food.
The phone rang as the light turned green and he heard Artie's raspy New Jersey accent coming out of his headset. "Gabe! It's me! Why'd you turn off your phone?"
"Sorry. I forgot."
"I'm watching a live-cam shot on my computer. Two girls are taking a shower together. It started out okay, but now the steam is messing up the lens."
"Sounds interesting."
"I've got a pickup for you in Santa MonicaCanyon."
"Is that near the fire?"
"Nah. It's miles away. No problem. But there's a new fire in Simi Valley. That one's totally out of control."
The motorcycle's handlebars were short and the foot clips and seat were angled so that Gabriel was always leaning forward. He could feel the vibration of the motor and hear the gears changing. When he was going fast, the machine became part of him, an extension of his body. Sometimes the tips of his handlebars were only inches away from speeding cars as he followed the broken white line that separated the lanes. He looked down the street and saw stoplights, pedestrians, trucks making slow turns, and immediately knew if he should stop or speed up or swerve around the obstacles.
Santa MonicaCanyon was an enclave of expensive houses built near a two-lane road that led down to the beach. Gabriel picked up a manila envelope lying on someone's doorstep and carried it to a mortgage broker in West Hollywood. When he reached the address, he removed his helmet and entered the office. He hated this part of the job. On the motorcycle, he was free to go anywhere. Standing in front of the receptionist, his body felt slow, weighed down by his heavy boots and jacket.
Back on the bike. Kick-start the engine. Keep moving. "Dear Gabriel, can you hear me?" It was Laura's soothing voice coming into his headset. "I hope you ate a good breakfast this morning. Complex carbohydrates can help stabilize blood sugar."
"Don't worry. I ate something."
"Good. I've got a pickup for you in CenturyCity"
Gabriel knew this address fairly well. He had dated a few of the receptionists and secretaries he had met delivering packages, but he had made only one real friend, a criminal-defense attorney named Maggie Resnick. About a year ago, he had showed up at her office for a delivery, only to wait around while her secretaries looked for a misplaced legal document. Maggie had asked him about his job and they ended up talking for an hour—long after the document had been found. He volunteered to take her riding on his motorcycle and was surprised when she accepted his offer.
Maggie was in her sixties, a small energetic woman who liked to wear red dresses and expensive shoes. Artie said that she defended movie stars and other celebrities who got into trouble, but she rarely talked about her cases. She treated Gabriel like a favorite nephew who wasn't very responsible. "You should go to college," she told him. "Open a bank account. Buy some real estate." Gabriel never followed any of her advice, but he liked the fact that she worried about him.
When he got up to the twenty-second floor, the receptionist sent him down the hallway to Maggie's private office. He walked in and found her smoking a cigarette and talking on the phone.
"Sure you can meet with the district attorney, but there's no deal. And there's no deal because he doesn't have a case. Feel him out, and then call me back. I'll be at lunch but they'll patch it through to the cell." Maggie hung up and flicked some ash off her cigarette. "Bastards. They're all lying bastards."
"You got a package for me?"
"No package. I just wanted to see you. I'll pay Laura for a delivery"
Gabriel sat on the couch and unzipped his jacket. Bottled water was on the coffee table and he poured some into a glass.
Maggie leaned forward, looking very fierce. "If you're dealing drugs, Gabriel, I will personally kill you."
"I'm not dealing drugs."
"You've told me about your brother. You shouldn't get involved in his scams to make money."
"He's buying property, Maggie. That's all.
The phone rang as the light turned green and he heard Artie's raspy New Jersey accent coming out of his headset. "Gabe! It's me! Why'd you turn off your phone?"
"Sorry. I forgot."
"I'm watching a live-cam shot on my computer. Two girls are taking a shower together. It started out okay, but now the steam is messing up the lens."
"Sounds interesting."
"I've got a pickup for you in Santa MonicaCanyon."
"Is that near the fire?"
"Nah. It's miles away. No problem. But there's a new fire in Simi Valley. That one's totally out of control."
The motorcycle's handlebars were short and the foot clips and seat were angled so that Gabriel was always leaning forward. He could feel the vibration of the motor and hear the gears changing. When he was going fast, the machine became part of him, an extension of his body. Sometimes the tips of his handlebars were only inches away from speeding cars as he followed the broken white line that separated the lanes. He looked down the street and saw stoplights, pedestrians, trucks making slow turns, and immediately knew if he should stop or speed up or swerve around the obstacles.
Santa MonicaCanyon was an enclave of expensive houses built near a two-lane road that led down to the beach. Gabriel picked up a manila envelope lying on someone's doorstep and carried it to a mortgage broker in West Hollywood. When he reached the address, he removed his helmet and entered the office. He hated this part of the job. On the motorcycle, he was free to go anywhere. Standing in front of the receptionist, his body felt slow, weighed down by his heavy boots and jacket.
Back on the bike. Kick-start the engine. Keep moving. "Dear Gabriel, can you hear me?" It was Laura's soothing voice coming into his headset. "I hope you ate a good breakfast this morning. Complex carbohydrates can help stabilize blood sugar."
"Don't worry. I ate something."
"Good. I've got a pickup for you in CenturyCity"
Gabriel knew this address fairly well. He had dated a few of the receptionists and secretaries he had met delivering packages, but he had made only one real friend, a criminal-defense attorney named Maggie Resnick. About a year ago, he had showed up at her office for a delivery, only to wait around while her secretaries looked for a misplaced legal document. Maggie had asked him about his job and they ended up talking for an hour—long after the document had been found. He volunteered to take her riding on his motorcycle and was surprised when she accepted his offer.
Maggie was in her sixties, a small energetic woman who liked to wear red dresses and expensive shoes. Artie said that she defended movie stars and other celebrities who got into trouble, but she rarely talked about her cases. She treated Gabriel like a favorite nephew who wasn't very responsible. "You should go to college," she told him. "Open a bank account. Buy some real estate." Gabriel never followed any of her advice, but he liked the fact that she worried about him.
When he got up to the twenty-second floor, the receptionist sent him down the hallway to Maggie's private office. He walked in and found her smoking a cigarette and talking on the phone.
"Sure you can meet with the district attorney, but there's no deal. And there's no deal because he doesn't have a case. Feel him out, and then call me back. I'll be at lunch but they'll patch it through to the cell." Maggie hung up and flicked some ash off her cigarette. "Bastards. They're all lying bastards."
"You got a package for me?"
"No package. I just wanted to see you. I'll pay Laura for a delivery"
Gabriel sat on the couch and unzipped his jacket. Bottled water was on the coffee table and he poured some into a glass.
Maggie leaned forward, looking very fierce. "If you're dealing drugs, Gabriel, I will personally kill you."
"I'm not dealing drugs."
"You've told me about your brother. You shouldn't get involved in his scams to make money."
"He's buying property, Maggie. That's all.
Similar Books
The Wedding: A Family's Coming Out Story
Doug Wythe, Andrew Merling, Roslyn Merling, Sheldon Merling
