Gordon nailed the forecourt parking spot of the Quantum Promenade, then twisted to face Mac and Hannah in the backseat of Suzie Red. “Ya’ll got fifteen minutes. Grace expires after that. This here lot runs on a soul an hour, and I’m not payin’ that, so no funny business, ya hear?”

  Mac appealed in his defense, snapping a burst of smirks at Hannah, raising his eyebrows and framing his chin. She turned on a dime, stepping out with her breath shaking as she cupped her face and muttered something.

  He hounded after her, in full commitment to the bit.

  Mac called her out, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Hannah, you’d have to be some sort of sicko paparazzo to visit San Jose! This is the DUMBEST place on Earth, and this part of town is hooked on the most dangerous drug of all: sniffing their own FARTS! We’re in GHETTOCEPTION, dude! ’Sides, you’re not even famous enough for that!”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Mac caught Tar giggling in shotgun, elbowing Gordon as they blew out their diaphragms.

  Everyone else has been laughing a whole lot more lately. Am I just not getting the joke?

  At the entrance, Mac gave his jacket a crisp tug and powered on his AR monocle, the Apogee Aperture 9. Before he could move, another arm hooked his.

  This feeling’s familiar… Oh. Hannah! Right! She needs me to pose as a date. Man, that silver party dress looks stunning on her—CAN YOU NOT OBJECTIFY WOMEN, CASANOVA? Focus, bro! We could DIE here!

  Kachunk! Tar pounced out of the car, phone in hand, and snapped a picture, perfectly framing them beneath the arched doorway.

  Oh, Tar’s the sicko paparazzo…

  “Hey!” Hannah shouted, swatting at the flash of the camera.

  “Oh my, I didn’t expect you to be so daring tonight, girlfriend!” Tar howled, getting on her knee to take another picture.

  Hannah squeezed Mac’s arm like an oversized anaconda that had just found lunch, almost as firmly as she did when she slept on his shoulder. She stooped to his level and beg-whispered, “Mac, do something!”

  “Huh? Oh! Tar! Pretty please, can you not?” Mac stuck a hand out in front of them before stepping in front of Hannah and puffing himself up as if he were a Secret Service agent taking a bullet for Madame President, shielding most of her from Tar’s playful, goblin-like voyeurism.

  She’s too tall! Can’t cover everything!

  Mac caught a big whiff of Hannah’s perfume—flowers? Fuck, I’m already getting distracted, and we haven’t even stepped foot in the hotel yet.

  Eureka blasted their earpieces. “OI! This isn’t prom noight yew rascals! Get a move on!”

  Gordon rolled down his window. “She’s right! Git ’er done! I am NOT payin’ fer parkin’.”

  “Prom night’s over. Let’s move.” Still hanging on his arm, Hannah repossessed Mac, towing him through the front door like the former owner had just come home.

  Snap! Tar nabbed one last candid for the road, stalking after them with a snicker like she was absolutely dominating Mac in Mortal Kombat.

  Mac staggered along, gagging on broken dreams, secondhand smoke, and cheap perfume as they juked past zombies hunched over slot machines. His foot caught Hannah’s, sending them stumbling like prats. For a split second, everything blurred.

  Huh?

  When his vision steadied, they stood at an unoccupied slot machine, upright and unharmed.

  Oh! Whoa. Hannah’s FAST. Really thought we were gonna eat it.

  He squinted at the tacky artwork above its screen, prospecting his brain’s wrinkles for one of his dad’s fortune-cookie one-liners that seemed to always fit the moment. Nothing came. Slot machines huh? The name finally clicked: Chinese Chicken Chaos.

  How can there be chaos when there’s only one button and all you do is lose? Anyways, I can’t keep up with Hannah. Say something, Mac.

  “Hannah, slow down! Gotta tie our legs together for this to count. You trying to set a record for the three-legged race or what? We’ve got time. Heheh!” Mac quipped.

  Hannah rolled her eyes and groaned but adjusted her pace anyway. “You’re ridiculous.” Still, she didn’t let go.

  Eureka roared, nearly blowing out the hot mic. “Hahahaha! Oop—wrong channel!”

  Mac glanced behind them. Tar’s belly heaved with seismic activity as she gestured like an Italian uncle after seven too many shots of espresso. She didn’t speak; just another animated, sublingual conversation with Eureka. She mouthed something to the air, waited for a response, and then doubled over in silent laughter, nearly throwing her back out.

