Page 17 of It Takes a Thief

“Scumbag.”

“Shit dongle.”

“Anusbrain.”

My brothers had colorful words for the Cutlass sergeant-at-arms. But only Wolf Glaser was bold or dumb enough to go up and kick dirt on Noodlum’s boots.

“You draw a piece on a Bare Boner, expect payback,” he sneered.

Turning sideways like a drone, Noodlum simultaneously kicked Wolf in the kneecap with his steel-toed engineer boots, and jammed his elbow into Wolf’s eye socket. Wolf fell back, of course, but all my men were now nose-to-nose with all Zelov’s men, snarling and spitting on each other.

It was my move to show authority. I couldn’t just let some twatwaffle touch one of my brothers without striking back. So strike I did.

I just punched Noodlum, one satisfying uppercut to the nose that had blood spraying like cherry juice. Very satisfying to injure the fuckwad who had posted that story about my old lady. I thought I might’ve even broken his nose, judging from the crunch beneath my knuckles. People like us had had their noses broken dozens of times, so it was no big deal to break them again. Still, it was gratifying to lash out like that. Noodlum fell backward into the arms of a bruiser. When the bruiser tossed Noodlum away, that spoke a lot to me. Told me the club wasn’t as cohesive as they pretended to be.

“Off our turf,” I yelled, pretty needlessly, since Zelov was rounding them all to their rides.

Fox wiped his nose off on the back of his hand, though he hadn’t been touched. “Asswipes,” he muttered.

I went to check out Wolf. They’d laid him back on some bushes. We’d have to take him to Maddy about his knee, but not much you could do about a nose.

Wolf was grinning. “That was boss!”

“How you feeling?” I asked him.

“Who cares how I feel? You defended me! You pasted that weirdo right in the kisser!”

I had to grin too, though I was weary as hell. I had the feeling we hadn’t seen the last of the Cutlasses, especially that oddball. I went to call Santiago Slayer, tracker of men, hit man when called for. If he didn’t answer his phone, I could always find out where he was from Twitter, Facebook, or Instagram. He even Snapchatted like a teen. I know, strange behavior for a Mexican hitman. But as Slayer himself would say, “Santiago Slayer doesn’t do nice. He goes big, or he goes home to his mansion on the lake.”

Instagram. Snapchat. Jesus fucking Christ. What was this world coming to?

CHAPTER SEVEN

MADISON

I woke up in Indian Wells surrounded by Indians.

I don’t know what I expected. I mean, I was on the Rez. I imagined I’d been around enough Native Americans to stay cool on the Rez. Ford and Lytton had different mothers, but both were from the Fort Apache Rez down south. Ford had never had the slightest desire to go there after his mom had passed of drug and alcohol-related reasons. In fact, I think it turned him off to the whole native thing. He was proud to be the guy who pulled himself up by his bootstraps and made something of himself. Not just hung around the Rez drinking Garden Deluxe and Aqua Net.

Drugs and drink were serious problems here—a fact already attested to by the empty bottles of, yes, Garden Deluxe that littered the side of the flimsy motel I’d stayed in. Now I’d be dealing with Navajo and Hopi, and Ogden had taught me some of the most important Diné words. Bilagáana. White guy. Adláanii. Drunk guy. Oód doo nádziihii. The sore that doesn’t heal—cancer.

I’d slept here so I could be fresh for the new day. Already, out here in the desert, windblown sandstone mesas rose from the ground. These were buff-colored ledges, not the rich rust sandstone I was looking forward to north of Ganado. Ganado was where I figured to start looking for Galileo. Ogden told me where to find his old trailer, occupied by what sounded like a questionable adláanii whom Ogden felt sorry for.

The machine in the motel lobby only had the worst sorts of soft drinks, like cherry cola, Orangina, and Grapico. I’d been prepared for this shitty state of affairs by bringing a cooler full of Smart water bottles, so I grabbed a bag of peanuts and was off in my Jeep.

That last time Ford and I had had sex could have been intensely romantic, bonding us like nothing had in months. Except for Lytton’s phone call. Ford did say before he blazed off to strategize with Lytton, “Mija. That was amazing.” And he’d kissed me on the mouth, but only before grabbing his keys. He hadn’t even come!

Did Ford still love me? Was the thrill gone? Had we hooked up too young? We’d lived together at my mother Iris’ house since the age of ten, but then we’d had years apart. I’d completed nursing school and he’d been in Afghanistan as a SEAL. We were almost two completely changed people by then, but the love had been stronger than ever.

I had known exactly who he was. Ford Illuminati was no saint. He’d built bombs in our garage as a teenager, one of which had blown the Cutlass’ clubhouse to kingdom come. I guessed they were at war again now, but it wasn’t my place to ask why. I just heard Ford tell Lytton that someone was going to pay for some bogus Facebook articles. Sometimes the club just seemed downright babyish to me. Why couldn’t Lytton just focus on his legit business? The Bare Bones also owned several downtown legit businesses—well, there for money laundering purposes, but legit all the same. Tuxedo rental, gas station, old-timey news stand, pizza parlor, archery range, cannabis dispensary—they all needed administering. I know our man Slushy did a lot of that, but still. Ford was spreading himself too thin.

Chuckling as I passed a burg named Greasewood, the desert became populated with those stalwart sentinels, the saguaro, and clusters of barbed discs that I knew as prickly pear. Having done a lot of camping in my time, I was at home with these plants. Ocotillo, finished blooming bright orange now in October, waved spindly arms against the sapphire blue sky.

Without thinking, I pulled in at the Hubbell Trading Post national historic site. Elated to be free of the turmoil and angst of the hospital, I actually felt, well, light. I smiled at a few “nons”—tourists wearing vaguely “Indian” patterned T-shirts, on their own journey to be at one with nature. I felt connected because I was married to a half-breed, a blanket-ass bow bender. If anyone was at one with the people, I was. Although I was dishwater blonde.

I bought Ford a Hopi Kachina doll. He’d never been comfortable with his heritage, having been raised by an Italian dad because his mother was too busy drinking hooch and letting men use her for money. I’d taken my kids to a few pow-wows but he’d always resisted attending. Now I splurged on a moderate squash blossom necklace for myself, knowing the money went to a good cause.

Then I was off to meet Moss Empire, Ogden’s renter. I had talked to this guy on the phone, and he said he could guide me to Galileo. Taking an unpaved road to the north, the sand turned redder, where shelves of striated sandstone had thrust upward to create pocket canyons. I passed a sign that commanded people to “don’t drink and ride,” with a stereotypical drawing of an Indian in a head scarf on horseback tossing one back straight from the bottle. In one of these arid hideaways I found the trailer, sad and broken-down. Someone had made an effort at coziness by strewing a few pots holding paltry cacti and succulents. The rainbow and mountain flag of the Navajo Nation hung motionless from a flagpole. Some of the windows in the trailer were broken out.