King Maybe by Timothy Hallinan

Slugger.”
    I said, “I’m surprised he didn’t bring his mirror.”
    Ronnie said. “Where’s reverse?”
    â€œTwo down.”
    She slammed it into reverse and floored it. I’d like to say we shot backward, but it was more demure than that. We rolled backward at a dignified, favorite-auntie speed, gradually picking up velocity, and then Ronnie cut the wheel sharply left and we all heard and felt a loud thump followed a hoarse scream, and as the other guy’s bat landed on the trunk with malice aforethought, she said, “Engine in back?”
    â€œIt’s a Toyota ,” I said. “The engine is in the fucking ashtray.”
    â€œIn the Porsche, you idiot.”
    The bat shattered the left backseat window, and the car filled with flying glass and Stinky’s shriek.
    â€œIn the back,” I said. “I think.”
    â€œOkay. Put on your seat belts.”
    I said, “Oh, for Christ’s—” And Ronnie dumped the car into neutral, raced the engine to the red line, and threw it into gear.
    We jumped forward with a squealing-tire abandon that was a new element in my relationship with the car, and Ronnie leaned on the horn, one long, pulsating bleat of desperation to wake up the neighbors. The slight figure of the Slugger jumped elegantly out of the way, and Ronnie twisted the wheel left, hopping the curb on the driver’s side and, still gathering momentum, clipped the front end of the Porsche at a sharp angle, knocking it cattywampus, and then we were around it and hurtling downhill.
    â€œDirections!” Ronnie shouted.
    I said, “Go right, then just head downhill.”
    She tore her eyes from the rearview mirror. “Watch behind us.”
    I looked back. We hung a gentle curve and then made the right, and even looking backward as I was, in my peripheral vision I could see the Valley opening itself welcomingly below us, glittering a relieved Hello there. Ronnie had brought the car’s speed down to something like the limit, and she said, “Anything?”
    â€œNot unless he doesn’t have his headlights on.”
    â€œOkay,” she said. “Then he’s probably not coming.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œEither I knocked the front wheel cockeyed or I pushed the fender into it so tightly it’ll cut into the tire and blow it the first couple of yards he drives. That’s why I clipped him at that angle. I probably screwed up Pookie’s passenger side—”
    â€œShe’s not named Pookie.”
    â€œâ€”but I wanted to make sure I hit his wheel just right.” She turned to me. “So where are we going? Or do you want to drive?”
    â€œNo, really,” I said. “Wouldn’t hear of it. You’re doing fine.”

6
    The Great Unspanked Baby of the World
    â€œPeople live like this?” Stinky was squinting against the light. The Du-par’s on Ventura, just a block from Laurel Canyon, has been uncomfortably bright inside all night long for about forty years, with the shadowless, concentrated glare of twenty-four-hour coffee shops everywhere. I’ve always figured the candlepower was meant to discourage dopers and draw cops, who convene from the night like moths. In fact, four uniformed motorcycle cops, their leather creaking as they shifted in their seats, were the only other customers in the place. Stinky glanced at them, dismissed them, and pouted at his plate. “Where in the world are we?”
    â€œStudio City.”
    â€œOn a deeper level,” Stinky said, making a point of not rolling his eyes. “What kind of place is this?” He prodded the coconut cream pie I’d ordered him. “Is this supposed to be food?”
    â€œPeople who leave their houses occasionally,” I said, “have places . They might not be great places, they might not earn three stars from the Guide Michelin , but they have several things going for them. We’re