Fun and Thieving in Las Vegas, Part 1

[The following fevered writhings should be understood as an affectionate fair-use PARODY. All characters of the Lupin III franchise are the property of their original creator, Monkey Punch, for whose work I am forever grateful. Oh, and the lyrics quoted in the epigrams are the property of Donald Fagen and Walter Becker, for whose work I am also forever grateful. I earn nothing from these writings except entertainment value. Thank you, and please remember to keep your hands and head inside the getaway car at all times--except when shooting at pursuers.]

Well you swear and kick and beg us
That you're not a gambling man
Then you find you're back in Vegas
With a handle in your hand
                --Steely Dan, "Do It Again"

Las Vegas International Airport never fails to crack me up. I mean, the minute you’re off the Jetway, you can already hear the ching-ching-ching of slots--like people can’t even wait till they clear security before they start forking their money over to the Big Machine. I of course am capable of getting a lot more enjoyment--read that as “a lot more money”--out of those machines than the average poor bastard tourist from white-bread Middle America. And I’ll probably do so a little later in my visit, just for grins and walking-around money. But right now I have bigger, and more lucrative, fish to fry.

As I step onto the airport’s elevated shuttle tram, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in one of the windows. Man, have I outdone myself this time--looking back at me is the geekiest, most stereotypical Asian tourist one could ever order up from Central Casting. Ugly haircut, coke-bottle glasses, limp white shirt buttoned to the Adam’s apple, plus the inevitable camera round the neck and wheeled backpack dragging behind. All the Euro-American passengers are already rolling their eyes at me behind my back. Perfect. I suppress the big cheesy grin I feel trying to curl up beneath my mask, and drop more fully into character.

“Excuse me, solly, excuse me…” Of course I can and do speak perfect English when I want, but right now I'm getting a kick out of really laying the accent on thick. Meanwhile I'm making sure to trip over as many suitcases and bump into as many people as possible. More eye-rolling from the Middle-American tourists--God, these mindless little bigots are such suckers for this kind of crap.

Eventually my supposedly random stumble brings me to my chosen destination: an open seat to the immediate left of the mark du jour. He’s a geek too, actually, but a much higher-class and better paid geek than the one I’m portraying, so his suit is designer wool worsted, his glasses and hair straight out of GQ, and his computer bag a rich chocolate leather from Coach. Regardless of the class-status symbols, though, he still looks like his Mayflower-WASP mama dresses him. And regardless of his security clearance, he’s still naïve enough to think that simply placing his computer bag between his feet is adequate protection.

I bumble my way into the seat next to this guy, still apologizing profusely, still gleefully mixing r’s and l’s till the mark is gritting his teeth … and then I commit perhaps the single most unforgiveable act in the worldview of tight-assed little twerps like this guy: I pull out a pack of cigarettes.

“Ex-CUSE me,” the mark says in a voice dripping with condescension, “can’t you see that there’s no smoking allowed in here?”

“Oh oh oh--velly solly, honored sir, in my country is okay somoking alla time.” The mark casts his eyes heavenward, no doubt thinking all the nasty names this kind of asshole likes to call Asians. Fine by me. Because while his eyes are directed away from this here smart-ass li’l Euro-Asian, I get to flip that crucial pack of cigarettes under the seat across the aisle.

The departure warning chime goes off; the canned announcements sound; the doors of the tram slide shut. I glance at my watch: three, two, one … get a nice big lungful of air now ...

And then the cigarette pack goes “whoosh!” and starts spewing thick, dark, acrid smoke. Lots of it.

As people begin to cough and wail and otherwise freak out, I calmly reach with my right hand and grab the computer bag from between the mark’s twitching feet, while with my left I give the “camera” around my neck a quick flip, opening it up into the compact gas mask it really is. Gas mask now clapped firmly over disguise-mask, I thumb the switch on the coke-bottle glasses to turn on their thermal-vision function … and then all I have to do is swap the computer in the mark’s bag with the carefully prepared replica in my own, return the bag to its owner who has conveniently gone off in a dead faint, and the grab is done.

