Iron Goddess (3 page)

Shea stared at the bloodstained floor, pushing away the haunting memories of her mother's death. Her hand tightened on the shirt soaked with Derek's blood before tossing it into the garbage. She pulled out a mop and rolling bucket from the broom closet. With the bucket in the janitor sink, she poured in floor cleaner and turned on the water.

As the bucket filled, Shea caught a glimpse of her scar-riddled face in the aluminum cover of the paper towel dispenser. Something inside her twisted. She pounded the dispenser, denting her reflection.

What's past is past,
she thought. She'd long since given up crying and feeling sorry about her disfigured face. Now she wanted to hurt whoever shot Derek. Whether it was the Jaguars, the Thunder, or a local junkie, she didn't care. One thing Ralph had taught her was when someone came at you, you had to push back hard. You had to send a message you weren't someone to be fucked with. Otherwise, they'd keep coming after you.

Shea dragged the mop bucket into the showroom. The front door chimed. Terrance, Monica, Switch, and Lakota wandered through the showroom, surveying the damage.

Terrance stood a few inches taller than Shea, but with his bodybuilder's physique, he looked much bigger. His trim, full beard and tidy afro gave him a cuddly, teddy-bear look.

“We were next door at the café when we saw the CSU van leave.” Terrance assessed the damage. “Robbers sure didn't miss much, did they?”

“Nope.”

He followed her to the mess on the floor. “Man, that's a lot of blood. Sure hope homeboy pulls through.”

“Me, too.”

“How is he?”

“Still listed in critical condition. Doc's not sure if he'll make it or not.”

“Damn. You think he was in on the robbery?”

She ran a hand through her hair. “Not sure. Don't want to think about that.”

“He has been showing up late to work the past week. Maybe he's smoking crystal again.”

She stared at the mess on the floor, refusing to acknowledge Terrance's point.

“I called the glass company,” he said. “They're sending someone by later today.”

The others approached. “Lakota, keep Switch away from this. Don't need her getting all triggered and freaky.”

She had hired Lakota after the woman had transitioned out of a halfway house for alcoholism. Her deep-set eyes and strong nose, coupled with a gentle smile, gave her a motherly appearance. In addition to her skills as a mechanical engineer, Lakota's other gift was calming down Switch when she got triggered.

Switch, a lanky young woman with bushy hair that always looked unkempt, had joined the crew after being released from a long-term mental facility. She'd been abused by her folks as a small child. Shea didn't know the details, but gathered it was the kind of horror story you read about in the papers. Whatever hell Switch had endured left her triggered by certain things like blood or people yelling. Once set off, she became a whole different person, and things tended to get broken.

“Come on, Switch,” said Lakota, as if talking to a kid, “let's see what's going on in the workshop.”

“Let me get some gloves and pick up that trash before you start mopping,” said Terrance.

Monica walked over, covering her mouth and looking a little green.

“Mon, don't you go vomiting and giving me more shit to clean up,” scolded Shea.

“I'm all right.” She didn't sound convincing.

Monica, who served as Iron Goddess' salesperson, had worked there almost as long as Shea had. Her bleach blond hair and immaculate makeup reminded Shea of an aging biker magazine model. Still, she was the closest any of them came to normal. No criminal record or drug problems. Just a fondness for motorcycles. “You saved his life, huh?”

Shea shrugged. “Maybe. We'll see.”

“They should write an article about you in the newspaper.”

“Yeah, right:
EX-CON SAVES FORMER JUNKIE AFTER BREAK-IN
. Great headline.”

“Okay, maybe not.”

“Assuming they didn't steal our computers, I need you to print out our current inventory and figure out what got stolen.”

“Yes, ma'am.” She hurried away to the office.

“And stop calling me ma'am!” Shea called after her. “Makes me feel old.”

Terrance gathered up the medical waste the EMTs had left behind. “Any thoughts on what to do about the Pink Trinkets' bikes?”

“I got a plan, but you ain't gonna like it.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.”

