Before the Dawn (12 page)

The blue-cheeked guy seemed proud of himself, under the illusion he had minted this deathless phrase.

Max could tell that Original Cindy was considering jumping the counter to bitch-slap the white right off this horse's ass; so Max gently said, “Come on, Boo—let's go someplace where we can get a grande.”

“Yeah . . . instead of the limp mini this mope is peddlin'.”

Max giggled, and the blonde toward the back giggled, too . . . but the counter guy did not laugh; in fact, he reddened and fumed.

He started to say something, but Original Cindy cut him off with a wave of a finger accompanied by a sway of the head and shoulders. “Don't hate the playah, baby . . . hate the game.”

Max and Original Cindy bumped fists and the blond woman laughed out loud.

The counter guy turned on her. “You know what's really funny? A skank like you lookin' for a new job in this market, is what's
really
funny.”

The blonde fell silent.

“Hey,” Max said, taking a step toward the counter.

“Butt out,” the counter man said. “This ain't no concern of yours. And you . . .” He turned to the blonde. “. . . you're movin' on to bigger and better things. Get your fat butt outa here!”

Max leapt the counter, landing between the blonde and the counter guy, who was startled and a little afraid by this sudden impressive move. “Hire her back.”

“What do you—”

Max lifted him up by the throat; his eyes were bulging as he stared down at her, too afraid and in too much discomfort to be properly amazed by the petite woman lifting him gently off the ground, a fact neither Original Cindy nor the put-upon blonde picked up on.

The blonde touched Max's arm. “It's all right . . . he can't fire me, 'cause I quit. . . . I'm tired of workin' for this sexual-harasshole.”

“Good call,” Original Cindy said.

Max shrugged and put the guy down.

He was leaning over the counter, red-faced, choking, when the three women strolled out onto the street together. They stood at the curb, near Max's bike, and chatted.

“My name's Kendra Maibaum,” the blonde said, extending her hand.

Max shook it. “Max Guevera—and this lovely lady is Original Cindy.”

“Pleased,” Original Cindy said and shook hands with Kendra too.

“How did you do that?” Kendra asked. “Handle Morty like that, I mean.”

Original Cindy raised her eyebrows, smirking. “Girl had training.”

Max at that moment realized she would have to watch herself, from now on—she had been entirely too careless around Original Cindy.

“Training but no coffee,” Max said. Her X5 skills would have to be better concealed. “And we haven't even started
talkin'
about findin' a place to crash.”

Kendra asked, “You guys need a place to crash?”

“We're kind of new in town,” Original Cindy explained.

“Like five minutes new,” Max added.

The blonde shrugged. “If you don't need a lot of space, you can stay with me. I've got a place. Room enough for two, maybe three.”

Original Cindy glanced at Max, who shrugged, asking, “Why would you do that for us? You don't know us from nobody.”

Kendra gestured toward the coffee shop. “You stood up for me with Morty.”

“Cost you your job, you mean,” Max reminded her.

Laughing, Kendra said, “Yeah, but it was worth it, seein' Morty, scared shitless . . . and, anyway, that job sucked. Besides, it wasn't my only means of income.”

“Workin' girl?” Original Cindy asked, again glancing at the pink top filled to the brim and the postage-stamp miniskirt.

Kendra's hands went to her hips. “Why would you ask that?” She didn't sound hurt, exactly—more surprised.

Original Cindy's eyes widened. Max frowned at her friend, who said nothing about the former waitress's provocative attire, merely saying. “Uh . . . uh, don't know, girl, it just sounded like maybe you, uh . . .”

“Oh, I work a lot . . . but not at that. I do some translating, language training, transcription work. I've done a buncha things, but never that.”

“Sorry—Original Cindy didn't mean no offense.”

Kendra shook her head. “Not to worry. Anyway, 'fyou guys need a place to crash, I've got room.”

“Sweet,” Max said. “Where?”

“Not far.”

“Walking distance? I hope so, 'cause it's gonna be a bitch gettin' three of us on my bike.”