And now for the dismount. I traverse the car a lot more quickly -- and gracefully -- than my earlier transit, hit the emergency brake, pop the nearest emergency-exit window, and slip on out. The tram is, as I’d planned it, on one of the segments of elevated track between airport terminals, with about five stories’ worth of thin air between me and the access road below. As I anchor a rope and start sliding groundward, I spot my ride, right on time--just one of hundreds of anonymous utility vehicles scooting around the airport landscape, only this particular step van is discreetly making a beeline for the stream of smoke billowing out the tram window …

And that’s when I hear that all-too-familiar bellow of offended Japanese propriety: “Lupin! I’d know your M.O. anywhere! Where the hell did you -- LUPIN!!!”

Crap. Like the proverbial bad penny -- and I never even spotted him getting on the tram. But there he is, hokey old trenchcoat and all, hanging out the open window holding a handkerchief over his mouth against the smoke. He scans first skyward and then groundward, finally spotting me still a good 20 feet from the ground.

“Lupin! You’re under arrest!” he bawls as he vaults out the window -- hey, let it never be said the Old Man ain’t got game -- and starts shimmying down the rope after me.

Fortunately, Jigen’s spotted Pops too -- the van leaps forward like a goosed spinster, barrels right under the rope’s trailing end, and I have a nice easy leap onto its roof. But not before I flip open my Zippo and set that rope-end alight.

The flash from the rope’s thermite core gives Pops ample warning to scramble back up before it turns to a puff of smoke in his hands -- hey, it's never been my intent to kill the dear ol' bastard, I just want him out of my face. But man is he ever pissed off. All the more so when I whip my mask(s) off and give him my cheeriest “Abayo, Tottsan!” We drive off, leaving him clinging to the tramway howling with frustration.

I slither through the open window into the cab’s shotgun seat. “Well that was lots of fun.”

“The hell was Zenigata doing there?” Jigen growls. He’s still in the delivery service jumpsuit he’d donned for this operation, but has already ditched the matching trucker’s cap for his beloved fedora.

“Damned if I know. Pain in the ass -- I was hoping we’d have a little more slack before he got wind of this op. But the decoy laptop ought to buy us some time. And with any luck at all, the viruses I loaded onto it will buy us a bunch more.”

“Still, I’d feel a whole lot better if I knew his showing up was purely random, as opposed to him actually having a line on what we’re up to.”

“As would I. But since we don’t know that -- yet -- there’s no point in wasting energy fretting about it.” I rip  the remains of my costume free of my regular clothes, crumple them into a ball, and am about to chuck the lot out the window, when out of the corner of my eye I glimpse some stray movement. I look back behind us.

Jigen’s way ahead of me. “Company. And these guys look a bit too aggro to be sent by Zenigata.”

To be more precise, there are now two Humvees full of uniformed goons trailing us, drivers sweating because they can’t figure out why they’ve got it floored and still aren’t gaining on a lowly step van. Of course they have no idea what’s under the hood of this particular van. Let’s just say it’s been juiced up a bit since it left Grumman's assembly line.

I peer at the goons' uniform insignia, can’t place it. "Must be some private outfit."

“Maybe they’re freakin’ Homeland Security.”

“Really. I feel so secure now.”

The goon riding shotgun in the lead Humvee hangs out the window with a submachine gun in his paw. All those automatics are such pieces of crap -- spew lots of bullets with little accuracy, make a guy with shit aim feel like he’s got balls. In fact just about the only person I’ve met who actually knows how to do some real damage with a submachine gun is not a guy, but the ever-talented Fujiko … but this is no time to distract myself, we've got a little situation on our hands.

Jigen jerks the wheel to avoid a stream of lead from machine-gun boy. “Hey, ain’t the Homeland Security guys supposed to holler cease and desist before they open up?”

“Guess they’re not feeling as secure as us. Wanna let me take the wheel while you do the honors?”

“Sure thing.” I slide into the driver’s seat while Jigen sidles through the cargo area of the van -- no small feat, as nearly all of the space is taken up with the backup ride -- and pops one of the rear doors. I keep one eye on the rear-view mirror, just to watch him shoot. I never get tired of it. He’s an artist. Even a utilitarian job like this, it’s poetry in motion. The faster - than - human - eye - can - follow draw, the perfectly damped recoil -- I tell you, it’s a thing of beauty. And it’s two shots out, two driver’s side front tires shredded, two Humvees tumbling like ninepins. And we gone.

