
I blinked hard and forced a smile. “Hola, Paco. How’ve you been?”
He wiped his hands on the towel hanging from his apron. “Bien, bien. And you? It’s been a long time. I was beginning to think you didn’t like my tamales.”
“Are you kidding? I dream about them.”
“Is that what you want, tamales? Maybe carne asada on the side?”
“Sounds great. And horchata.” I laughed. No one ever accused me of dainty eating.
He waved away my money. “Food for life. Remember?”
“Thank you. Your friendship means more than I can say.”
I meant it. After getting called a racist for attacking the wrong people, Paco’s kindness was a comfort. But even that couldn’t remove the sting of the accusation. I was half Asian with strong ties in many ethnic communities, not just my own. I knew better than to project the horror of the Varrio Norwalk 66 onto other men in the same community, even if they were chasing frightened kids and shouting profanities. I should have followed and waited to see what they’d do. I should have gathered more information before I smashed noses and crumpled knees. Instead, I made assumptions and attacked.