  Pressing her earpiece, she finally spoke. “Found my spot. Eureka and I will have you on cams and comms. Yell if you need anything.”

  Tar’s having the time of her life with her daughter. Wonder what it’s like to have a family of my own…

  He turned to Hannah. “Hannah?”

  Okay, something’s up. I’ve don’t think I’ve ever seen her this happy. Did she just meet a guy or something?

  A wistful smile clouded her face as she absentmindedly adjusted her grip on his arm. “Yeah?”

  “Let’s go over this one more time. Who’s our contact?” Mac asked.

  Hannah flat-shifted from distracted to stern, a hint of irritation creeping into her tone as she looked straight ahead and recited the intel. “Rajiv Chaudhary. 47 years old. Information broker. We’re meeting him at Fujiwara Ramen, back-to-back. Old-school spy movie shit. We flash the cash, he shows the goods, we make the deal, and then we scram. No complications like last time. Thanks, by the way. I still owe you one.”

  Man, she’s never happy when I try to help. I was focusing this time, Hannah!

  Mac shoved the British accent into a shallow pond, aiming a Colt Single Action Army at it and asking it, “Do you feel lucky, punk?” Without waiting for an answer, he then emptied its chambers, reloaded one bullet at a time, fanned the hammer again, skewered it with a plasma bayonet, and roasted it over a campfire from colonial times. “And your contingencies, Miss Sinclair?”

  Hannah growled like a mother polar bear reminding an interloper where her territory began. “Get behind me and pray.”

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  ---

  Mac and Hannah took their seats side by side. The table wobbled, one leg shorter than all the rest.

  Caressing the tabletop, Hannah sighed dreamily. “Oh, it’s just so authentic…”

  The kimono-clad waitress responded in kind. “Oh yes, we rescued these priceless treasures from a failed ramen shop in Japantown. Aren’t they charming?”

  “Yes they are… Look how scratched this laminate is. It’s GORGEOUS,” Hannah continued.

  I see these things all the time. Is that what all the rich people are saying now? That being poor is cool? They can’t be that shallow… can they?

  “I’m glad you like them, customer-san. You’re in luck. There’s a special couple’s discount on tonight if you order from this menu.” The waitress pulled two menus from her apron pocket, handing one to each of them.

  Hannah stifled a sneeze, her eyes closing in a restless look as she accepted her copy.

  Mac’s eyes bulged. The menu was made of some seriously nice paper with a sleek black leather backer. Fujiwara Ramen didn’t laminate it like every other place he’d ever been. He scanned the menu until he found a New Dollar sign, his anxiety keeping him from peeking at the number under his finger.

  I don’t wanna even see the price. But I’m a sucker for pain, and this place smells like it could cure the common cold.

  Lifting his finger from the sheet, Mac cringed. He tilted his head, confused, as Hannah puffed up her cheeks and pounded the table, wheezing uncontrollably.

  “Huh?”

  “You’re adora—Never mind,” Hannah blurted, cutting herself off. She closed her eyes, shook her head, and slapped her cheeks twice. When she turned back, her face was redder than her rouge.

  She’s doing that thing again. Is she alright?

  Mac cupped his ear and leaned closer, not wanting to miss what she was saying. It could have been the difference between life or death, after all. Hannah’s eyes widened as she leaned away.

  “What?”

  “You’re a DORK,” Hannah asserted, jabbing a childish finger at his chest.

  Eureka hissed over comms, like a pampered cat catching two Indian giant squirrels doing the needful in every position showcased in the Kama Sutra on top of a concrete backyard fence covered in broken glass over a newly-bloomed pond of lotuses, with a king cobra waiting to pounce from a nearby mango tree. “Ken yew FAHKHEADS keep yer eyes on da bloody road? He’s gonna be there in 20 seconds!”

  “Acknowledged,” Hannah keyed back, quickly slipping into the look she wore curating her anime watch list at ungodly speeds.

  An awkward silence fell between them. Mac’s gaze softened as he eyed the front of the shop, idly wondering what their guy might look like.

  The restaurant greeted a new customer. “Irasshaimase!”

  Then they beheld him. Striding in with his chest puffed out, a middle-aged Indian man in sandals, boot cut jeans frayed at the cuffs, an ill-fitting hot pink button-down shirt, and a thick mustache with waxed, curling tips slithered into the booth behind them.

