Bad to the Bones(10)
Knox snorted. “The disciples are at our clubhouse under our protection from the people who f*cking tried to kill them, Asanga or whatever your name is.” He sighed heavily. “What’s your real name? I’m not calling you some hippie-dippy made-up name.”
“Asanga is my true, inner name, the manifestation of—”
He waved an arm at me and turned away. “Okay, whatever. I don’t know what kind of fantasy land you like to live in, but you were dumped out there alongside ordinary street bums, like you were taken out with the garbage. You have no idea why?”
“Of course not. It was obviously a mistake of some kind. I can see why he might want to rid the ashram of people whose inner lives didn’t coincide with the reality of our outer world. Some of these people might have thought they could get a free ride or free beer, and some of them did turn out to be addicts we weren’t prepared to handle. We don’t have rehab facilities, Mr. Hammett. Some of them did lie to us they were clean of limb and only accustomed to two beers—”
“So it was some colossal mistake that you were shoved into a van with these street people?”
“Yes. That’s all I can figure.”
“And shot at? Did you know any of the armed guards?”
“Well, yes. I knew all of them. Bulsara was just carrying out orders. He wouldn’t be a very good daimyo if he didn’t carry out orders without questioning them now, would he? I hold nothing against him.”
“You hold nothing against him even though he sprayed you with weapons fire? My, my. That ashram must be teaching you some highly evolved skills, ‘cause I sure as shit would be tearing old Bulsara a few new orifices if he tried that with me.”
I giggled. I believed him. The guy was incredibly manly. He exuded a virility I hadn’t witnessed in a long time—if ever. At the time, I probably wrote it off to him having some very good electromagnetic chi going on. “Well, I don’t think there’s anything suspicious. In fact, I’d like to get back up there. Where’s my skirt?” I set down my coffee mug.
“Hang on. I’ll give you back your skirt, because unlike some people, I don’t need brainwashing or muscle to keep people hostage.” I bristled at that, but Knox ploughed on. “Where were you from before you wound up taking underwater basket weaving classes up at Merry-go-round Canyon? They only moved in up there about seven years ago.”
I shrugged. “I am a local, somewhat. I grew up in Cottonwood, about half an hour from here.”
When he crossed his arms in front of his chest, his pecs and biceps sure bulged. I had to move back a few inches, his sexuality was so overwhelming. We weren’t trained to respond to this sort of allure, so I was highly uncomfortable. We looked for inner beauty, not tattoos and muscles. “Do you know anyone from Cottonwood, anyone you’d like to visit? I’m trying to get the 411 on exactly what happened on that mesa. You can understand where I’m coming from, Miss…Asanga. I don’t feel like returning a girl I saved back to some psychotic slave owner. I’d never be able to sleep at night if he was keeping you in a box under the bed or measuring you for a skin suit.”
I had just been thinking of Maddy, so I said, “Yeah. I went to high school with a girl, Maddy Shellmound. I wouldn’t mind seeing her, if she’s still around. If she’s alive. She was a senior when I was a freshman, and I thought she left to go to nursing school in Flagstaff.”
Knox’s face was slack with recognition. “Maddy? Sure, I know Maddy. She’s around. In fact, she’s married to the President of the club that runs the hangar I just mentioned where your bum buddies are. She did good for herself, became a nurse, married Ford.”
I frowned. “What’s this ‘club’ you keep referring to? Like, a Lion’s Club? Kiwanis?”
Knox grinned crookedly. “Nope. MC.” I must’ve looked mystified, for he clarified, “Motorcycle club. Listen, I’ve got to take this. Hey, Lytton. You find out anything from the juicers?”
Knox talked on his cell. I allowed what he’d said to sink in as I looked out the window at people and traffic. A motorcycle club, seriously? That had the potential for some real fun, and for the first time in a long time, I was truly interested in and excited by something. It would be even better if they rode Harleys and not rice rockets. I specialized in Harleys, although up at Bihari I repaired all kinds. It went against the grain of some mellow, green, organic disciples to straddle a big piece of iron. They liked to ride electric scooters, little pasta rockets. I was actually one of the few with a Harley. But I repaired them all.
I idly listened to him talk to his friend. “Granola? What makes you think there’s anything nefarious about organic breakfast cereal? Uh-huh. Yeah. Okay, I’ll ask her.”
I saw a few teens emerge from The Hip Quiver holding large rectangular cases. Nope, not a bar. A guy in a powder blue suit with a bad comb-over also emerged, holding the door politely for more teens. Then he headed across the street to our building, raising his hand against traffic as though he were a politician.
Punching his cell with his thumb, Knox turned to me. “Hey, Aswani.”
“Asanga.”
“Aswani. Were you often forced to eat granola over at that la-la-land place of yours?”
“Eat granola? No, why?” But I had the feeling this mysterious tough guy wouldn’t answer me, so I said, “There’s always a lot of talk about shipments of granola. I guess it’s a special kind, maybe gluten-free or whatever.”