We ditch the van behind a warehouse on the edge of the airport, strip my little toys off the engine, and speed off in the backup ride -- this time a sweet little Mini Cooper that gives me all kinds of Italian Job happy vibes. Jigen, not so much. “Shit, who do they make these things for, Munchkins?” he mutters as he slides his seat as far back as it can go. He has to put the back nearly horizontal before he can stretch his long legs out and put his feet up on the dash as he likes to do.

“Hey, you should be glad -- I almost went for one of those Smart Car dinguses.”

“Those kiddie toys? They should just stick giant wind-up keys on the backs of ‘em.”

“Oooh! I like that!”

“You would.”

Speaking of toys, by now we’re cruising up the Strip, enjoying the mass quantities of electricity being burned to entertain Ma and Pa America. All the more ironic considering this week's crowd is augmented by thousands of technogeeks (including this afternoon’s target) who are in town for WEC, the World Energy Conference. It’s the Disneyworld of energy industry trade shows, taking up several of the big hotels as well as every last square inch of the Convention Center. All the big names are here, from oil companies to nuke plant contractors to electrical utilities to the military -- even the new boys on the block, the renewable energy outfits, are edging in on the action. Sidewalks are thronged with guys who make my afternoon’s getup look high-styling in comparison, every one of them bristling with degrees and security clearances. I think of these dudes descending on the craps tables and I don’t know whether to laugh or cringe.

We’re not staying in any of these joints, however; too much glitz and not enough privacy. We’ve rigged up an impromtu safehouse in an out-of-business strip-mall storefront -- it’s amazing how you can go just a dozen blocks east or west of Las Vegas Blvd. and be in instant deadsville. Plenty of room for us, for our ride--and for our remaining team-mates, if or when they decide to show up. Goemon should be here in the next 24 to 48 hours. Fuji-cakes … ah well, she’ll arrive whenever she pleases. Or not. I suspect the penthouse at the Paris would be much more her speed.

Jigen putters around the camp stove, boiling water for coffee and ramen, our standard field rations, while I haul out today’s prize and see whether it was worth the effort. Property of one Dr. David Rutherford, PhD, mid-level scientist for GeoDynamics Inc., a little startup energy think tank with some very suspicious financial backers.

Not to mention a highly mysterious product, currently under development, called Geo-Core ... which incorporates some literally priceless components.

We're still at the fishing-for-data stage of this job; hopefully Rutherford's PC will increase our stockpile of data on the mystery product. So: fire 'er up, slip in my favorite snoop disc … nope, no defense viruses or other nasties … but a nice big fat email archive and random other assorted text and data files. The encryption crumbles like old styrofoam before my almighty snoop software, and … “Bingo!”

“Ya got something, boss?”

“Got several somethings. Not an actual lead on our treasure -- yet -- but definitely some useful intel.”

I focus in tighter and begin to speed-read. Yep, this dude is attached to the Geo-Core project -- boy will his ass be grass when his bosses find out he was walking around with all this crap on his personal laptop. Got a bunch of emails to or from that Morningstar dude who seems to be at the heart of the matter. Scanning them now … ha. Here’s a whole thread going on about that S.A. dingus. Still no clue as to what S.A. is, other than being a location somewhere in California. Given how many Cali place names begin with "San" or "Santa," that doesn’t narrow the field all that much.

Oh-ho, but what do we have here? Graphics files? That’s a new find. But when I open them up, I’ve got a whole new mystery on my hands.

Jigen brings me a cup of coffee and a bowl of ramen, and peers over my shoulder at the mystery graphics. “I take it those aren’t computer circuits.”

“Actually, I think they may be veves.”

“Vey veys? As in ‘oy vey vey’?”

“Hardy har har. No, veves are symbols from the African diaspora religion known as voudoun -- which is a serious religion, by the way, not like that zombie crap you see in the movies.”

“Hey, watch it! Live and Let Die is one of my favorite flicks.”