  A text-to-speech program spoke for him, its voice carrying a posh, robotic, British affect. “Don't look at me. Here's how this is going to go. When I count to three, you show me the money, and I'll show you the goods. We'll swap the items behind us after we both agree to the trade on the count of three again. Done? Okay.”

  Rajiv started the countdown.

  “1.”

  Mac gulped, side-eyeing Hannah, the money already in her hand.

  “2.”

  How’d she fit all that in her purse?

  “3.”

  With a steely gaze, Hannah underhanded the cash behind her and glanced down at the narrow space between their booths. Her eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. She snapped around.

  Click!

  Eureka gasped. “This sloimy, dubbah-crossin’ BASTAAHD—”

  Mac’s head shot up to greet the barrel of an unnecessarily large magnum revolver. Hannah wasn’t any slouch, however—her pistol was already out, leveled at the assailant. Standoff!

  In hindsight this was obvious. I should’ve seen this waxed-mustache, hot pink-shirted, TTS-voiced son of a bitch coming from three galaxies away.

  “Really, Rajiv? That’s, like, so played out. Have some respect, you MUTT!” Hannah snarled through the paper divider.

  “HA HA HA HA HA! You don’t even know the half of it!”

  Hannah’s normally brilliant, piercing gray pupils clouded into an inky black. She scrunched her eyebrows together, raging. “And that little text-to-speech thing? It’s totally CuhRINGE!”

  Ooh, she’s kinda sexy when she gets like that—THAT’S NOT THE ISSUE HERE YA GOOBER!

  “I found a better deal for my goods, Miss Sinclair. CG&E gave me 100% more. What do they say in America again? Money talks, bullshit walks?” Rajiv taunted, his text-to-speech program’s poshness slider cranked to max.

  Whoosh! He slid his briefcase across the table to another CG&E agent.

  Latch! Click click! The CG&E goon opened the briefcase. “Wait a second, it’s empty—AWW, FU—” he stammered, reaching for his sidearm. But it was too late. Click!

  Eureka launched her play-by-play program. “Wait… Iz thet? By God, et’s Token-Tolp Generator Company! TRIPLE-CROSS! Rajiv sees da FEWCHA! Ooh, this won’t work… Gordon’s free parking runs owt in two minutes an’ twenty-one seconds!”

  Triple-cross? You’re shitting me.

  Mac’s stomach flip-flopped.

  The only thing that would top it is if there was another betrayal. But who’s even left in this stupid restaurant to play?

  The barrel waved in Mac’s face as its owner barked. “Really!?”

  That gun’s awfully big. Wonder if he’s compensating for something.

  “I found a better deal for my goods, Haze. Token-Tolp Generator Company gave me 200% more—“

  Haze had had enough. “CUT THE BULLSHIT! YOU’RE INSANE.”

  Without looking back, Rajiv flipped a casual middle finger at Haze. “Do the needful and kindly fuck off, sir.”

  Whoosh! Rajiv slid another briefcase at a T-T operative.

  Whoosh! The T-T man slid a briefcase back to Rajiv.

  Latch! Click click!

  “Yay! Hit the jackpot!” Rajiv yipeed.

  Latch! Click click!

  “AWW, MOTHERFU—” Pop pop! Fwoosh! A hurricane of highlighter-pink hotboxed the room.

  Skunk… And mango? Mango Kush. Damn son, where’d ya find this? Kinda makes me wanna burn again…

  In the dank weed cloud of war, Rajiv razzed, “Goodbye, chamchas! May all your ancestors wipe their faces with my shit to the nineteenth generation!”

  I give up.

  “THREE! A HAT TRICK OF BETRAYALS FOR RAJIV! He scams T-T as well! QUADRUPLE-CROSS! Spectacular footwork! He’s free on awl three goals—wheah will he shewt?! WAIT… WHERE IS HE?! WHERE’S THE MONEY?!” Eureka gleefully addressed the squad.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  Blinded by the smoke, Hannah yanked him up by his wrist. Behind him, the rumblings of a frantic melee crashed like a five-year-old hammering on a broken drumset with disposable chopsticks. Wobble! Crash! TSSSSSS! “AGHHHHH!”

  POP! Mac’s ears rang. Deafened, he felt his body resonate to his screaming. Through the smog, they stumbled forward. The emergency exit loomed ahead, recently thrown open. Hannah gripped his wrist tighter, clutching her gun close with her other hand. She scanned the room as she pulled them towards the door.

