Free No Rest for the Wicked by A. M. Riley

opening to the coat.
    See, it's karma. The fact that, now, just going outside on a cloudy but warm day in Southern California required extensive preparation—and the clouds were the only reason I could attempt exposure at all.
    I had a heavy wool coat and big waders. Thick work gloves. Then I wrapped a scarf around and around my neck and face until I resembled the Invisible Man. A big straw sunbonnet and an oversized black umbrella. I opened the door to the condo and waited until I was reasonably sure none of Peter's neighbors were out and about, and then I ran as fast as I could, as close to the walls as possible until I reached the overhang that led down the covered stairs to the back of the building.
    Peter has an attached garage, but I didn't feel comfortable with Drew knowing the location of it. Too easy to figure out the unit number from there.
    From the narrow porch under which I stood, I gathered my courage and ran like I was under fire to the shed where they keep the trash bins. By the time I'd gotten there, my pants were on fire, so I beat it out with the scarf and caught the hat in the process. I had to throw it on the ground and stomp on it to put that out. The waders had melted a bit, and I looked like a crazy person and smelled like burning rubber, but I was still intact.
    I waited there for about fifteen minutes until Drew drove up in the truck.
    It rattled down the alley on bad shocks, repainted a dusty white and still bearing the faded outlines of red rockets and Push-Ups around the windows. Those were sealed shut, though Drew had argued that the police would be less likely to notice a working ice-cream truck and had wanted to continue selling goods from it.
    They'd actually listened to me on that one. Still, every time some dumb kid ran up to the truck with a dollar, Drew would start whining again.
    “You stink, man.” Caballo held the door open long enough for me to squeeze in, then slammed it closed and turned the big handle that sealed it shut.
    There were four plush chairs inside, upholstered in black-and-white zebra stripes. Caballo threw himself into one, barely looking at me. He had one of those little plastic boxes in his hands and he was pressing the buttons frantically with both thumbs.
    “Better than being flambé,” I said, peeling off my layers and tossing them into the corner.
    Caballo's game emitted a sound that I recognized as digital defeat. He swore and tossed the thing on the chair next to him.
    “What are you playing?” I asked him.
    “It's called Minesweeper,” he said.
    “Oh, I play that. What's your high score?”
    He made a face. “I don't know, man. That's a kiddie game. At headquarters I'm in a Quake tournament.”
    “They have tournaments?” That was something I had to see. I moved to the front of the truck and rapped on the window behind Drew's driver's seat. “I need to make a short stop on the way,” I told him.
    “Betsy's waiting, man.”
    “It'll only take ten minutes,” I lied.
    Drew had taken to wearing eyeglasses with thick green frames and tinted amber lenses.
    They were very artsy and almost completely hid his eloquent dark eyes. Still, the lack of trust in his expression was clear.
    “Ten minutes,” he said. “And then we move on. What's the address?”
    “It's near Elysian Park,” I said, and rattled off the address.
    As Drew cruised slowly up Academy Drive, I tried to work out a plan.
    The ice-cream truck would definitely attract too much attention parked in the lot, and I couldn't risk an observant off-duty LAPD officer coming over to chat. So I'd have to have Drew park down the street where I could see Peter if he came out.
    “You asshole,” said Drew suddenly as we cruised around a curve. “Is this some cop hangout?”
    “What makes you think that?”
     
    “All those fucking General Motors cars in the parking lot with the 'Support Your Local Sheriff' and 'NRA' bumper stickers,” he said. “Oh, and the sign,” he added, as the