The Entropy of Bones Page 10

  Did I stutter the first time? Go home.

  “They, we were all going to stay here.” Little Kid stepped up as the others retreated from me.

  Um, riot equals change in plans, no?

  “Where are we going to go?” a mousy girl who made me ashamed to be a female cried. “Bryce called. He said some of the others had been attacked. BART is closed.”

  “They all told their parents they were going to be out all night. At each other’s houses. But we were going to spend the night here. Kind of like a sleepover. We’ve got sleeping bags . . .”

  For the love of all things non-nerd I beg you to stop talking. I looked at them in earnest for the first time. They were the last of the two hundred who had come, and the first. The intelligent outcast. They were as new to fashion as I was. It was a costume for them. For many, maybe all, it was their first night out. Around 190 bolted, some paid the price. But these ten, plus Little Kid, had stayed loyal through fidelity and fear. What little sentimentality I had asserted itself. I would get them home.

  New plan, Little Kid. Your mom is on vacation?

  “Yes?”

  Then that’s where everyone is going. Your house. You all got here. You can all get gone if I get you to your cars, right? They mumbled and nodded.

  “Some of us have been drinking,” the mousy girl whined. My dead eye was the only response I could muster.

  “We can make it. We can make it,” Little Kid chimed in.

  Good, I said, snatching the mp3 player from his pocket. Better have some Benga on here.

  We were on Clay Street; the riots were primarily on the other side of Franklin, though the smart anarchists and other rioters thought they could use Clay as a back door the same way the cops did to get to the main mêlée. But the Little Kid got his smarts from his mom. Her sandwich shop was three blocks away from downtown Oakland’s federal building and two blocks away from the police station. I led a crew of eleven past battalions of police to their cars on San Pablo Avenue. Luckily, the freeway was only a half a block away.

  “I’ll never forget this,” Little Kid said, sitting in the back of his friend’s father’s luxury SUV.

  Hardest hundred dollars I ever made, I said, messing his hair before I slammed the door. Then I was alone.

  I felt like I should have a cigarette or a toothpick in my mouth as I strolled the half-naked streets of Oakland toward the ruckus to pick up the Cutlass. I’d parked it just off of Broadway. I could hear the old man in my mind yelling about how I destroyed his car the first time he’d lent it to me. Then I realized I did hear him yelling. In my mind, but in my ears as well.

  “Chabi!” his small voice made big by panic. I was running before I knew it. Into the madness of downtown. A thug lost his ability to balance forever for getting in my way. It was an afterthought. I barely registered the .45 I pilfered off a cop who tried to stop me from entering the chaos of downtown proper. Only the echoes of his broken hip and jawbones registered. Narayana was in a frenzy and, like a lightning bolt, I went to him. “Chabi!”

  He was at once poetic and barbaric when I finally caught sight of Raj. The tale of his journey was clear. His EMT overall tops were tied around his waist. He’d come into the riot in uniform hoping it would make it easier to find me. I knew he wasn’t scheduled to work. Seven cops tried surrounding the wiry old Indian who trained me to have 360-degree situational awareness constantly. I felt bad for the cops but worse for the assortment of rioters littered in Raj’s circumference that held broken bones and struggled to stop bleeds. My mentor didn’t stop moving but his bloodied knuckles and fingertips told me he’d been holding his ground for a while; all the time calling out for me.

  Narayana’s low leg kicks hobbled two cops before he noticed me. There was no restraint in him. It took about a second.

  “The dinghy is at the dock,” he said almost to me alone as he used the cops’ numbers against them, moving in close to one so the others wouldn’t fire, incapacitating the close officer then quickly jaunting into the shade of a half-finished alley or some corner. I struck at the periphery, taking advantage of the intentional blindness the cops had toward me. I was not on their mental threat list.