With the mess cleaned up, she and Terrance met in the office for an owners' meeting while Monica, Switch, and Lakota took inventory of what had been stolen.

Shea sat flicking the spark wheel on her Zippo. Lenny Slater, the former shop owner, had given it to her on her first anniversary at the shop. It no longer had any lighter fluid and hadn't since she'd quit smoking four years earlier. But she held on to it as a reminder of Lenny. Whenever she had trouble figuring something out, she flicked it until a spark of inspiration hit her.

“Shea, we need to call the Pink Trinkets and let them know what happened.” Terrance swirled the coffee in his Styrofoam cup from the café next door.

“No fucking way!” She shook her head. “I don't wanna give the Trinks a reason to cancel the contract. We can't afford it. I'm gonna find them bikes and put a hurt on whoever shot Derek.”

“The show's two weeks away. We don't even have time to rebuild them. So unless you know who has the bikes, we have to cancel.”

“T, I ain't giving up on this project. I'll find the bikes and, with a little luck, get some justice for Derek.” She could still feel the stickiness of Derek's blood on her hands, though they'd been washed.

“Okay, Miss Nancy Drew, what's your plan?”

“Goblin thinks the Jaguars might be behind the break-in.”

“The Mexican street gang?” Terrance's eyes widened. “Sister, if they got your bikes, let them go. Don't go messing with those psychos and their drug cartel buddies unless you want to get yourself strung up from Memorial Bridge with your guts hanging out.” He crushed his now-empty cup and tossed it into the trash can.

“They put Derek in the hospital, busted up our shop, and stole half our goddamn store. It's time for payback.”

“Payback? Shea, do you hear yourself? You sound like your old man.”

Terrance's words sent a shock of fury through her body like she'd been hit with a stun gun. Her fist tightened on the lighter. “Don't
ever
compare me to that fucking piece of shit.”

“Shea, listen to yourself. Since when are you all revenge and stuff? This ain't you.” He put his hand on her arm. She jerked it away.

“That was before they tried to kill one of our crew. You wanna survive in this world, you gotta set boundaries. When someone crosses 'em, you gotta let them know there's a price.”

“We been building bikes together for what? Ten years? I care about you despite your pasty complexion and a face that resembles a shar-pei's ass.”

Shea smirked at his attempt at humor. “Uh-huh.”

“We are not a motorcycle club. We are not a street gang. We are business owners.”

“Your point?”

“Point is, we care about our employees, but we don't go to war over them. Not with the Jaguars.”

“These people aren't just my employees, T. They're my family.”

“Fine. Family's good. I got my own son, Elon, to think about. You got Jessica. You want to put them at risk?”

“What's
your
plan? Put our tails between our legs, tell the Trinks, ‘Sorry, ladies, your bikes got stolen. Here's your money back'? We can't afford it. We already spent the money on parts and materials.”

“If we have to, yes. The Trinkets will understand. It ain't like we didn't finish the bikes. We got robbed.”

“If we let this go unanswered, we look weak and are inviting more of the same. I grew up in the local criminal culture. Vulnerability is liability. We got a reputation to uphold.”

“Jesus H. Christ, Shea, what good's a reputation if you're dead? Maybe we can hire a few temps. Hellbent Cycles down in Phoenix has been wanting to collaborate for years. Maybe this is our opportunity.”

“The Pink Trinkets didn't hire Hellbent to build their bikes. They hired us.”

Terrance buried his head in his hands and groaned. “Fine. What do you suggest?”

“You used to buy Adderall from one of the Jaguars, didn't you? What was his name? Oscar?” She clicked away at her Zippo as a plan formed in her head.

“That was fifteen years ago. Dude's probably dead or in jail.”

“Or maybe not. You mentioned once his family owns a taqueria, right?”

“Tres Olivos up in Ironwood.” Terrance's voice sagged with defeat.

“Thought so.” She smiled, clicking her Zippo all the faster.

