Was he an undercover cop? Had he been watching her all night, or for weeks, and was now moving in for the bust? Kitty didn’t think so. She’d be more likely to get busted at the beginning of her route, with a backpack full of product. Or maybe they wanted to use her in a different way—to take down Sly Boy, perhaps. But even then, they would arrest her first, then turn up the heat.

No, she wasn’t getting a cop vibe. The Viking image didn’t fit, nor the late sixties ride. And although Kitty couldn’t see the driver sitting beside him, she could see his hands on the wheel. They were covered in tattoos—too much visible ink for a cop, even one deeply undercover.

“C’mon.” The Viking smiled. Maybe he didn’t mean to disarm her, but he did. He had a charming smile. “Two minutes. That’s all I need.”

If he wasn’t a cop, then his business was on the other side of the thin blue line. A pusher, perhaps, or a pimp. A lawbreaker, for sure, and one of renown, judging by the way Angelo had taken to his heels.

“Not interested,” Kitty said. The Micheltorena intersection was just ahead, where she’d usually turn right, skateboard partway up the hill, then hang a left onto her street. She wasn’t going to lead these goons to her apartment, though, which meant she had to lose them.

“I don’t give up easily,” the Viking persisted. “Also, I’m not following, I’m scouting.”

Two options: she could skate through a late-night store, exit via the back door, and shake them in the narrow residential streets north of Sunset. But even if she managed to give them the slip, how long before that old muscle car pulled alongside her again? They knew her face, after all . . . her route.

Her second option—to put a serious scare on the motherfuckers—would be more effective.

Kitty once saw Ruben Osterfeld take out three guys without losing a drop of sweat. She didn’t know him as well as she knew Sly Boy, but he’d passed along his number in case she ran into trouble on the streets. “You look like you can take care of yourself, but if you need some heavyweight backup . . .” Ruben was a former UFC contender who’d taken Prince Santana the distance in the Octagon, and Kitty was grateful—now more than ever—to have him listed in her contacts.

She hopped off her board, pulled her phone from the back pocket of her jeans. The Mustang slowed to a crawl, then picked up speed and turned north on Micheltorena. The angry sound of its muffler faded into the Silver Lake ambience. It would return, though. Kitty was sure of it.

No answer from Ruben. Voice mail.

“Shit.”