  They reached the doorway. Hannah swung her gun around the frame, taking a quick shoulder peek left and right, then stumbled back into Mac as a magenta Tesla SUV peeled out of the back alley, screeching its tires.

  Rajiv jeered from the Tesla’s PA system, the hollow, automated, Elizibethan voice whooping as he motored away. “Thank you, come again!”

  Mac landed on his back. Hard. Hannah used him as a crash pad.

  “OOF!”

  Shit, she’s heavy. But she’s SO squishy. Heheheh! And I smell flowers again. Is that peony and cherry blossom? When I first met her, she smelled like a middle school boy’s locker room. So much AXE… Wait. Did she really meet a guy? Is that why she changed scents? Eh, whatever. Good for her! It’s kinda growing on me…

  Hannah pushed herself off him, her face flushed red but smiling like she knew the universe’s secrets. “Eheheheh! Sorry Mac.”

  Damn, that laugh though. And her… personalities are magnificent. She’s right, it’s too early to give up!

  Drawing a ragged breath, she sprung up and offered Mac a hand. He took it without hesitation.

  They bolted through the doorway, but Rajiv had already slipped into the fourth dimension.

  “Let’s baaaaail,” Hannah drawled, her usual sharpness slowing to a lazy, labored float downriver as she vectored them onto the alley’s glide path. They greased their landing, almost too well, nearly overshooting the curb. Her usual handsome, piercing eyes were now bloodshot and glazed over. “Tar…? Slide to the nearest exit—I knoooow… you can make it back on your own. Gordon… can you pleeeease swing around to the other side of the bloooock? We neeeeed a riiiiide.”

  The first high’s always the best. Cute… Wait, what was I thinking of again? Guilt? Nah, that doesn’t sound right… My guilt and her being cute are this and that. They’re totally unrelated. Or… ARE THEY? Maybe I feel guilty because I’m attracted to her but I need to work with her to survive and liking her like that would decrease our chances of survival. Nah, that doesn’t sound right either… Ah, fuck it. Look at the cute girl. Heheheh! Mac shook his head and smiled, his grin levitating above the entire length of the San Andreas Fault.

  Gordon buzzed in. “Already on my way. ETA 11 seconds!”

  “SKRRRRR!” Around the block, Suzie Red chirped her tires.

  “Oh, I see what this is. Have fun tonight kids. Hannah, make sure he gets home safe. Tell me everything tomorrow morning, sweetheart. Hahaaaa!” Tar squealed, her voice dripping with playful sarcasm.

  Hannah smiled a grin that screamed “problem, officer?” as she chirped back, “See ya, bestie! Love ya! Eheheh!”

  ROOOOAR! SQUEAL! Gordon pulled up in Suzie Red, her back door opening automatically. Hannah grabbed Mac’s hand, the gentlest she’s ever manhandled him, and herded him in. He scooched. She stepped in and shut the door.

  Gordon faced Mac and Hannah, flipping his visor down. “Buckle up kids, cops are on the way.”

  Mac and Hannah looked at each other, their eyes wide open in stoned terror. They snapped back to Gordon. “COPS?!”

  Gordon dad-chuckled, shaking his head. “Naw, just messin’. Heheh! Never gets old.”

  He flicked his turn signal, shoulder-checked, and punched it out of the pick-up spot as if it was the final pit stop at Talladega, pinning Mac and Hannah into their seats.

  Wheeeee! Damn, Gordon’s butter-smooth behind the wheel.

  Suzie Red roared through a yellow light before the acceleration finally eased.

  Mac turned to Hannah with a half-assed sly smirk playing tug-of-war with his dimples. “So… Flowers, huh? Why’d you change it up from AXE tonight?”

  A bongcloud twinkle formed in her eyes as her cheeks steamed red. Hannah bestowed upon him the weediest, most potato-brained grin. “Oh… do you like it? Eheheheh!”

  “Yeah, kinda grew on me throughout the night. It smells really good dude! Heheheh!” Mac giggled as Gordon signaled and peered over his shoulder for a lane change.

  “Kids these days… I shouldn’t be enabling ’em like this. They need to learn that there’s consequences sooner than later. Tsk! Tsk! Tsk! But it sure does beat a nine-to-five, I’ll give ’em that much. Feel alive again.” Gordon crowed softly to himself as he stuffed a yawn back into his mouth, four-wheel-drifting through an on-ramp with his other hand and flooring it to his usual cruising speed, 160 miles per hour.