L. A. Outlaws

T Jefferson Parker

L. A. Outlaws

1

Here’s the deal: I am a direct descendant of the outlaw Joaquin Murrieta. He was a kick-ass horseman, gambler and marksman. He stole the best horses and robbed rich Anglos at gunpoint. He loved women and seduced more than a few during his twenty-three years. Some of his money he gave to the poor, but to be truthful most of it he spent on whiskey, guns, expensive tailored clothes and on the women and children he left behind.

I got Joaquin Murrieta’s good looks. I got his courage and sense of justice for the poor. I got his contempt for the rich and powerful. I got his love of seduction. Like Joaquin used to, I love a good, clean armed robbery. I steal beautiful cars instead of beautiful horses.

Right now I’m about to stick up a west-side dude for twenty-four thousand dollars in cash. He won’t be happy, but he’ll turn it over.

And I’ll be richer and more famous than I already am.

My name is Allison Murrieta.

Here’s how you get a mark to bring you that much in cash: you put an ad in the Auto Trader for a 2005 BMW 525, low mileage and mint condition, and you ask twenty-five thousand, which is three grand less than it’s worth. You get a lot of calls on that car. They know you should be asking twenty-eight, but you’re a woman and you don’t sound overly bright. You’ve got a soft voice. You talk up the Beemer’s options and upgrades. The creamy leather and all that, even though BMW leather isn’t creamy. You say you’re pretty sure it’s worth more but you’re willing to sell quick because there have been some disappointments lately and you really do need to get on with your life.

You can hear the excitement in the men’s voices. The women often say they understand the disappointment part. You set up a time and a location to meet and you forget about them.

You’re waiting for Greed to make its appearance. It always does. Guaranteed. In this scam it’s always a dude, because they smell a chick in distress and can’t pass up an opportunity to help her out and cheat her at the same time.

“Will you take twenty-four thousand in cash?” Greed asks.

You can hear the pride in his voice when he says the word. Cash. You try to sound firm. “I need twenty-five. I think that’s a pretty good deal for a 525 with twelve thousand miles, isn’t it?”

“You said LoJack and navigation?”

“Premium sound, too.”

“Twenty-four, cash.”

“Okay. I’m Allison.”

“Rex. What’s your address?”

Laurel Canyon. Dusk on an August Saturday, about eight P.M. The L.A. sky is orange and gray and the air smells like flowers and exhaust.

The lot is tree-shaded, surrounded by a wall heavy with nightshade. There’s a “For Sale” sign out front on the street. It took me weeks to find this place. The right place is everything.

I park down the street and wait outside the house, a swanko glass-and-steel job with big smoked windows. Nobody can see me from the street. I’ve got my back to the driveway. I’ve got my gloves on and my mask on and my hair under a wig and the wig in a ponytail. My leather satchel sits on the ground beside me.

When I hear the car coming up the drive behind me, I hold Cañonita up next to my ear. Cañonita is a.40-caliber, two-shot, over-and-under, ivory-handled derringer that fits in the palm of my hand and from any distance at all looks like a cell phone. It will blow a big hole in you but is accurate only to about ten feet. Maybe. I continue to stand in front of the window with my back to the driveway.

In the smoked glass I watch Greed come up the drive in an old BMW 535, probably a ’92; he’s got it washed and waxed and the “For Sale” sign taped inside a window. He’s five minutes early. I leave my back to him, and my head cocked toward Cañonita.

Greed parks and gets out. He’s forty and fit, wavy gray hair. I see his reflection as he walks up, and I’m careful to keep my back to him. He smiles small, trying to keep his good luck under wraps and not tip me to my own stupidity. He approaches, checking out my butt, his smile tight and dry.

“Allison. Rex.”

I impatiently wave him toward me but I don’t turn around. I can’t allow a mere person to interrupt a cell call.

Rex walks obediently toward me, stops, looks around. “Where’s the car?”

I can’t let him come any closer or he’ll make me. Or at least he should.

In the window, reflected Rex looks oddly hopeful, then I turn, take a quick step up to him and place Cañonita right in front of his eyes. The two barrels must look gigantic to him at this range. Tu

“Fuck,” he says quietly. “You.”

Rex backpedals off-balance, falls but gets up and backpedals again. Two seconds later I’ve got him over the hood of his ancient sedan, gun pressed up nice and snug to his forehead. I’m physically strong, have a black belt in hapkido, and I’m swearing at him in a very calm voice. Through the windshield I see the envelope on the passenger seat and think to myself, Mother of God, people do the dumbest things, which is exactly why I do so well in my business.

“Is that my money, shithead? That better be my money I see in there.”

Of course I talk like this because I’m half terrified that something might go wrong. Terrified I’ll have to shoot this guy-there’s a first time for everything. The words are just weapons, something I can use to hurt and scare him.

He picks this moment to try to turn things around. Almost every guy will try to fight you. Most dudes just ca

I get the envelope and make sure it’s my money.

He’s on his elbows and knees now, his face buried in his hands, breathing fast and whining quietly with each exhale. He peeks up at me, eyes flooded. I rock him over with one steel-toed construction boot and zap him again. Then I cinch his wrists and ankles with plastic ties from my pants pocket, tight but not tight enough to cut him unless he struggles.

“The car’s worth thirty, dumb-ass,” I say. “You get what you pay for.”

I get my satchel and drop one of my cards beside him. He’s crying. I walk away while into the satchel goes Caño nita, my mask, my money and my black wig. I shake out my own light brown hair and slide the pepper spray into its little holster on my belt.

I round the nightshade-covered wall.

Then I stride-don’t hurry, don’t hustle, don’t trot-toward my car. It’s parked one house away, facing downhill toward Sunset.

What a nice evening. Some frat boys in a ragtop Mustang check me out on their way up the hill, hoot and holler. Nice to be appreciated.

I’ve got a little swagger to my step, and I’m tapping the mask and envelope against my left thigh with each stride toward my Corvette Z06-505 big-block horses, all mine. They whi