“You like that better than Goldfinger?!? Nevermind. The question is, why the hell does this guy have these dinguses on his computer, in a directory full of heavy-duty data?”

“Maybe it’s a code.”

“Maybe. Somehow that theory isn’t flipping my hunch switch. But we’ll see.” I slurp down some nourishment while I compress all the laptop’s data and download it into a flash memory card. Later we’ll jettison the laptop in a likely-looking dumpster, denuded of my fingerprints but loaded up with some more fun viruses. Hope they like videos of super-distorted anime kids doing silly-ass line dances …

Speaking of viruses, I go online through my own mini-notebook and sure enough, the virus on the decoy laptop I planted on Dr. Rutherford has phoned home. “He’s at the Renaissance, right next to the Convention Center.”

“Convenient. For us as well as him.”

“Yeah. We make our next move tomorrow when he’s hitting the convention. In the meantime, what do you say to a little R’n’R?”

*********

“Man. Eighty-sixed out of three casinos in a single night. Gotta hand it to ya, boss, that has to be some kind of record.”

We’re tooling around in the Mini, me at the wheel and Jigen with his feet up, contemplating our next stop of the evening.

“Hey, can I help it if my luck makes the pit bosses think I’m counting cards?”

“You could always play bad on purpose.”

"But where's the fun in that? Anyway, I’m bored with gambling. How about we take in some tunes instead?”

“You got something in mind?”

I root around in my jacket, hand him the rave card I picked up at the last casino we got thrown out of.

“Lola Laveau and the Love Bandits, huh? Sounds promising. Er, this doesn’t have anything to do with this Lola looking like a total babe, does it?”

“Duh. But that’s not the only attraction. Read all the way to the bottom of the card.”

“Hmmm … ‘Love to all bandits of the heart … special shout-out to …’ --holy shit!-- ‘to my favorite love bandit Lupin III, if you’re ever in town come up and see me sometime. Signed, Lola.’”

“Who could possibly resist such an invitation?”

“Sure as hell not you.” He sighs, shakes his head, chuckles. “You know, I’m not much for this hunch business, boss, but I got a helluva feeling right now that this is gonna be interesting.”

***************

It’s not a casino club, it’s an indie, a rambling unpretentious joint on a side street miles from the Strip, with a lot of Nevada plates in the very packed parking lot. Like every joint in Vegas, there’s slots in the front bar, but surprisingly few people are playing them. Most everybody is cramming into the showroom, waiting for the midnight set.

I drop a Benjamin on the maitre d’ and persuade him to give us one of the few remaining reserved VIP tables, halfway back in the house but right next to the catwalk. The stage is set up for a big band, with a horn section, a huge-ass drum kit plus percussion station, and an old-school Fender Rhodes, all of which I consider auspicious signs in this benighted age of drum machines and synthesizer patches.

We have just enough time to get our first round of drinks delivered before the lights dim. The crowd starts to whoop and holler as the band members take their places and kick into “Let’s Misbehave.” Porter, baby -- already loving this girl’s style. But she’s not onstage yet. Waiting for the band to run through the tune and come back up to the head before making her entrance.

And when she does saunter onstage, seize the mic, and open up that golden throat of hers, it feels like the temperature in the room shoots up a good twenty degrees. Or maybe it’s just me.

Her lush-breasted café-au-lait body wrapped tight in a black strapless, she strolls down the catwalk on stiletto heels, selling the song both campy and sexy, a knowing glint in her eye. This is one femme formidable. Already I feel her giving Fujiko-chan some major competition on my personal lust-ometer.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Jigen smiling and shaking his head at me. Oops, I guess I must be making one of my googly love-crazed faces again. Oh well, can't be helped. So much for making a suave impression on the lady on the occasion of our first meeting ...

She has worked her way down the catwalk to our table. It looks like she's just going to pass right on by ... until she stops, strikes a pose, looks me right in the eyes, breaks into a huge grin, winks. And moves on. All without missing a beat in her song.

Busted ... !

Jigen puts his head back and laughs uproariously.

I’ve sort of pulled myself back together by the time she’s working her way back up the catwalk to our table … until she bends down (treating me to a faceful of cleavage in which I could happily drown), seizes my chin with her non-mic hand, and plants a huge wet kiss on my mouth. And … again moves on. Again without missing a beat in her song.

