Fusion 44—Sly Boy’s jazz club—was a few blocks north of the lake in Echo Park. Kitty could be there in fifteen minutes. Sly Boy preferred his runners didn’t drop by unannounced (he didn’t do any business at the club; it was strictly for jazz) but that was where she’d likely find Ruben. And if not, Sly Boy would know how to handle the Viking.

Kitty turned her board around and rolled down Sunset. She slowed where the pedestrian traffic was heavier, weaving between groups of people, sometimes hopping the curb and skating the bike lane. Her heart jumped. Small tears flashed from the corners of her eyes. Cool under pressure had always been one of her superpowers—the Coolest Kitty in the City, her girls back in Louisville always said—but this had set her on edge.

The Mustang passed her, circled, then passed her again.

“Motherfucker,” she hissed. “What is your problem?”

Ten minutes of this, then she committed to the bike lane, blazing through every intersection. Traffic stopped for her—abruptly. She was nearly hit by a city bus at one point. It swerved across the bike lane to make its stop and she leaned a hard left, seeing nothing but the full-moon shine of its headlights. She ollied onto the sidewalk, caromed off a parking meter, and wiped out. Kitty knew how to fall, though, and how to get back up. She did so now, brushing grit from her grazed elbow, then retrieved her skateboard and ran the rest of the way.

El Picador Avenue, seventy yards of blacktop edged with magnolia trees and trash, home to office and apartment buildings, a yoga studio called Nirvana Flow, and Fusion 44. Its peacock-blue awning reached over the sidewalk like a sheltering wing. Frankie, the bouncer, stood outside, impressive in stature, disinterested in demeanor. He barely looked at Kitty as she swept inside.

The bar area was illuminated by soft yellow globes, but everywhere else was dipped in mood lighting. There were maybe twenty patrons sitting at tables in front of the stage, where a trio dressed in white suits played crime jazz. A half dozen more bodies propped up the bar. Kitty recognized Cal Schifrin, one of Sly Boy’s new hires. He took care of the books, but he could also take care of himself.

“Should you be here, Kitty?” he asked. “I didn’t see your name on the list.”

“Looking for Ruben.” Kitty breathed heavily and wiped sweat from beneath her eyes. “I got some creep following me. I didn’t want to lead him to my apartment.”

“Ruben’s with the boss. He’ll be down soon.”

“I’ll wait.” And to the bartender: “Water, please. Lots of ice.”