“Oh yeah,” Kendra said, with a dismissive wave, “easy walking distance.”

They wound up walking for most of the next hour, Max pushing the Ninja, Original Cindy lugging her backpack, but they didn't complain—after all, a roof was a roof. But Max didn't know quite what to make of Kendra. For a woman who knew languages well enough to work as a translator, the blonde seemed remarkably like a clueless airhead.

Nice one, though.

Finally, when Original Cindy gave Max a rolling-eyed look, signaling she was sure she was about to drop, Kendra said, “That's it over there! Told ya it was close.” And pointed to an apartment building two doors up and across the street.

The building didn't look like much, six stories, most of the windows plywood-covered; and, as they got closer, a piece of paper tacked to the front door became all too evident.

“The place is
condemned?
” Original Cindy asked.

Kendra shrugged a little. “Not really condemned—more like . . . abandoned.”

They got to the door and Original Cindy studied the notice on the door. “Original Cindy ain't no translator, but she reads English . . . and this says ‘condemned.' ”

Shaking her head dismissively, Kendra said, “That's just to keep out the, you know, riffraff.”

Max asked, “How many people live here?”

Kendra shrugged. “Fifty or so.”

“Fifty?” Original Cindy blurted. “Fifty people live in a condemned building? Thank God you're keepin' out the riffraff!”

“Come on in, girls,” Kendra said. “You'll see—it's not that bad. Really.”

When the trio got to the fourth floor—up a freight-style elevator, Max walking her Ninja along—Max and Original Cindy discovered that Kendra was right. Like the building itself, the apartment was unfinished, a study in taped drywall and plastic-tarp room dividers; but the place had running water, two bedrooms, and some decent secondhand furniture. They all crashed in the tiny living room area, Kendra in a chair covered with a blue sheet, and the other two on a swayback couch covered with a paisley sheet.

“Kendra, you right,” Original Cindy said, leaning back, getting comfy. “Kickin' crib.”

“And nobody bothers you in here?” Max asked.

Kendra made a small face. “Well . . . there's Eastep.”

“What's an Eastep?” Max asked.

“He's a cop. Who collects from all us squatters.”

“He's crooked?”

Kendra smiled a little. “I said he was a cop.”

“They
all
bent in Seattle, honey,” Original Cindy said to Max; then to Kendra, she asked, “What's the goin' rate?”

“Too much,” Kendra said, and proved it by telling them.

“Ouch,” Max said, but asked, “Are there any empty apartments left in this building?”

With a shake of her blond mane, Kendra said, “None fit for humans. Hot and cold running rats . . . holes in the walls, missing ceilings . . . no water, no electricity . . . you name it, they've got the problems. All the habitable apartments have been taken.”

“Great,” Max muttered. She turned to Original Cindy. “Any ideas?”

“Original Cindy's got a friend she could stay with for a while.” She shrugged regretfully. “But girlfriend's only got room for one more. . . . We got to think of somethin' else, Boo.”

“No you don't,” Kendra said. “You two have to live together?”

The two women looked at each other.

“Not really,” they said in unison.

“You aren't a couple?”

“We friends,” Original Cindy said.

“Just friends,” Max said, overlapping Cindy's answer.

“Fine,” Kendra said. “Max, if Original Cindy's got a place to crash, why don't you move in here? I could seriously use some help payin' Eastep's
rent . . . and it'd be nice to have somebody to talk to. But I just don't have enough room for all three of us.”

“Sounds prime,” Original Cindy said. “My friend's place ain't that far from here; she was sort of expectin' me, anyway. We can still hang, Boo. No big dealio.”

Max looked back and forth from Original Cindy to Kendra. Finally, she said, “Cool—let's do it.”

“Next thing,” Original Cindy said, “we got to find a way to get some cash.”

Screwing up her face, Max said, “You mean like a job?”

“What else you gonna do, Boo . . . steal for a livin'?”

Max said nothing.

Kendra perked up, getting an idea. “We should go talk to Theo!”