“Christ, I’m gonna need to get an oxygen tank for you,” laughs Jigen. It’s true. I’m undone. Gasping like a beached fish. An absolute puddle of helpless lust.

She's back on stage, the song ended, the crowd stamping and hooting and hollering. She addresses them, and I detect an unmistakeably New Orleans Creole accent. "Thank you, thank you! How y'all doin' tonight? I'm Lola and these here are my Love Bandits, Les Voleurs d'Amour. We steal great tunes from every decade and make them our own -- and we've been known to steal more than a few hearts along the way, too, haven't we? But all you veterans know that, I'm talking now to the virgins! Now I know we've got at least a couple of Love Bandit virgins in the audience tonight, so why don't y'all stand up and let us give you a proper welcome? Don't be scared now -- we all been virgins at some point, I know the first time can be a little scary ..."

I of course can't resist leaping to my feet. "C'mon, Jigen, you heard the lady."

"Christ." He hauls himself onto his feet rather more reluctantly.

"Now see, that wasn't so bad!" She locks eyes with me from way up there on the stage, gives me another big wink. "Now you there, dawlin' -- bet it's been a long time since anyone called you a virgin!"

Jigen sighs. "Well, there goes the last pretense of stealth for this operation."

"No no," I shout back across the audience to her, "I'm sure there's still a little virgin territory on me ... somewhere!" I mime searching around my body. "Wanna help me find it?"

"Naw, dawlin' you got it backwards -- I'm all about helping you lose it!" Her laugh bubbles up rich as chocolate.

"Like you need any help losing it," Jigen mutters. But he's laughing. I'm laughing too. I am digging this chick more and more. She understands the joy of making a spectacle of oneself.

The show rolls on, and I proceed to get even more entranced by her. A hot body does, admittedly, go a good long way with me, but the brains and talent to do something like making fabulous music, that turns me on even more. This girl is one smart and talented performer. And funny too, as she continues to whip the crowd into gales of laughter with her between-song patter. Even Jigen gives up trying to hide how impressed he is -- he’s very picky about his music, but when he hears this girl sing Steely Dan’s "Pretzel Logic," I see him break out in a big grin of pleasure.   

And just as the band's kicking into the final song of the set, my mellow is once again harshed by the bad penny man. Pops. I hear his dulcet tones from the back of the hall as he argues with the bouncer. The latter is obviously pretending not to understand the Old Man's admittedly atrocious accent, accusing him of being a drunk. Hmmm -- special instructions from Miss Lola to protect her surprise guest? If so -- how sweet!

But still, it might be a good idea to make a quick exit before Pops breaks through. Though not before leaving a little calling card on the table for the lady ...

We duck out a door labeled "Employees Only" and wind up in a dimly lit access hall. I start towards the back of the building, where I figure the dressing rooms should be. "Wait," says Jigen, "you're not going to go see her now, with Zenigata breathing down our necks?"

"I can't leave without thanking the lady for her hospitality, now can I?"

"Well, you could, but I'm not in the mood to whack you upside the head and drag your unconscious carcass out of here."

"I won't be long. Really. Just bring the car around."

"Whatever you say, boss." He slips into the shadows as he's so good at doing, and is gone.

Easy-peasy -- her name's on the dressing room door, along with a richly-deserved gold star. I slip inside, take a quick look around. I confess to an adoration of women's boudoirs -- the scents, the vibe, the pretty things with which they adorn their selves and their territory -- every item in these spaces talks to me of the women who breathe life into them.

But what's this? In one corner is something I've not seen before in any American woman's room. It's unmistakeably a religious shrine, but unlike the elegantly formal household butsudans of my Japanese mother's family, this shrine is a riotous burst of images, representing a syncretistic swarm of Catholic, Native American, and African iconography. Voudoun. Like the veves on Rutherford's computer. The synchronicity of it all is setting my hunch circuit off like crazy--

I hear the doorknob turn. Time to (temporarily) disappear.

