Bad to the Bones(22)

Then there were movies on Maddy’s giant flat screen TV. There were computer games, games to strengthen Fidelia’s intelligence and perception. I wasn’t too childproof and it made me vaguely uncomfortable to be around children. I had always hoped I’d never be chosen for daycare duty over at the ashram’s child center—but knowing Shakti, he’d stick me there just to provoke me.

Maddy showed me around The Citadel, the old airplane hangar that now housed Illuminati Trucking. Half of it was also their “clubhouse” where bikers lounged playing darts and frying meat. These were the same activities and basically the same men as the ones at The Bum Steer, but of course no members of the public were allowed.

Lytton, apparently the lookalike half-brother of Ford Illuminati, was in the game room playing pool. He shook my hand in a gentlemanly way and said,

“I was one of the men who picked you up on that mesa. Me, Knoxie, and Wild Man.” He gestured with his stick at a smiling pool player whose main wildness seemed to be his hair. But sure enough, he wore the black leather “cut” with patches that denoted he was a tough outlaw, so he must have more than one side.

“Then maybe you know,” I told Lytton. “Has anyone gotten ahold of anyone up at Bihari? I want to know why I was included in that group of alkies. I’m a chosen one.” I lowered my voice and looked around. It was a sad day in hell when a group of grizzled, worldly bikers looked at you as though you were peeing behind a tree. I was wearing some of Maddy’s clothes, an orange T-shirt with a jean skirt, but she hadn’t convinced me to remove my Shakti locket. The whole Citadel probably knew my pathetic story by now, anyway. I didn’t know much about biker clubs but I knew they were close-knit and probably enjoyed juicy gossip as much as anyone. “That means I’m particularly close to the leader, Shakti.”

I had started feeling the longer I stayed away, the more Shakti would miss me. He’d figure out what Bulsara had done. He’d personally crucify the daimyo and would send soldiers into P&E to search for me.

Predictably, Maddy rolled her eyes and folded her arms. “She’s a groupie.”

I slapped her upper arm. “Shut up, Maddy! You promised you’d keep your judgments to yourself.”

“Sorry.” She was trying to stifle a giggle, and it wasn’t working. “Just slipped out. But yes, Lytton. We’re all curious. Ford’s been gone on a border run. Have you heard anything from Merry-go-round Canyon?”

Lytton leaned on his pool cue. His exotic almond-shaped eyes looked as though they were lined with soot, and his lips were impossibly shapely. I wasn’t very familiar with true sexual urges, but I mentally wagered a bet this guy could bring one out in me without trying. I had never spent this much time fixating on anyone’s shoulder tattoo, for instance. Lytton’s looked like a totem pole figure, a tribal eagle draped like whisper-thin silk across his luscious chestnut skin. “Nothing, but we’ll know a lot more later tonight. We’ve got feelers out.” He looked me up and down assessingly. “You’ve got a phone now. I promise I’ll call you around eight with a report. Or maybe I’ll have Knoxie call you, how does that sound?”

Maddy, Lytton, and Wild Man all seemed to be looking at each other knowingly. I exaggerated the fact that I didn’t care by shrugging wildly. “Sure, why not? Anyone. I don’t care!”

Maddy nodded. “She doesn’t care.”

“I can see that,” Lytton said sarcastically.

Some dude who looked like a seedy Al Pacino had taken Lytton’s place at the pool table. He snorted skeptically. “She doesn’t care,” he mocked before hitting his ball.

I felt anger rise in my gut, and I didn’t like the feeling. I knew “whites” would make fun of my beliefs, but these folks were like my own family—hell, better than my own family! As fellow outcasts, didn’t they know how it felt to be ridiculed and laughed at? It pissed me off that scummy, oily bikers I hadn’t even been introduced to were mocking me solely based on word of mouth.

“Come on.” I seethed. “Let’s go, Maddy.”

But just as I spun about to leave the game room, a strange interruption took place.

“Asanga!”

I hadn’t been called that name in days, and I gasped so loudly I could hear Al Pacino scratch against the felt of the table and swear.

Standing in the doorway was Brian, my fellow outcast from the bus. He was the one who hadn’t bothered changing his name. He’d been unapologetic about not conforming, and he had seemed particularly to blame Shakti for everything.

Now he pointed at me as though he’d seen a hairdresser. “You! You’re that Asanga, lover and supporter of that sleazy, twisted guru! I’ve seen you riding around in his Hummer drinking his hash milkshakes, wearing silk while everyone else wears cotton!”

Mortification swept over me. Every biker in the game room had frozen silently, some with open mouths. They all looked as though anticipating a particularly juicy story. I protested instantly, “I never wore silk. You saw the clothes I wore on the bus with you. Cotton.” But wait a minute. Why was I denying Shakti? Was I embarrassed?

“Yeah. Because you’d been fixing bikes. But I’ve seen you plenty of times driving with him to the daily meetings with speakers blasting that chutney music, massaging his shoulders while he talks on his phone to his banker! Ha! Look where you are now. This is how he repays his most loyal, cowering subjects! Look what the f*cking dirtbags did to you, too.”