Chapter 81 – Tail the Target
Night had fallen over Los Angeles, turning the city into a playground for hippies and street racers.
Ron wove his way through crowds of young men in oversized T-shirts and dreadlocks. The impeccably tailored, expensive suit he wore was so out of place it drew stares wherever he went.
"Hey, punk," someone snarled behind him, "hand over everything you've got that's worth a damn, and maybe I'll—"
Rounding the corner, Ron felt something cold press against the back of his head. He wasn't surprised—this was already the third mugging attempt he'd run into tonight.
"Kid," he said calmly, cutting off the dreadlocked young man mid-sentence, "didn't anyone ever teach you there are some people on these streets you don't mess with?"
Before the mugger could react, Ron pivoted. One elbow smashed the pistol clean out of the kid's hand, and the other cracked straight into his face. The thug let out a strangled cry and sank to his knees, clutching his nose.
Ron didn't pause. With a practiced motion, he drew his right leg back like a soccer player about to take a penalty kick—and drove his foot forward between the thug's legs.
Crunch.
"Aaaagh!"
Ron could almost hear the man's balls shatter.
"And I," Ron said evenly, picking up the dropped pistol, "am exactly the kind of person you can't afford to cross."
It was an M1911—just an ordinary civilian model, the most common variant on the market. It was nothing like the high-end custom piece with the Rock Island logo that had killed Harry, though in practical terms, their performance was nearly identical.
He leveled the pistol at the whimpering mugger.
"I'm going to count to three. If you're still here when I'm done, I'm going to paint the street with your brains. One—"
BANG!
He fired a shot into the pavement between the kid's legs.
"AAAH!"
The thug let out a terrified scream. Before Ron could even say "two," he was scrambling away on all fours, then sprinting around the corner as fast as he could.
"What the hell…" Ron muttered under his breath. "I just wanted to take a shortcut. Where did all these scumbags come from tonight?"
A second later, his hidden earpiece crackled to life.
"You just had to be in a hurry," Paige's teasing voice drawled in his ear.
"Alright, fine," Ron sighed. "Tell me—where's that damned pervert now?"
"Right where I predicted," Paige replied lazily. "Still hanging out in that little bar he's been frequenting every night this week. It's across the street from that restaurant where your two old flames work. So… you planning to drop in and say hi? Maybe ask them if they'd like to have a threesome with you?"
Her voice dripped with mockery—and a note of sultry amusement that, to a young man like Ron, was annoyingly tempting.
"Ahem." Ron cleared his throat loudly, hoping she wouldn't notice his momentary embarrassment. "You're imagining things. I'm working right now, Paige. You know you're the only one I truly care about."
"Heh."
"I swear!" he protested, lifting his hand in front of the street corner surveillance camera as though making an oath.
---
It wasn't that Ron was particularly afraid of what Paige might do to him. To be honest, if what had happened last time were to happen a few more times, he wouldn't really mind—in fact, he might even enjoy it. If only he could stay conscious for it, all the better.
What he was afraid of was that Paige might decide to go after the poor sisters who ran the Williamsburg restaurant. God knew, even if you tied together every other woman Ron had ever been with, they still wouldn't be enough to handle Paige alone.
"It's fine," Paige replied coolly. "Do whatever you want. I don't care. You men are all the same anyway. I'll just pretend those women are your inflatable toys."
Thankfully, she didn't sound like she was about to snap.
"But," she added, "I still recommend you go say hello. That restaurant's window seating is the perfect vantage point to watch your little pair of gay lovers."
"All right, we'll do it your way."
Ron tucked the pistol into his waistband, hidden beneath his clothes, and stepped inside the restaurant.
The first thing he saw was the old Black cashier wearing a pair of comically oversized headphones.
"Hey, man," the old guy called out, eyeing Ron's expensive suit with a grin. "You sure you're in the right place? You oughta be walkin' the red carpet on Hollywood Boulevard with the movie stars. If it weren't for the fact I got a buddy who caught AIDS from screwing around with men, I'd be tempted to let you bend me over and save myself the five-hundred-dollar tip."
Ron laughed and bumped fists with him. "Come on, Earl—don't think I don't know the going rate these days. It's not nearly that expensive. Maybe you can point me to some classier joints. Name's Ron."
"Earl," the man said, inclining his head. "Semi-famous jazz musician—put out a few saxophone records nobody bought. And Earl's got a pair of sharp eyes. I'm guessing you're here for the ladies, right?"
Just then, Oleg came striding back from the bathroom, reeking of some industrial-strength deodorizer he'd sprayed to mask his body odor. The cloud of fumes nearly knocked Ron off his feet.
"If only the food here didn't have to pass through that chef's hands," Ron said helplessly, spreading his palms. "To be honest, I'm not even sure he bothered washing up."
"Old Earl's gotta warn you," the cashier said, shaking a finger, "if you plan on playing games with the girls' hearts—"
"Ron!"
A delighted voice called out behind him. Max came hurrying over, her face bright.
"What are you doing here?"
"I was passing by," Ron said easily. "Thought I'd stop in, see how you two were doing. Maybe grab a bite." He turned to Earl, gesturing at Max. "See? We're friends."
Max led him to an empty booth by the window. From here, he had a perfect, unobstructed view of the little bar across the street—its glass façade offered no cover at all.
"No," Ron said, as if continuing some earlier conversation. "In fact, I know a fantastic rider—her technique on the saddle is something to admire. I'd be ready to get together again anytime. The question is whether that fine lady is free for another…session."
Since Caroline wasn't around, he didn't mind sounding more brazen than usual. As Max handed him the menu, he reached out and gave her hand a playful squeeze.
A heavy hmph came through his earpiece, and Ron couldn't help the little smirk tugging at his lips.
So you do get jealous.
"Maybe…maybe after my shift ends at two in the morning," Max whispered, her face flushed pink. For all her bold words, she still turned shy around someone she actually liked.
Then, worried that the other customers might notice, she straightened up, schooling her expression into cold indifference.
"Ready to order, sir?" she asked primly.
Ron chuckled but didn't tease her further. He raised the menu to hide his face, eyes fixed intently on the bar across the street. There—two men, one burly and one slender. He had finally located his target for the night.
"One question," he said, still watching them through the window. "Is there anything on your menu that doesn't have to pass through that chef's hands? No offense—I just have a personal prejudice against people who don't wash after using the bathroom."