She peers into the room before slipping in, quietly closing the door behind her. My card is in her hand and a look of expectation is on her face. She stands there a moment listening intently; then her nostrils flare as she inhales, and a broad smile crosses her face.

"Y'know, dawlin'," she annouces to the apparently empty room, "I've always loved the smell of Gitanes."

Laughing, I roll out from under her settee and stand. "Damn. Busted again. You're good."

"I have my moments." She approaches, looking me up and down with a frankness I've seldom seen in a woman. "My, you are one handsome devil. Your photos don't do you justice."

"That's because I see to it that photos that do 'do me justice' don't reach the public. Tends to be bad for business."

"I reckoned that was the case." She circles me slowly, continuing to size me up. Feeling her eyes on my ass is incredibly hot. "But word does get about; your reputation precedes you. Question is: how well does the reality live up to the legend?"

"Well, there's one sure way of finding that out, isn't there?" Her tigerish intensity is really turning me on -- but now I'm past the googly hit - on - the - head - with - the - frying - pan - of - lust stage into my own more predatory mode.

"I suppose so--" she begins. I decide to cut to the chase. She's startled at first to find herself so swiftly in my arms, my mouth so suddenly upon hers; her eyes widen, her body stiffens slightly, the natural reaction to being caught off-guard in a vulnerable position. But then her lips part before my very active tongue; her body relaxes and presses into mine; a burning heat springs up wherever our flesh touches. A small eternity passes while we merge this way; when we both come up for air, we seem to have mellowed our way past the wary circling predator stage.

"So," I say, grinning at her, "how well am I living up to my reputation so far?"

"Oh, I'd say preliminary signs are very promising. But I wouldn't mind doing a little more research."

"I wouldn't mind that either."

We have just started to go under again when my cellphone rings. I attempt to ignore it, but it's she who breaks the kiss and says, "Dawlin', I have a feeling you need to take that call."

I sigh. "Yes. I really do. Thank you for understanding."

It's Jigen -- switched to Japanese for security. "Trouble, boss. Our car is staked out. Goons from the same outfit as this afternoon. A few dozen of them. Snipers on rooftops and everything."

"Crap. Come on back. The alley behind the club."

Lola hasn't understood the words but she's picked up the tone. "Anything I can help with?"

I smile. "We need a ride. Ours is now ambush bait."

"Gotcha. My turn." She grabs a cellphone out of a purse perched on her dressing table. "Nessa. Where y'at? Bring Da Bitch round the back entrance, quick now. We got two guests need a fast out ... wazzat? Right, I'll tell him. En moment, doll."

"What was that last bit?" I ask as she closes her phone.

"Oh, that mannerless cop in the trenchcoat who was trying to bust on into the show. Nessa says he kept it up until about ten minutes back, when he suddenly got a call on his cell, got all excited, and run off. She thought it was suspicious."

"I'll say. Good call." Wonder if Pops had hooked up with the guys who bushwhacked our car.

Speaking of cars, I now hear the unmistakeable roar of a big American V-8 through the dressing-room wall. "Sounds like our ride is here."

I pull my Walther, check the magazine, strip a round into the chamber. I hear an answering metallic clack and look up to see Lola performing the same moves with a neat little PPK, which she then tucks back into her purse. "Ready when you are," she smiles.

We step out into the alley to find a gen-u-wine, beautifully restored, 1960s-era SCCA "Baby Grand" Dodge Dart, painted bad-ass matte black, growling like a panther. Behind the wheel is a young woman who looks like a punked-out Lauren Bacall, in spike-studded leather jacket, ripped-up jeans, and big bad black Doc Martens. "Nessa, I presume?" I say as Lola and I slide into the back seat.

Jigen comes running up at just the same time, Magnum in hand, and leaps into the shotgun seat. "Let's roll!" he spits out.

Nessa grins, revs the engine high, slips the clutch, and we take off like a bat out of hell.

"Man," says Jigen, holding tight to his hat, "you sure don't mess around, kid."

"No, Jigen-chan, these ladies both mean serious business. Hang on while I create us a little diversion." I pull my mini-laptop from one of the many hidden pockets in my jacket, and tap in a few commands. A few blocks behind us there's a series of small explosions as the sky lights up with fireworks ... then a deeper boom that shakes the Dart from the pavement up.