The two women turned to her.

“Theo?” Max asked.

“Yeah, he lives next door with his wife, Jacinda, and their kid, cute kid, Omar. Place Theo works is
always
looking for help.”

Max and Original Cindy exchanged glances—that was a rarity in this economy.

Original Cindy said, “Well, let's not keep the man waitin' . . . Original Cindy needs some money, honey, to allow her to live in the high style she's become accustomed
to. . . . Luxuries, like eatin' and breathin' an' shit.”

Kendra led the way and they knocked on the door to the adjacent apartment. A tiny, knee-high face peeked out, his eyes big and brown, his skin a dark bronze.

“Omar, is your daddy home?”

The adorable face nodded.

“Can we come in?”

Omar looked over his shoulder and a female voice said, “That you, Kendra?”

“Yeah, Jacinda—I've got a couple of friends with me. They're cool.”

“Well, come on in, then.”

Stepping back, Omar, who couldn't have been more than five, opened the door for the three women.

Max took in the apartment, which looked a lot like Kendra's. A thin black woman in a brown T-shirt and tan slacks stood in front of the couch, an Asian man—shorter than his wife, his hair black, his eyes sparkling, his smile wide—standing next to her.

“Jacinda, Theo,” Kendra said, “this is Cindy and Max.”

“Original Cindy,” the woman corrected.

“Original Cindy. They both need jobs and I thought maybe Theo could hook them up.”

The smile never faded as he waved for the women to sit down on the couch. Jacinda moved to a chair with Omar climbing into her lap, Theo standing next to them, a hand on his wife's shoulder.

“There's been a ton of turnover lately,” he said. “It's a hard
job . . . very physical, and you go into dangerous parts of the city, sometimes. Lots of times.”

Original Cindy asked, “What kinda job we talkin' about, Theo? Repairing power lines? Filling in potholes?”

The smiling Asian asked, “Either of you young women ever been a bike messenger?”

They looked at each other and shook their heads.

Theo asked, “You
got
bikes?”

Max half grinned. “I do—Ninja, two-fifty.”

Theo's smile actually grew wider. “Bi
cycles
. Either of you have a bicycle?”

“No,” Original Cindy said.

“But we will by tomorrow morning,” Max said.

Original Cindy looked at her disbelievingly, but Theo took it in stride, his smile unfailing.

“Excellent,” he said. “You can go in with me. The place is called Jam Pony Xpress. Normal, the fella that runs it, he's a bit uptight . . . but he's not evil. Pay's lousy, hours are worse; but the other riders are a nice, easygoing group.”

“Original Cindy's up for givin' it a shot, least till somethin' better comes along.”

“What is it exactly we'd be doing?” Max asked the Asian.

Original Cindy answered for him. “We ride around on bikes delivering packages to different places, what else?”

“I don't know anything about the city,” Max said.

“You will, Boo, you will. Original Cindy'll show you the way. Middle next week, you be tellin' taxi drivers how to get around this town and shit.”

Theo said, “Bike messengers cover the whole city. Very interesting . . . they see everything and everyone in Seattle.”

That made Max smile.

“What you thinkin', Boo?” Original Cindy asked.

“I'm thinking we were lucky to meet Kendra,” Max said, “and luckier to meet Theo.”

But she was thinking:
Bike messenger. Ride all around town . . . an invisible person, wheeling here, there, everywhere. . . . That could work.

That could work. . . .

Chapter Six

MONEY TALKS

JAM PONY XPRESS
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, 2019

Housed in a run-down warehouse, a world of dented lockers and rough wood beams and ancient brick and obscene graffiti, Jam Pony Xpress turned out to be just the sort of madhouse where Max could blend in and lie low, while she looked for her sibling.

Having had the whole trip up the coast to replay that grainy video in the theater of her mind, Max was now a gnat's eyelash away from convincing herself that the “young rebel” she'd seen kicking cop ass on that news show was indeed her brother Seth.