  Not without you, was all I said. Three SWAT members with automatic weapons turned to me at that point. Safeties off, fingers on triggers, all with body armor. I pictured pulling the pilfered .45 and nailing each of them on the faceplate with it. But just before I drew, Narayana left his shadow, striking one officer so hard he flew into his colleagues that had drawn a bead on me.

  “Don’t you touch her!” he shouted with a rage I’d never felt from him. I sidestepped the final standing officer and put him to sleep with the Dragon’s Tooth strike, an open palm strike to the carotid while soft-striking the trachea in two spots with my fingers. Sure, more cops were roaming the streets but none that had faced us.

  “You ok?” Narayana said, touching my face gently.

  I’m fine. I swear.

  “Still a woman.” He clucked his tooth. “I tell you go, you go.”

  I don’t go anywhere without you, Captain.

  We walked quietly, patiently, our hands out of our pockets for all the cops to see. I told him where the car was but the old man didn’t change his stride. We went to the docks in Jack London. Narayana had barely tied his dinghy off properly. On the way home he demanded I share his sake.

  Two days later I ran from Sausalito to the Marin headlands, home of every impressive picture of the Golden Gate Bridge. But I still couldn’t get Rice out of my head. More specifically, the beer incident was still echoing for me. He’d offered the beer. I caught it but didn’t drink it. I remembered. I could track every word he said in that conversation, every move. I was locked in. So why didn’t I notice myself doing the very foreign thing of taking down beer? The last time I drank was after the riot with Narayana. Mom’s previous problems, and the lack of focus it offered, always made alcohol seem like an intentional poisoning. But underneath it all was this awareness that Rice wanted me to drink. And what Rice wanted, I was getting the sense, he got. As I stood breathing loosely at cloud level looking down at the Golden Gate Bridge, I wished I could find Rice and force all his secrets out of him.

  I could almost hear his voice in my head saying, “Come find me.” What was definite was a pull toward San Francisco even though it was in the opposite direction of home. But I didn’t have anything else going on that day so I followed the impulse. I went quickly, easily tearing down the mountains that buttress the Bay and on to the famous suicide bridge. I tore past tourists and seasoned runners with the same ease. Once past the metal and the cars on the other side of the bridge, I quickly cut through the Presidio’s woods. It was early afternoon on a Saturday so I had to contend with all manner of picnicking, homeless panhandling, and cops on authoritarian power trips. I dealt with them all in the same way—speed. I was a blip in their day, nothing more.

  Out of the Presidio I cut over to Marina Boulevard and followed the Bay over to Fort Mason, an old retired military base that’s rented out for corporate and non-profit events. Ask me why and I wouldn’t have been able to tell you. That is until I saw Rice. He was surrounded by five short stubbly guys, obvious computer programmers, and two girls that were either “fans” of his or very convincing high-end escorts.

  “Chabi, you made it!” he said with genuine affection, as he left all his other guests to come to my side.

  Didn’t know you were going to be here, I managed to gasp out. I was sweating, gasping for air. It wasn’t the run. I’d run twice that distance in less time and not felt any worse for the wear.

  “If that’s what you need to believe, so be it. Just don’t hit me, ok?” He giggled, then called his entourage over. He introduced me as a member of his personal security team. I instantly forgot the others’ names. If I had to think about why, it was simple: they weren’t as beautiful as Rice. I knew them instinctively to be normal and for some reason that wasn’t good enough.

  Why am I here
? I asked after taking a long drink of water from a fountain and changing into my non-running clothes in the bathroom. Rice sat schmoozing with computer types and business folks in a large makeshift auditorium. Obviously it used to be an airplane hangar, but the building was cut in two by a large partition.

  “I figured you’d get a kick out of this. I know you’re all into martial arts and the like. Well, this game I’m about to release is going to be the best martial arts RPG ever.”

  So now you design video games as well? I asked, remembering the game he was playing when I walked into his suite.