“Shea, even in the unlikely chance you find him, you think he's going to rat on his own crew?”

Her smile faded. “I'll remind him I'm Ralph's daughter. Unless he wants a war with the Confederate Thunder, his crew needs to make things right.”

“Oh, so suddenly you
are
Ralph's daughter. Have you lost your freaking mind? You don't have any pull with the MC.”

“Yeah, but Oscar don't know that.”

“This is going to go sideways, I just know it.” He shook his head. “When do you plan to do this?”

“Today. After I call the insurance guy and we get this place cleaned up, you and I are having a late lunch at Tres Olivos.”

Lakota opened the office door. “Geez, you guys! Can you keep it down? Switch is already freaky-deaky about Derek getting shot. You two yelling in here's getting her more wound up.”

Shea sighed. “Sorry. Guess we're all a little worked up today. I'll go talk to her. Let her know Mommy and Daddy are done arguing. Where is she?”

Lakota pointed with her thumb. “In the garage, by the emergency eye wash station.”

Shea followed her out to where Switch sat on a stool, facing the wall, twisting a strand of her long hair, muttering to herself. “I told her I never went in there. That's Daddy's drawers. I knew little girls aren't allowed in Daddy's drawers. But she didn't listen. No! She called me
mentirosa
. Liar!”

“Switch?” Shea pulled up another stool. She was tempted to put a calming hand on Switch's shoulder, but last time she'd done that, Switch broke Shea's nose with her elbow. “Hey Switch, it's me. Shea. You with us, kiddo?”

“She said, ‘Don't you dare touch that razor.' Tried to tell her wasn't me. It was Jamie that done it. Ouch! Ouch! No, Mommy. Please, Mommy!”

“Come on back, Switch. Nobody's gonna hurt you. Everybody loves Switch.” Shea shuddered to think the hell the girl had endured at the hands of her sadistic parents.

Switch turned and looked at her, eyes wide with fear, arms tucked close to her frail body. “Everybody loves Switch?”

“Yeah. You're safe now, darlin'.”

Like a puma, Switch pounced at her, wrapping her arms tight around her torso. The suddenness of the move startled Shea, but she held Switch for a few moments until the darkness faded enough for the young woman to reconnect to the present.

Switch leaned back, face blank. “I got work to do.” She stood up and walked off to where she'd been working on a fuel injection module, as if the meltdown a moment earlier never happened.

Shea stood to go back to the office. Lakota stopped her. “Whatever's going on between you and Terrance, work it out quietly before she gets any worse.”

“Yes, boss.” Shea knew Lakota was right, but was too worked up herself to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

No sooner had she sat down at her desk than Monica poked her head in the doorway. “Hey, your Scottsdale housewife girlfriend is here.”

“Would you quit calling her that? She's not a housewife. She works at an insurance company.” She looked through the office window and saw Jess, dressed to the nines as always. The perfect complement to Shea's baggy Iron Goddess T-shirt—sans bra—and grease-stained jeans. Shea waved, and Jessica blew her a kiss.

“Sorry, I figured Lady Jessica Taylor of the Snottsdale Taylors sounded a bit pompous.”

“Gee, you think? Be nice.” Shea walked out of the office and gave Jessica a hug. “Hey, babe.”

“Hi, sweetie. Morning, Monica.”

“Oh,
hi,
Jessica,” Monica said with a saccharine grin. She went to assist a customer who'd walked in with Jessica.

Jessica looked her up and down. “You ready to go?”

“Go? Oh shit. That's right, sushi! Can you gimme a raincheck? We're still sorting through this mess. Besides, Terrance and I have a business lunch in a while.”

“Oh, maybe I can join you.”

“Would love you to, but you can't.”

“Why not?”

“Well, it's sort of…there's gonna be some tense negotiating there. You'd be bored.”
And in mortal danger,
Shea thought.

“When will I see you? I feel like you're more committed to this store than you are to our relationship.”

Shea sighed. “Well, I
am
the co-owner and have been for several years. You and I've only been dating a few months.”