The X5 didn't know how long it would take to find him, but this innocuous cover was looking like it could work for the long haul: no one, not even Moody or Fresca or any of the Chinese Clan, had any idea she'd booked for Seattle. Dodging Manticore all these years had given her very few peaceful nights of sleep; but somehow here—in Original Cindy's Emerald City—Max felt safer, more underground even than in LA, where she'd drawn attention to herself and her singular abilities by her cat-burglar activities.

As Original Cindy had predicted, the bike messenger gig allowed Max to learn the city at a far faster rate than if she'd just been bouncing around on the Ninja, hoping to get lucky in her search for Seth. Living with Kendra in the off-the books apartment was working out just fine, too, though the rent was a bitch, thanks to that greedy bent cop.

But living in a squatter's hotel was perfect: no sign of Max would appear anywhere in the city records, and amiable airhead Kendra was easy to live with and was turning into a good friend.

At the same time, Max's friendship had grown with Original Cindy, cemented by Max staking Cindy for the cost of the bike you needed to even apply at Jam Pony. The two women were spending almost every leisure moment together, with Kendra frequently in the mix.

Original Cindy had found her own pad, after only a week at Jam Pony. Not only was she more independent, her crib was closer to Max's apartment than the friend's place she'd initially crashed at. Every morning Max would hook up with Theo, then bounce over on their bicycles to pick up Original Cindy, and the three of them would ride together. They would get coffee and bagels, stop in a park on the way and eat, then wheel on in to work.

It was during these light, chatty breakfasts that Original Cindy, Max, and Theo started getting to know more about each other. Max knew she was learning a lot more about her friends than they were finding out about her, and sometimes she could feel Cindy's hurt vibe that Max was remaining overly secretive.

But since O. C. and Theo didn't seem to be genetically enhanced killing machines, developed in a supersecret government lab, they had a tad fewer secrets than she did.

A month had glided by since Max had left Moody and the Chinese Clan, and the only thing she had to complain about (to herself, that is) was that she hadn't found Seth . . . hadn't even turned up a lead. Even the news had been devoid of any mention of the “young rebel” in league with “Eyes Only.”

Of course, as good as Max was at looking, Seth would be better at hiding. He'd had the same training as her, and—like Max—had been on the run a long time, knew how to cover his tracks far better than she knew how to uncover them. After years of running and hiding, Max found it difficult to turn the process around, to look through the hunter's end of the telescope.

One thing was for sure: she would never give up. A relentlessness was bred into her—whether by Manticore or her own human genes, she could not say. She just knew she would find Seth.

The only doubt that managed to creep in, from time to time, was the notion that she might be wasting her time, chasing someone who—though a remarkable specimen, and similar to her—wasn't really an X5.

Even worse was the possibility that this might be one of Lydecker's X5s, the star of some later Manticore graduating class, doing covert work the media was playing up as the work of a “rebel.” . . .

In the meantime, Max found herself in the midst of a new life, and even a new family—some of these other Jam Pony riders were all right.

The nominal boss, however, Normal—whose work moniker was an improvement over his real name, Reagan Ronald—had turned out to be just as uptight as Theo had claimed. Conservative to the bone, a fan of both Bush presidencies, the oblong-faced, perpetually distracted Normal—with his long straight nose, thin lips, and headset that seemed as much a part of him as his hands or ears—wore his brownish blond hair short and combed back, his black-frame glasses and constant frown making him look like a sad librarian.

Normal considered Max and his other employees a bunch of slacker losers, which hardly inspired the best in them. Constantly saying, “Bip, bip, bip,” his secret code for “hurry up,” hadn't gained him any new friends either; neither had his favorite, painful pseudo-expletive—“Where the fire truck is . . . ?” Fill in your favorite Jam Pony rider, like for example . . .

. . . Herbal Thought, a Rastafarian with a shaved head, short beard, and ready smile, a generous and philosophical instant friend. Frustratingly cheerful, he was always ready to share anything he had—even his ganja, which Max took a pass on—as well as to proselytize for Jah and the theory, “It's all good, all de time.”

