Free The Chinese Beverly Hills by John Shannon Page A

screen. A muscular redhead with freckles everywhere tried to barge in.
    “Stop there, freckle-face.” Maeve stood against him as firmly as she could, and after a lot of mindless shoving back and forth, he backed off.
    “I want to see my Bunny.”
    “Cool it. This is my home. Look, guy, my father runs bets, and his pals will teach you manners in an alley if I ask them to.”
    “What the fuck’s the matter with you, girl?” His voice almost went shrill.
    “You push into my room and ask what’s the matter with me ? If you’ve got a message, tell me.”
    “Bunny Walker is my woman. We been assigned. She’s fat and a smarty-pants and I let that go ’cause I’m a good guy. Tell her I ain’t strung out no more and to come over. She better.”
    “I’ll tell her. Don’t get in my face again.”
    Maeve was amazed how easy it had been to buffalo him. She locked the door, including her new deadbolt, and found her hands trembling like a kitten.
    Bunny peered out, obviously impressed.
    “You got any feelgood?” Maeve asked.
    “I got some in the bedroom.”
    “Forget it. Stay here.”
    They poured out more rosé.
    “The guy’s a pendejo , as we say. You’re not fat. You’re perfectly proportioned.”
    Bunny laughed and brushed away a tear. “Thanks, Maeve. I know I’m a biggish girl. You’ve seen me in the altogether.”
    “A lovely altogether it was.”
    Then Bunny did cry a bit and hit the wine hard. She explained that the swami had her money and credit cards and some horrible letters against her parents.
    “Maybe we’ll have to take this swami down,” Maeve said.
    “You sound like the Lone Ranger.”
    “I am the Lone Ranger.”
    Bunny lay on the floor and wept silently.
    Other lives made her own seem so idyllic, Maeve thought. She slid closer and rested a hand on Bunny’s shoulder, comfort fashion. She knew better than to seem to take advantage.
    “Maeve, if you’ll promise to be my best friend forever you can have my body whenever you want.” The woman said it like an offer of self-immolation.
    “I’m your BFF right now. Just cuddle. I’ll protect you.”
    *
    “I got this brainstorm,” Marly Tom said. “We write us a new phone app. Call it Whack-a-Chink. Bucktooth faces pop up out of holes and you smack ’em into big blood splashes.”
    “Work it out. I got to plan the kegger right now.” Zook cradled a beer he wasn’t planning to share.
    Across the room, Captain Beef danced heavily at the beat-up old foosball console in the clubhouse, whiz-bang-rattle. He had no opponent but it was still taking him two or three spins to score.
    “Beef, that noise is driving me to drink,” Zook called.
    “Put your mind at rest, Zookie. Just drink up and say, thank you, Jesus .”
    “I ain’t trying to turn you around. I need you over here for a minute.”
    Beef came and plopped down on a folding chair. “Hup-hup-HUP.”
    He’d been center when they’d all played football at Mark Keppel High.
    “Okay, Mr. Seth tells me he’s bringing in an important border defender and the guy is ours for the afternoon. I want to do a keg for right-thinking people the way we used to. The border guy will give a little inspirational talk about saving the U.S. of A. And we can gather the clans. Godfather Seth will be watching over us so we’re all on our P’s and Q’s.”
    Their benefactor was a pole-up-the-ass lawyer from San Marino, but he let them use the old barbershop he owned as clubhouse, and they did favors for him.
    “Does that mean I can’t wave The Big Captain in front of the girls?” Beef asked.
    “Yeah, that’s exactly what it means.”
    Captain Beef had a pecker bigger than the legendary John C. Holmes and at parties drunk San Gabriel girls tended to chant: Big Cap! Let him free! Big Cap! Let us see!
    “We’re all altar boys Saturday.”
    “Sure, Z,” Beef assented.
    “Back to your game, Beef. Marly and I’ll handle the details.”
    Zook watched Tony Buffano waddle away. Keppel High had