“What're you saying?” Jessica pouted. Shea hated when she pouted.

“Look, sweetie, I'll be home after work and we can finally have some quality time. Maybe we can grab some fish—er, sushi for dinner.”

“Okay. Kisses.” Jessica gave her a peck on the lips and walked to the plywood-covered door. “Love what you've done with the place. Very minimalist.”

When they walked into Tres Olivos, Shea remembered eating there once as a kid. Ralph had brought her along to a meeting with the president of the Jaguars—a guy by the name of Victor Ganado, or Uncle Victor as he liked her to call him. He had a kind face, a ponytail, and a gentle voice like a grandfather—not the kind of man she'd expected to lead a Latino street gang. But then, people weren't always what they seemed.

The smell of carne asada and salsa filled her nose, causing her stomach to rumble. She hadn't eaten all day. Too many other things to worry about.

“May I help you?” asked the plump woman behind the counter. The crow's-feet around her eyes crinkled as she smiled. Her accent was heavy, but understandable.

Shea looked at the hand-printed menu on the wall. “Chicken burro.”

“Rice and beans?”

“Yeah.” She pulled out her wallet and turned to Terrance. “You're up.”

“Gimme the
caldo de res
with rice and refried beans on the side.”

“For here or to go?”

“Here.”

The woman rang up the total. Shea paid and kicked Terrance's boot. He was stalling.

“Um, señora, does Oscar Reyes work here?”

The woman's smile drooped. “Why you ask about my Oscar? If you looking for drugs, you go. Oscar don't sell drugs no more.”

Terrance shook his head. “No, no, señora, we aren't looking for drugs. This is something different.”

“He owe you money?” Her eyes narrowed.

“Ma'am, we own an auto shop in Sycamore Springs.” Shea handed her a business card. “We had a contest, and Oscar won a free car stereo. Unfortunately, we can't read the phone number on his ticket. If you'd have him call us, we'll give him his prize.”

Señora Reyes' smile reappeared. “Oh, that's different. He'll be so happy. I have him call you.”

Shea grinned. “Thanks. We'd appreciate it.”

“You go sit down. I call Oscar. Then I bring your food.”

The dining room was empty except for the two of them. Shea liked the idea of not having an audience, considering she'd promised Willie she'd leave the investigation to the Sheriff's Office. On the other hand, sometimes having witnesses could keep things from getting out of hand.

After a few minutes, Señora Reyes brought their food. “Oscar is on his way.”

Shea smiled at her and turned to Terrance. “Told you it'd work out.”

Terrance smirked.

She'd wolfed down her burrito and was eyeing Terrance's beef stew when a lean man with a hard face and a shaved head joined them at the table. A tableau of ink featuring a growling jaguar extended below the sleeve of his plaid shirt.

“I didn't enter no contest, so who the fuck are you?” He looked her up and down. “Damn,
blanca
. What happened to your face? You look like my pit bull's chew toy.”

She could picture this guy breaking into Iron Goddess and shooting Derek. Her creep-o-meter redlined, but she resisted the urge to pull the Glock in her waistband. She settled for glaring instead.

Oscar turned to Terrance and narrowed his gaze. “Don't I know you?”

“I used to buy Adderall from you.” Terrance glanced away, looking uncomfortable.

Oscar tilted his head. “You got a sister? You remind me of this butch
marimacha
I used to sell to.”

“That was me.”

The burrito Shea had eaten sat like a rock in her stomach. It now hit her why Terrance didn't want to meet with Oscar.

She'd learned Terrance was transgender years earlier, after taking him to the hospital for an emergency appendectomy. She couldn't care less. He was as much a man as any other guy she knew. More so than some. But not everyone was so enlightened.

Oscar looked Terrance up and down. “No shit. Terry, right? You some superbutch dyke now?”

“The name's Terrance now. I'm a trans guy. Now if we can discuss the reason—”

“Trans guy? What's 'at mean? What you got 'tween your legs? A pussy or a dick?” He chuckled and tilted his head to look under the table.