The other messenger who befriended Max and Original Cindy, from day one, was a scarecrow with long, lank, black hair, greasy strands of which trailed down over his dark eyes. Sketchy, they all called him—a nickname that applied more to his thought processes than any artistic ability.

More than a little weird (“He the lost Three Stooge,” Original Cindy opined), Sketchy had sold himself out for experiments in a psych lab before he'd signed on at Jam Pony, and many of his friends thought that might explain his somewhat odd . . . sketchy . . . behavior.

Today, like most days, the four of them—Max, Original Cindy, Sketchy, and Herbal—were taking their lunch break at The Wall up the street from Jam Pony, a cement slab where the gang hung out, doing bike tricks and generally chilling. Here they sat and wolfed sub sandwiches from a nearby shop. Herbal passed on having a sandwich, however; his main course was a spliff he lit up—not much bigger than Max's thumb—and inhaled deeply.

“Ah, 'tis a gift from God,” Herbal said, as he leaned blissfully back against the table.

“I should become a Rasta,” Sketchy piped in, admiringly. “That's my kinda sacrament.”

Herbal shook his head and made a
tsk tsk
at the front of his mouth. “Ah, but worshiping Jah is not about the ganja, man. Worshiping Jah is about faith . . . faith and growth.”

“Growin' ganja,” Original Cindy said, and they all laughed, including the Rastafarian.

The strong scent tickled Max's nose. “No wonder you think it's ‘all good,' ” she said.

“Hey,” Sketchy said brightly, as if the idea he was about to express weren't something he suggested every day, “who's up for Crash after work?”

“Original Cindy could be up—how 'bout you, Boo?”

Max shrugged. “Guess I could hang for a while.”

The nature of the job—each rider out doing his or her own deliveries—prevented them from tiring of one another's company by the end of a long day; they enjoyed gathering to tell war stories, share anecdotes about Normal, and swap tales of tricky deliveries and asshole clients.

“Cool!” Sketchy turned to Herbal. “You?”

“If my brother and sisters need me to be there, you know Herbal will indeed be there.”

“Don't refer to yourself in the third person, my brother,” Original Cindy said, frowning. “Original Cindy don't dig that affected shit.”

Everybody looked at her, not sure whether she was kidding; and they never found out.

“Okay,” Sketchy said, eyes glittering, proud of himself for organizing something that happened almost every day. “We all meet at Crash!”

“Sounds like a plan,” Max said, rising, only half her sandwich eaten. “Gotta bounce—Normal's loaded me up with every shit delivery that came in today.”

Original Cindy shrugged, smirked. “He jus' knows you can go into any nasty part of town, and come out with your ass in one piece.”

Sketchy frowned in fragmented thought. “Wouldn't that be . . . two pieces?”

Max left them to argue that one out.

Over the course of the afternoon, she made four deliveries. The first was to a place way the hell up on Hamlin Street, by Portage Bay; the next on the way back on East Aloha Street, just off Twenty-third Avenue East; the third on Boylston near Broadway; and the last turned out to be the Sublime Laundry, downtown.

The place—a combo Laundromat and dry cleaner—looked less than sublime, and too dingy to launder anything except maybe money. The Asian woman behind the counter was about as friendly as a Manticore training officer. Shorter than Max, her black hair tied back in a severe bun, the woman had a raisin face with raisin eyes, and a mistrustful expression.

“Package for Vogelsang,” Max announced.

“I take.”

“I kinda don't think you're Daniel Vogelsang.”

“I take.”

“Mr. Vogelsang has to sign—it's marked confidential, and only Mr. Vogelsang can sign for it.”

“I take.”

Max glanced at the ceiling, rolled her eyes, and thought
the hell with it.
“Look, if Mr. Vogelsang isn't here, I'll just have to come back another time.”

“I take.”

“You
can't
take, you aren't him and you can't sign.” Max turned on her heels and headed for the door, the woman's language of choice moving from English to Chinese, her vocabulary expanding considerably from the two words Max had previously heard.