  “Design? Just the storyline, some of the key characters. Not the heavy design lifting. I hire people for that. But it’s my production company. Check it, cross platform, from an app to your game console, The Saga of the Silver Snake will be available for everyone. You buy the app, you get one level of game play, buy it for a console, it’s a whole other experience. All of it involves the kicking of ass.”

  That seems . . . cool. I kept getting confused. He kept not speaking with his mouth, kept using that mastery smile. But he wasn’t doing anything nefarious. He was just a rich brat showing off his toys. I couldn’t even remember why I was so resistant to coming in the first place.

  “I know you don’t drink but I promised Poppy I’d bring her two glasses of champagne. Could you do me a favor and deliver them for me?” He spoke as if he had two glasses in his hands. I said nothing and went to search out the champagne before I asked myself what I was doing. It was getting too much. I was about to leave when I saw Poppy lounging, again in pajamas, though these were black silk. Infuriating as she was, finding Shotgun with her, sitting at the foot of her couch, sent me over the edge.

  What it do, Matt? I asked, interrogating him with my eyes.

  “Oh, Chabi. Do you have my champagne?” Poppy asked, not even looking at me.

  No, I told her. You good, Matt?

  “Why not?” Poppy almost shouted.

  “Don’t worry, honey.” Matt scrambled off his ass to get up. “I’ll get you some champagne.”

  “No you won’t,” Poppy continued, standing herself. “Rice told his little friend to bring both of us champagne and that’s what she’s going to do.”

  Twat, sit down before I end you. The heat up my back sent spasms through my arms and legs begging for release. Poppy’s rancor had caused a scene. Now she didn’t know how to back down without losing face. But she also knew if she kept standing I would do more than knock her down.

  “Chabi, enough!” Matt snipped, pulling on my arm. I saw Poppy think about trying to take advantage of the distraction to slap me, but then she remembered what happened to her pretty elder. I let Matt pull me to the open bar.

  What the fuck are you doing here, man? I snapped at Shotgun.

  “You can’t talk to Poppy like that, Chabi. It’s not right.” He was shaking with fear.

  What’s not right is you right now. You see yourself, Angola boy? San Quentin man, what’s this chick got on you?

  “I love her, Chabi.” I was stunned. I had no response. “We’ve been talking every day we haven’t seen each other. Chabi, she gets me. She understands me like no one else does. Not my uncles, not even my mom got me the way she does.”

  You’ve known her for under a week, I said, more shocked than I’d ever been by anything since Narayana. There were no words for this. Shotgun was gone. His usual tense jaw, the frustrated focus in his eyes, his manic energy, all of that was spent. In its place, fawning over a woman obviously gorgeous, but equally obviously fickle.

  “Don’t take this away from me, Chabi.” It was as close to a warning as he could muster against me. “Aside from that one time in the woods, I’ve never gone against you, I’ve never asked you for anything I wasn’t willing to pay for. We don’t have debts between us and we’ve done good business so hopefully I’ve got a little clout with you. I know you like being . . . the way you are, hard and dissatisfied with the world. That’s fine. I’m not here to judge you. But I want some joy. And she makes me happier than I have a right to be. Please play nice, Chabi. And if you can’t, can you just stay away?”

  He took two glasses of champagne and went back to Poppy. She looked over, only to smile her rat-toothed smile. My hand was around the exit door when the lights went low and Rice’s video game documentary began to play. Tech geeks, some of whom were in the room, some who couldn’t speak a lick of English, all gushed about the amount of pride and honor it bestowed on them to be selected for such a project. Interspliced with them and famous voice actors’ scripted cameo interviews was game play of the main character: a feudal lord who has to battle other lords and armies for the world’s ultimate weapon, the silver serpent. I found the whole thing boring until the lights came up.

  “Now for those of you that don’t know, we used some very precise and, well, let’s be honest, expensive, motion capturing software to help make Double S possible. I’d like to introduce you to the men and women whose moves we’ve now made possible for you to control.”