"Alas, poor Mini, we barely knew thee." I put the little 'puter away.

"Wow, you blew up your car? Fuckin' rad!" cries Nessa as she rockets us through a maze of back streets towards the city limits. She's got a look of glee on her face that I instantly identify with -- here is another fine soul who lives for the joy of fucking shit up. And then I look over at Jigen and I can't help busting out laughing -- he's doing his damnest to hide it, but he's been felled by Nessa much the way Lola bowled me over.

Nessa catches Jigen looking, flashes him a dangerous grin before returning her eyes to the road. "Name's Nessa. Pleased to meet you, Jigen Daisuke-san. Your reputation precedes you, man."

Your reputation precedes you. Exactly the line Lola used on me. Coincidence? Hmmm...

Meanwhile, Jigen's rising to the occasion. He tilts his hat to a slightly jauntier angle, gives her a Bogey-esque half-smile, and rumbles "No need to be so formal, babe. You can chan me anytime."

Good man! I knew you had it in you! But alas, I have to interrupt this cozy little moment, because I can see and hear pursuit from the rear.

"Company, kids. Nessa, you know someplace where we can lose these goons?"

"Got a real killer coming right up, man."

We have abruptly transitioned from urban to commercial landscapes, the kind of sea of warehouses I so like to work out of -- and then abruptly we leave that for trainyards and truckstops, and then just as abruptly we're surrounded by raw desert marred by the occasional quarry and chemical refinery. At which point Nessa puts the hammer down and takes the Dart well up over 100 mph. By the steady way the car lies in the road, she's way used to doing so with this machine. Bet she restored it herself.

Having put some distance between us and the goons, Nessa slows down just enough to take a turn off-highway. We are suddenly speeding past a series of waste-water pools into which some God-forsaken refinery had dumped all their poisonous byproducts. Ooh, wonder how fast a vehicle's paint gets eaten off if it falls into one of these? Aw, probably not enough to be spectacular, but it certainly wouldn't be pleasant. A definite rotten-egg smell is rising from a bunch of these stagnant slime-bowls.

"Okay," I say, drawing the Walther, "we can all play at this game." I roll down my window; the others do likewise. As Nessa proceeds to run a high-speed slalom through the maze of tailings pools, and the goons proceed to try and keep up, it's simply a matter of picking off tires at just the right moment to throw each pursuit vehicle into a pool. For Jigen, of course, it's a piece of cake. Lola succeeds in bagging one. I get a couple, then decide I'd have more fun throwing M-80s at them for the startle value.

And at one point, when Nessa circles around and catches a goon-mobile on the exact opposite side of a pool, she suddenly does a left-hand draw out of her jacket, fetches out a nasty-looking military model M1911A, and casually blows the whole driver's-side wheel off the Humvee. The recoil barely makes her arm twitch. I see Jigen's jaw drop.

I do the honors of picking off the last one. Nessa exits out the far side of this chemical wasteland and takes us down an unpaved service road paralleling a railroad right-of-way. 

"That's one helluva piece you're packing, girl," Jigen says to Nessa. "You must have arm-muscles of steel."

She grins, steers with her left hand while she pushes that arm's jacket-sleeve up with her right. She does indeed have totally ripped arm muscles. I think Jigen's jaw is going to scrape the floorboards of the car.

"Weight-training, man," she says. "In the Service. I was Special Forces until I got shit-canned for pissing off some assholes from Darkpool."

"Wait -- the private security goonsquad the US military uses in Iraq, right?" I blink as it hits me. "Aha! That's who those goons were who were chasing us just now. I knew their uniforms looked familiar."

"Got it in one, man."

"Yeah," Lola chimes in. "They opened a training facility out in the desert north of here about, what, two-three years ago? Pissed a whole bunch of people off."

"Pissing people off is their specialty, from what I hear," says Jigen, rummaging in his jacket for a cigarette.

That's when we hear the beat of big rotor blades approaching.

"Well guess what?" I crane my head out the window. "Looks like they're fixing to piss us all off some more."

And a big black attack helicopter heaves into view. And starts firing.