"He treats me like a human being, which is more than you've ever done," Kayla whispered.
"I'm . . . I'm sorry," Carlos said after an awkward pause. "I don't know how to treat you at all. I want you to be happy, I want you to want to stay with us. Make your home with us, be one of us. But I don't know how to make you feel that way. And even if you're not happy, we need you too much. You saw what those bastardos did last night; it's a war between us now. . . ."
Kayla stared down at Ramon's sleeping face, not knowing what to say.
"I know you don't understand now, but maybe someday you will." Carlos knelt next to Ramon, resting his hand on his shoulder. "Wake up, Ramie, it's time to go," he said gently.
Ramon smiled sleepily at her and Carlos, and stretched. "Buenos días," he said, yawning. Then his eyes widened. "Carlos, your face!"
"What? What's wrong with my face?" Carlos asked.
Kayla looked closely at Carlos for the first time that morning and saw the darkened bruise around his left eye where Ramon had punched him. "Oh, my," she said weakly, as Ramon started to laugh. Carlos glared at them.
Manuel emerged from the bathroom, still toweling his hair dry, and looked at them curiously. Then, a moment later, asked: "Eh, Carlos, what's wrong with your face?"
Carlos gave the three of them a sour look and stomped away to the bathroom to look at his blackened eye. He muttered under his breath in Spanish for the entire drive back to Roberta's apartment, giving Kayla, Ramon, and Manuel foul looks every few minutes as he drove through the light early morning traffic.
Shari checked the address written in her notebook and considered the house in front of her. It was old, with peeling white paint and several cars parked out front. One car was a lovely white Mercedes convertible with custom leather seats, which also had a badly crunched front fender.
That's Razz's car. This must be the place. She glanced at her Rolex watch, a human affectation, to check the time. I'm an hour early, it's not even 8 A.M. yet, but no matter. I want to be finished with this quickly and back in Las Vegas by tomorrow.
She walked up to the front door, sidestepping the broken glass on the walkway, and rang the doorbell.
A young black man opened the door and glared at her. "What you want, mama?"
"I'm here to see Razz Johnson. Escort me to him, if you would be so kind." She glimpsed a handgun tucked into the waistband of his jeans, half-hidden by his blue sweatshirt. Even at this distance, the proximity of Cold Iron made her twitch. "Hurry up, boy, he's expecting me."
Another youth appeared behind the other, looking at her curiously. "Hey, it's Nate's babe. You here to get sky-ed? Like, bringin' us some more rock an' flake?" <T>
"I have a meeting with Razz," she repeated. "Would you please escort me to him?" These fools know nothing of Courtly courtesy, or even common courtesy, she thought, irritated. Where does Nataniel find these children? At least they're good for generating income, Nataniel said that this one group sells nearly a million dollars a month of various pharmaceuticals. Not bad, for street thug amateurs.
The youth opened the door for her, and she followed him past several boys playing at a green-clothed billiards table and others lounging around on the chairs, all watching her with interest.
Yes, look at me, she thought. Can any of you see what I am, beneath the glamour of magic that hides my elfin nature? No, all you see is a beautiful human woman. Fools.
They walked down a short hallway to an improvised office. Razz was sprawled out on a couch, looking through a car magazine. He looked up as she entered the room. "Shari, right? Want some fresh rock? We got some hot shit here. Word." He gestured at the table between them, which had several pipes and filled plastic bags set out upon it.
"No, thank you." She looked at the drugs with thinly concealed distaste. Most humans were annoying enough when they were sober; intoxicated, they were usually insufferable. She hoped that Razz had enough brain cells left intact for her to conduct the necessary business.
"It's the flake your man sells to us," Razz added. "He's all right, my man, righteous. Not like some scrambling dealers, chalking their shit and acting all clocked out. So, mama, what can the Razzman do for you?"
"Nate sent me to Los Angeles on a particular errand," she said, choosing her words carefully. "I'm trying to find someone. And I think that person may be linked to what happened last night at a warehouse in Van Nuys, that involved some of your boys. Do you know what happened there?"
Razz sat up suddenly, giving her a narrowed look. "Damn straight I know what happened there, lady. Those bastard homies, they killed four of my guys. Those fucking Tyrone Street homeboys, Carlos Hernandez's gang. They all live in Van Nuys, been selling shit in our territory. We went out there to teach 'em a lesson last night."