Max had enough Chinese training to know that some of the names she was being called should earn the woman a chance to have her mouth washed out with soap, and even in this shithole laundry, soap wasn't in short supply. . . .

But Max was learning to choose her battles more wisely, these days—attracting attention in Seattle was not on the itinerary.

As she reached the door, a male voice behind her boomed: “Ahm Wei, what the hell's going on out here?”

Max turned to see a heavyset man with blond crew-cut hair, mild features, and a goatee on a droopy-eyed bucket head, wearing baggy slacks and a Hawaiian slept-in shirt.

“She got package,” Ahm Wei said. “She no leave.”

“Ahm Wei, you know when they need my signature, you're supposed to come get me. . . . Young lady! Hold up there.”

Max sighed and swiveled. “You Vogelsang?”

“Could be.”

“You take?” Max mimicked, her patience growing thin, holding out the package. “If you're Vogelsang, this package is marked confidential, which means it has to be signed for personally. No tickee, no laundry, get it?”

“Punk-ass mouth on you,” the guy muttered. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm Vogelsang. Come on in back—I don't do my business out here.”

Already tired of this rigmarole, but not wanting to have to deal with Normal about the rejected package, Max let out another world-weary sigh and followed Vogelsang through double doors into a cramped office. Max's trained eyes automatically took it all in: washer parts, jugs of dry-cleaning chemicals, unidentified stacks of boxes, typical backroom stuff.

But centrally, in front of a wall of battered file cabinets stacked with more boxes and papers, a maple desk squatted, arrayed with piles of papers, the occasional Twinkie box, and empty Chinese takeout containers . . . a swivel chair behind the desk, a comfortable client's chair opposite, beige walls adorned with bulletin boards bearing police circulars and such . . .
what was this place?

Max handed the frumpy bear of a man the signature pad, he put on reading glasses and signed where he'd been told, and she asked, “What the hell do you do back here?”

“Private investigations.”

Her eyes widened a little. “You're a detective, huh? . . . What
kind
of investigations?”

He handed her the clipboard, she handed him the package, wrapped in brown paper; it was a little smaller than a shoe box.

“You know, divorces, runaways, skip trace, stuff like that.” He finally tore his eyes from the package and looked up at her—in his business, even invisible people like messengers rated a once-over. “Why?”

“If I was looking for someone, you could find them.”

“I could try.”

Without an invitation, she eased into the chair opposite Vogelsang, hooked a leg over its arm. “So—what's something like that cost?”

Vogelsang stroked his bearded chin, the package all but forgotten; tossed his glasses on the desk and took the chair back there. “Depends.”

“That's a great answer.”

“Depends on who we're looking for . . . and how much they don't want to be found.”

A sour feeling blossomed in Max's stomach. Already, she could see where this was heading: money. She'd been living the straight life since she and Original Cindy had landed in Seattle, hadn't pulled a single score; and to tell the truth, she sort of liked it. But she had to find her sibs.

“All right, Mr. Vogelsang—give me an estimate.”

Big shoulders made a tiny shrug. “Thousand-dollar retainer against two hundred a
day . . . plus expenses.”

She rolled her eyes. “You high? I'm a freakin' bike messenger!”

He shrugged, putting the reading glasses back on, his attention returning to the package.

“This office isn't exactly uptown,” Max pointed out. “How can you charge rates like that?”

“The uptown offices don't have my downtown connections. . . . The private eye game is a dirty one.”

“So you set up shop behind a laundry.”

He peered at her over the reading glasses. “Are we done here?”

“Okay, Mr. Vogelsang . . . let's say I get you the money. . . .”

He threw the glasses on the desk again. “You got that kind of cash?”

“I can get it.”

“Little girl like you.”

“Don't pry into
my
business, Mr. Vogelsang.”

“I won't.” He grinned at her; he was like a big naughty hound dog. “Unless somebody pays me to. . . .”

“If they do, I'll double whatever they give you. I'd be buying loyalty, as well as discretion.”