Fractured MC Read online

  "Yeah," said Kerry. "Let's go."

  "What about Mama?" asked Happy. "She's gonna be pissed." Happy scored a cherry water from the "waiter" filling up the small refrigerator.

  "Wanna fill up a bag?" asked Kerry.

  Happy giggled while Kerry threw snacks and several more waters in a bag, and Happy willingly followed, begging for Doritos. They made it into the elevator and down to the garage without incident. Grade A opened the door, and ushered her in. The ladies got in, on either side, and Double A hard-locked the doors so no one could get out. Kerry handed Happy the Doritos and a napkin, and they were off.

  Doritos, thought Bannon. One way to get your principal to comply.

  Meanwhile, some more "hotel staff" had taken over the suite. One packed the rest of Happy's things, and Gregory came and collected them. "Good luck," he said, and called a bellman. Gregory took the things, and took them back to the warehouse to be shipped later.

  Njola and Sledge had surveillance on Rajana Moon, who was dressed in a pink sari with gold trim, via a warrant and the hotel's own surveillance cameras.

  "The closest that woman's been to India is ordering samosas," said Sledge, his voice a whisper. There was a tall man with her; blonde, with a fussy goatee and a black briefcase, wearing an old-fashioned black suit and round silver glasses. The feed was being sent to their netbooks from Trace, another Iron Knight who worked in LVMPD, in Narcotics.

  "Hans Gruschen," said Njola. "He looks like a college professor in that getup. He's just missing the elbow pads."

  "Going for the mild-mannered look. How many kilos do you think are in there?"

  "Four keys, from the way he lists to the side," said Njola. "Come to mama." The two came up the elevator, and the feed switched accordingly, then to the outside hall. "Showtime," said Njola.

  The warrant had also come through for "housekeeping" to leave a hidden camera, video and audio, in the sitting area of Mama's smaller mini-suite on the suite's second level, in the sitting room portion. It was accessible to the floor above them. Mama could go down a staircase to check on her little darling. The room was soundproofed so she didn't have to hear her daughter practice.

  Njola and Sledge got out of their uniform tops, strapped on their tactical gear (hidden in Njola's cart), and crept up the spiral stairs, their rubber shoes soundless on the treads. They could see their multifaceted reflections in the staircase's mirror. The deal went through, and Njola and Sledge got the go. They went in both the front door via a hotel key, and the door at the top of the staircase.

  "Freeze! LVMPD!" shouted Njola.

  They got them with the cash, the drugs, and with Rajana stripping off her sari, with Rock Star Mama's hand on her breast, and Hans settled into a chair to watch.

  "That's just... wrong," said Sledge.

  "We're consenting adults," said Rajana.

  "You have the right to remain silent," said Njola. "I suggest you do so until we get you booked on... let's start with the money and drugs, shall we?" She turned to Val, her partner. "Take her, book her, and put her on ice. We've got us some investigating to do."

  Three and a half hours later, the CSIs finished, and the evidence was photographed, bagged, and logged. Njola smiled and took her time to sit in front of Rock Star Mama.

  "Where's my lawyer?" Mama demanded.

  "You mean the one you were going to pay for with your daughter's money?" asked Njola. "All your accounts are frozen, including the transfer to the account in the Cayman Islands." Rock Star Mama's face froze --as much as it could, with all the botox. "Have you ever heard of the Jackie Coogan law?" Rock Star Mama froze her entire body like a deer. "That's the pesky law where your daughter's money stays hers, and you don't get to loot it, whole hog. Then there's the charges for giving cocaine to your fifteen-year-old daughter. When did that start?"

  "You can't prove..." she started to say, in a self-important voice.

  Bannon entered, and handed Njola an envelope. He smiled a predatory smile at Mama, and left. Njola took out photos, and freeze frames of Mama cajoling her daughter to snort coke on a mirror. She then held up her tablet, then played the video. She passed over a paper.

  "Sign this, and I'll talk to the DA about lessening your sentence."

  Mama picked it up, then read it with trembling hands. "This... I no longer have custody, and I have no access to her funds... who's this Kerry person?"

  "Her new guardian until she comes of age. Daddy's dead and the rest of the relatives are after her money. Just. Like. You."

