Conflux: The Lost Girls

12 - Knives, clubs and guns

At the skatepark just after noon. Two early birds are boarding. Young kids. No one else. We sit on some bleachers by the sideline.

"Maybe they won't show," I say almost hopefully.

"We're early." She shakes her head, lighting two cigs and placing one in my mouth. "They'll show, one way or another." She sighs a hungover cloud.

"What if they don't?"

"We go home, take the whole bag together and die happy," she laughs.

I flick my cig ahead and see Bean meandering over.

"What's up?" he goes.

"Skating, as you can see," Care jokes dryly, giving him her cig and lighting another. "Sort of a spectator sport to me. Where's your board, anyhow?"

"Oh... I fall a lot. Usually I just hang out."

Care waves her little torch over the whole park. "No one here now, really. Now's the time to practice." She smirks.

"Oh yeah," he says. "They'll show up soon. Actually, H wanted me to hang with you guys so you don't think he's blowing you off."

"Did he now?" she goes, pulling out a tiny bag and doing a bump of powder off a knife tip. "That's very nice of him."

I grab her forearm, but she wrenches away and raises her nose. "Don't knock it if you ain't seen Scarface. Today I'm Tony Montana, and the game's on. Show's almost on the road." She sniffs.

"Cool..." Bean says. "Can I get some?"

"Some of my foot up your ass," Care says. Licking her ciggie's filter and sticking it in the baggie.

"Just a little?" I'll pay."

Care lifts her oversized sneaker to the sky. "My foot. Your ass."

Bean sits on the corner of the bleecher despondently.

"Anyway kid, you don't wanna be around people doing this shit. Especially at your age."

"I'm fifteen," he says. "How old are you?"

"A thousand years old. I'm an alien from another planet."

Bean looks at me. I shrug and toss my half-burned smoke. He watches it sail gloomily, like he'd pick it up if we weren't watching.

A crimson Ford Bronco screeches into the bare parking lot across from the concrete skatepark. A teen hops out of the passenger door, walking slowly to the front, followed by the driver, a taller guy with dark messy hair at his ears, sunglasses, a black leather duster falling to his boots. They take their time approaching up a paved path, scanning their surroundings. Finally they come near us, silent.

"Terminator I," Care says to the tall one, "Meet Terminator II," nodding at me. "Hunter, have a smoke on me."

He seems reluctant to take it. "I've got my own." He lights up a long menthol. "This is my brother John."

"Bad John. Big bad John. It's a Michael Jackson thing, right? I'm a fan too," she grins. I sigh.

John glares at Bean and the kid disappears. John takes off his glasses. "Woods?"

I look around, reluctant, but Care hops right up. "Yep, that's smart."

We trudge a few minutes down a trail and find a small clearing off the path. John lights a smoke, pushes his hair out of his eyes. "Whatcha got for me?"

"A whole lot of nothing if I don't see some money..." she says, arms crossed.

Hunter and I tense up. Care and John are standing off.