Shea shoved the table toward him. “Eyes above the table, asshole!”

Oscar laughed all the harder. “And I guess this bitch is your girlfriend.”

“Shea and I own a motorcycle shop,” said Terrance.

“Oh yes, a motorcycle shop.” Oscar pulled her card out of his shirt pocket. “Iron Goddess Custom Cycles. Shea Stevens. That you?”

“That's me,” she said.

“Yeah, I hearda you. You make them girlie bikes, dontcha?”

“We build custom bikes for women, yes.” Her patience wore thin. He was stalling. “Which is what we—”

Oscar turned back to Terrance. “I'm surprised at you,
ese
. Girlie bikes? I woulda figured you'd be making big ol' macho motorcycles. Harleys and shit. After all, you da man now, right?”

“Everyone makes big bikes. Women are an underserved market,” he said.

Shea rolled her eyes. Typical Terrance and his business school bullshit.

“Ha! Underserved market,” said Oscar. “I like that. You a real smart one, huh,
ese
?”

She was tired of letting Oscar run the show. She needed to find out who shot Derek. Her hand slipped around to rest on the grip of the Glock. “Listen, Oscar. It's our bikes we came to talk to you about.”

Oscar waved her off like she was an annoying waitress. “Terrance, you musta liked girl prison. All the pussy you can eat.”

That was it. She'd had enough of this bullshit. She pulled the Glock, chambered a round, and pointed it at Oscar's chest. “Forget about Terrance, Oscar! Let me tell you who
I
am.”

“Look at you acting all gangsta,
blanca
.” Oscar's smile turned sinister. “You think you the first
pinche
puta
to point a gun at me? Get your ass out of my mama's restaurant 'fore I shove that piece up your
culo
.”

Terrance put a hand over the Glock. “Shea, put that away before someone gets hurt.”

She kept the gun trained on Oscar. “This morning someone robbed our shop and put one of our guys in the hospital. Word is the Jaguars did it.”

“Why would
Los Jaguares
steal some
pinche
girlie bikes? And if we did, you think I'd admit it to you?”

“You know who I am? My father's Ralph Stevens, former prez of the Confederate Thunder Motorcycle Club. My sister's old man is the MC's current president. Unless you want a war between the Thunder and the Jaguars, you best start talking.”

“Terrance, you best put a leash on your bitch, 'fore she finds herself hanging from a bridge.”

Terrance shot Shea a look, then turned back to Oscar. “Man, we're just trying to get our bikes back.”

“Shut the fuck up, girlie man. You
pinches maricónes
come into my restaurant threatening war and shit? Fuck you, bitches! Los Jaguares don't know nothing 'bout no pink bikes.”

Shea raised an eyebrow. “How'd you know they were pink, asshole?”

“They
chica
bikes. What other fucking color'd they be? We ain't got your bikes,
blanca
. We don't ride fucking motorcycles.” He pulled a Colt 1911 and pointed it at her. “And don't threaten me with your bullshit. If you were connected to the Thundermen, you'd know we already at war.”

“Shea,” said Terrance, a tremble in his voice. “I think it's time to leave.”

The Colt still had the safety on. Her Glock had no safety. She had the advantage.

“Not so fast,” she said. “If the Jaguars didn't hit our shop, then who?”

“Gee, let me think. Who I know rides motorcycles? How about your punk ass, white trash biker buddies the Thunder?”

Maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe not. Either way, she wasn't getting anything more out of him. Not like this. She holstered her gun, hoping Oscar would do the same. He didn't.

“Now, get the fuck out 'fore I have you carried out in a body bag.”

She glared at him, refusing to move. Terrance stood up. “Come on, Shea. Let's let the cops deal with this.”

She hated to admit it, but her plan sucked. She stood up, not taking her eyes off Oscar for a second. “We ain't done here.”

“Count on it,
blanca
.”