  “But…”

  Mama hesitated. Njola said, "You bought four kilos of cocaine directly in front of our camera. We've got your fingerprints on both the money and the coke. Were you going to drive back? Or take a private plane?" said Njola. "We're talking to your drivers, your pilot who will be terrified to lose his license, and your maids..."

  Mama gasped, then signed. She pushed the paper away. She looked right through Njola. Njola took the paper, then pushed over a pen and paper.

  "We might reduce your sentence a little if you tell us all about your friends. They can't protect you; we have them on tape as well. But, we've got seventeen months of phone calls, and meetings. We know where they were, and we'll be pulling the security tapes. Now, what did you all have to talk about? Other than sex between consenting adults, of course. While your daughter was stumbling around downstairs, high on cocaine. Not the world's best mama, are you? Now, then." She pushed a legal pad and pen over to the woman that was sweating, although the building tended to be like a meat locker with the aggressive air conditioning. "Let's get it all written down, shall we? When did Linda Mackey --that's the grifter you contacted, she's been running scams for years --first contact you? Or were you looking for a psychic that supplied drugs to you, so you could supply them to a minor?" Mama's face blanched, and she began to write.

  Miles away, south of Los Angeles, Happy wasn't so happy anymore. Kerry had showed her the pics of the bust, then the live stream of the interrogation.

  "Put it away," she said. "So, you're what? My new manager?"

  "No, we've got several we trust," said Kerry. "You'll pick the right one for you from a list. Right now, you're not safe from your mother's friends, who will go looking for whatever she promised them. Her assets are all frozen, so they won't get a thing. Our people are going through the Hollywood house, getting all of your things before the sheriff or the DEA shows up to investigate it, or sell it. It's your mother's house, not in your name. The media firestorm's going to get nasty, and you can't confront it impaired by your coke addiction." They pulled into a long, crushed-gravel driveway. "We're here."

  "Where's here?" Happy looked around wildly.

  "Sunset Rest Hospital, where you're going to have the nicest withdrawal from cocaine ever," said Kerry. "Massages, water therapy, spa treatments. The studio will hold the commercial until you get out, ready for your closeup. It's not a thirty-day spin dry, but a five-month program. You get your own private bungalow, yoga instruction, and I'm going to have a special teacher who can teach you to defend yourself when you're feeling a little better. You even have access to a studio where you can lay down some tracks. You'll get a lot of mileage, and a lot of lyrics out of this one. We've shielded you as best we can, but if you don't do the work it takes to get and stay clean, the next one of these will be the Salvation Army on skid row."

  "And who pays for all this?" asked the rock goddess.

  "You'll pay Bannon back in full once your mama's frozen accounts are unfrozen. Or when you put out your next album. I also suggest a new studio that doesn't let cocaine-driven meetings happen. Take back your power, girlfriend." Kerry smiled sadly at her. "You're gonna be sick as shit, but you'll recover."

  "This sucks," said Rock Star Baby.

  "Your name is now Harper Kerry." She handed Harper a California ID. "And you're my daughter." She hugged her. "Come home soon."

  "Whatev," said Harper. Grade A unlocked the door, and Kerry slid out, then Harper. Harper kicked Kerry fal
ling against her, then hopped up and down, holding her bruised toes. "What the fuck!"

  Kerry pulled up her pant leg, and showed her lightweight metallic leg attached to a realistic ankle and foot, then dropped it down. "Got too close to an IED," she said.

  "Fuck," said Harper, knowing she was outclassed.

  "Shall we go in?" said Kerry. Harper glared at her, then went.

  The hit song, "Harper," about a terrified teen left alone in the world who becomes a superhero, came out while she was in her last month of rehab. It was slow, bluesy, and with powerful vocals filled with pain and angst. It hit number one for sixteen weeks. Harper kept her new name and her stage name, Quill, and rebuilt herself as an extremely powerful Hollywood woman. She hired a new manager, a motorcycle-riding female named Diane Forrest, who dressed in motorcycle leathers and knew how to keep a teen in line, while still letting her keep most of her rock image.