  Thirty men and women took the stage to the roar of applause. They all walked confident, strong: fighters. Mostly stage trained though some real combat talent was hidden in a few of them. Some were supple and deferential in the applause while others were ego-driven and raucous. By their stances alone I could tell their vulnerabilities, which ones had broken bones early in their careers that had never healed properly, others who relied too much on one aspect of their skill set and neglected others. All of them were skilled in one-on-one combat, half could maybe take three at a time, but none of them had fought bare-knuckled up and down the California coast. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Rice. As others were asking the martial artists questions, he was looking at me. After things went back to schmoozing mode, Rice called me over again.

  “Chabi, I want you to meet someone.” He was big-shouldered, a foot taller than me, with eggshell white skin. Younger than Rice, older than me by maybe a year. He was beautiful. And even though I kept forgetting it, I could see that he was not speaking with his mouth. I took his hand to shake it and was caught instantly. “This is Peren. Don’t tell anybody but he did most of the modeling for the actual Silver Snake.”

  Your mother must be proud of you, I said, hoping he’d let loose his grip a little. Not only was it tight, it was manufactured. With some hold I’d never seen before, he was slowing my pulse rate down.

  “Wouldn’t know. Haven’t met her,” he said with a far more menacing smile than even Poppy had thrown my way. “I heard you put down Mr. Khan.”

  Well, like most men, he didn’t know how to quit when he was ahead. I controlled my panic and went back to my breath. The grip game was his. He’d won because I’d stepped into a trap without knowing it. I had other options.

  “You misunderstand me,” Peren said, increasing the angle and the weight on his grip. “I . . . train with Mr. Khan often. I find it hard to believe that a young woman as unskilled as yourself could . . .” I gave into his grip quickly, dropping to one knee. Some people would have loosened their grip, but he made his tighter. More’s the pity; I stepped in under him then pivoted all my weight into my other shoulder and sent my elbow spinning into Peren’s face like a whip. His grip instantly loosened but didn’t break. That was fine, I used the Flame’s Retreat—two-fingered nerve strike to paralyze his gripping hand. The whole incident was over in four seconds.

  Just because you find something hard to believe don’t mean it’s false, right? I asked as he retired to the bathroom. I got as far as outside Fort Mason before Rice caught up with me. He made sure to not impede my progress with touch.

  “Wait, why are you leaving now?”

  I know, right? I’m just fickle that way. I hate being set up and all.

  “Hold on. I set him up. Not you.”

  Explain yourself. I was getting sick of being surprised.

  “Look, guys like Peren and Samovar are all kinds of deranged about their abilities as fighters, ok? Plus they’ve got that macho man
crap about honor and debts and all of that. I knew that once Peren heard what you did to his master or sensei or whatever, he’d come for you. So I told him who you were about a second before he met you. I knew he’d have to make a move and anything other than a full-on assault I knew you’d be able to handle.”

  The fuck you knew, I spit out. You were testing me much as much as he was. You wanted to know how I’d react.

  “Yes. Ok, I admit it. I want to know how my chief of security handles surprise situations.”

  I’m the chief of whipping your ass if you don’t back off me. Rice took five deliberate steps back.

  “A hundred thousand dollars a year. Base. Just for San Francisco. If you come with me to the other suites I can triple that. You only work when I’m in town.”

  I don’t want your money, I said, literally running away.

  “Then what do you want?” he yelled in the back of my mind.

  Chapter Nine: Rice

  I did a month of heavy training. Taking no days off, I ran fifty miles, swam fifteen, did katas for two hours, and worked a heavy bag filled with sand, then pebbles, then finally granite, for an hour and a half every day. I made sure to be clear of Roderick and Dale’s farm, unsure of what I’d say if they questioned me about Shotgun. I didn’t go dancing and stayed the hell away from the Naga Suites. For all of Rice’s flirtatious flattery, it was his final question that got me. What did I want? Rice was kind; he obviously thought I was attractive. He wanted me around. All I had to do was what I’d trained for since I was twelve.