  Kerry had a new job --protecting her daughter. They got a condo in Vegas and a vacation one in Malibu. They then hired Bannon for security again, once Harper had paid him back. Harper learned to love Harleys and long rides in the desert. She also learned how to jam in little clubs all over again. She got quite the reputation for putting out awesome albums, and hired a women-only rock band to play for her that she dubbed "Quill's Quillians." They went viral with "SuperStorm," about Harper the supergirl finding herself in the middle of a hurricane of secrets and lies. Kerry went on the road with a new entourage. Grade A and JJ among them, and a few straight-edge rocking teens that liked to skateboard, rock climb, and jam all night, rather than do drugs. The Valkyries took them on rides, Rota took them on climbs, and Skuld taught them all how to fight.

  Six months later, they were headlining a camp for teens called "Rock On." Made for teens to listen to and play rock. Bannon did security for the gig, keeping the drugs out and the campfires burning. Kerry and JJ were on opposite sides of a giant session with the drums pounding, guitars wailing, keyboards pounding, dancers dancing, and leads singing, and sparks from the campfires rising up into the night. They did "Harper," with the girl herself down with the rest of them, whaling away on her guitar.

  They hit a break with a last long wail, and Kerry said, "That's my girl."

  JJ got on the line. "No, Kerry. At this point, she's our girl. Good call. She was a jackass to me. I didn't see this coming."

  "It's what you don't see coming that makes life the best," said Kerry, as the high-fives continued. Then, they laughed as they did a rebel yell into the night.

  Meet the Parent

  Bao went to see Mrs. Chang. They had tea. It was not time to discuss unpleasantness, but it must be... brushed against. "I wish to ask about Mr. Zhao. How is he doing?"

  "He said," said Mrs. Chang, delicately, "that your business cards would be ready soon."

  It was far less business than the wedding invitations would have been. Dragon Mama had promised him them, and he had spent money getting together samples. Bao had known nothing of her mother's promises, and had already chosen the invitations with another printer. Dragon Mama had done the same with a cake. Luckily, Bao was able to cancel the tasting of various flavors before they had bought the ingredients. She had sent out tiny versions of the "dragon-phoenix" wedding cake to the recipients, too, which the non-Chinese invitees had enjoyed even more than the Chinese ones.

  "I am very sorry for his inconvenience," said Bao. "And for the inconvenience of... others."

  Mrs. Chang waved her hand. "This joining of West and East. It is difficult. Huang's Best is working with the small Italian restaurant for some dishes, no?"

  "Yes," said Bao. "I must please my new mother," she said, referring to her new mother-in-law. This excuse worked well; it helped those who lost business to not lose face. "I have recommended Wu's catering three times. I believe one has led to business."

  "Yes," said Mrs. Chang. "The college professor's wedding. How did you know her?"

  "I have consulted with her on matters for my business. She has written several articles for my books for children. We have newspaper articles in them."

  Mrs. Chang was impressed. "You publish your own books?"

  "I found a publisher in San Francisco, in Taiwan, and in mainland China," said Bao, sipping the excellent green tea. "I am so busy. But, I am relieved to see my wedding dress once again today." She put down her cup, signaling the end of talking.

  "I am glad you are so successful," said Mrs. Chang. She waved Bao to the back.

  The dress was gorgeous, Chinese silk, in a soft gold. It was a sleeveless dress, gathered at the waist, to a spill of silk at the bottom, and floor length, with no train. It had a delicate, Chinese "double luck" pattern. Mrs. Chang was also making a jacket for it, made from gold silk shantung. Bao let out a breath, and touched the dress with the tips of her fingers.

  "It is lovely," she said.

  She went into the dressing room, and came out. Mrs. Chang fussed as if it were her own daughter getting married, getting the fit perfect. Reluctantly, Bao stepped out of the dress and dressed back into her "biker wear" in black jeans and black jacket, with a blue silk top. She zipped up the jacket, paid for both the dress and jacket, and left.

  Mrs. Chang went back to the tea set, and poured herself a still-warm cup. She would place gossip in just the right ears. Bao may look like a wild, cheap woman on a bike, but she concealed a fine sense of taste, better manners than her mother, and a very successful business that was spreading internationally. She looked up the business scribbled on the little white card Bao had left with her, and was stunned by the web page. The page was in several languages, Chinese and English being only two. There were books in many languages for children. She clicked on one of them, and saw amazing illustrations. It would seem Bao was even more intelligent, resourceful, and probably even richer than Mrs. Chang had thought. She decided to talk to Mrs. Zhao. The gossip would leave her old friend at a disadvantage, but Bao's mother was doing far more than harming her chances with her daughter. She may ruin the wedding --for herself.

  Bao arrived at Stella Picado's artist's loft around two. She was running late for lunch. She called Nico in terror of offending her future mother-in-law, but Nico said, "She's probably on a piece and forgot about lunch."

  She knocked on the barn door. "Come in," said Stella. She stood in front of a great hawk, welding a metal feather in place. Stella finished her bead, then turned off the torch. She was short, with chocolate-brown eyes, and brown hair cut in a short, choppy cut with wisps of gray, and a hippy Venus figure not hidden by her coveralls. She said, "Just a minute!" and put the torch, striker, solder, and helmet away on a shelf. She stripped out of the blue coveralls, revealing jeans and a black top. "Let me wash up," she said, stepping into her bathroom next to her office.

  Bao looked at the statue. The upper wing feathers were done in brown, and the rest in black metal. The great eye seemed to turn and stare at her. Pictures of, and articles about the hawk were all over a corkboard. Harris' hawk, she read. Habitat from Southwestern USA to Brazil.

  "Beautiful bird," said Stella, coming out of the bathroom, her hair brushed, her face and arms washed. She hugged Bao. "I saw a picture, and couldn't resist. This statue is going up in front of a falconry school in Western New Mexico. They rescue and train the ones that can't go back into the wild. The statue's a donation, designed to raise buzz and donations."

  "I'll donate," said Bao.

  Stella took a picture of a card, and sent it to Bao's inbox. "There's their info." She smiled. "I bet we're both ravenous, and that we're both also busy. Let's get some stuff at the soup and sandwich place around the corner."

  "Lovely," said Bao, and meant it. Stella hooked her arm in Bao's, took her outside, slid the barn door closed, and took her arm again, glee in her eyes. "Any news?"

  "Tried on the wedding dress today," said Bao. "Absolutely perfect. Fits like a second skin."

  "Excellent," said Stella. "Nico dropped off our invitation. So Chinese! Lovely. I ate the little cake, t
oo, and loved it, too! I talked to Marzetti's, and they said that they are in lockstep with your caterer, and delighted for the business. Marcello said he'd never done a half Chinese, half Italian wedding before, and that it was worth it, just for the fun experience."

  "If he has any problems, tell him to let me know," said Bao. "But, Mrs. Huang is a genius, and very kind. They'll probably be fine."

  Stella opened the door. They paid, and took plates. Bao reveled in almond chicken salad, clam chowder, and little cucumber sandwiches. Stella loved the mushroom tortellini salad, Caesar salad, and minestrone.

  "Tell me everything," said Stella.

  Bao laughed. "We've got two new books out, based on very old Chinese stories. The sales are going through the roof, because our illustrator is amazing. Hu had lunch with my mother yesterday at Callie's place. She served Chinese favorites, and my mother picked at them. Hu was her bubbly self, and my mother was under strict orders to be supportive. She has no idea how much Mandarin Callie and Grace know because of my Chinese lessons. She got negative with Hu about me, and Callie apparently came down like the wrath of God. She told her never to run down Hu's mother in front of her. And didn't she read how that can stunt the growth of a child? How she figured out how to say that in Chinese, I don't know, but my mother understood, perfectly-well. Grace got pissed, and went over, and told her that dragons are supposed to be intelligent in all the stories, but possibly Dragon Mama shouldn't be called 'dragon' anymore, maybe 'turtle' because she was so slow to get new ideas and use them. My mother left in a huff, which made my gentle Hu both sad and angry."

  "I am so sorry," said Stella, putting her hand on Bao's. "She wants to swing the pendulum back to being in China, to being in control. Now, she's in a new world, her daughter doesn't stay home and obey her every whim and has the temerity to be successful. And you're not marrying a Chinese guy, and even her granddaughter can't be controlled, not anymore. Control freaks reach for still more control, which I get, because I tried it, and it pushed people away."

  "Do tell," said Bao, spearing a piece of chicken with her chopsticks.