After a few moments, the door opened, briefly.

  A thick, pockmarked face peered out at them. “Yeah?” the voice snapped, clearly holding an edge.

  “Hey,” Cora said. “We’re with Carpuzzi.”

  “Nah you ain’t.”

  The door shut.

  Cora blinked. Johnny said, “Who’s Carpuzzi.”

  “Old CI,” she replied. “He’s how I got in last time.”

  “So, why are we here?”

  “I told you . . . Josh Ohana, the damn Cop Killer, used to frequent this place a ton back before we arrested him. It’s a favorite haunt.”

  “Really think this guy’ll be stupid enough to come back to a place he’s a known quantity for?”

  Cora shrugged. “Guess I gotta at least make sure.” She knocked again, more insistently this time.

  The door opened once more. This time, two thick faces stared out. Both of them glaring. One had a unibrow. The other, the one with the pockmarks, scowled. “No,” he said simply.

  Cora extended a more palatable identification card. Two hundred-dollar bills.

  Both men stared at the money, then stared back at her. Then their eyes narrowed.

  “Really?” Cora said. “Come on. Just let us in.”

  Johnny stepped smoothly past her, brushing past her arm extending the money. He snatched at the two figures in the door by the ears and dragged them out with twin yanks. Cora winced as the door shut behind them with a click. The cameras above were angled to keep an eye on the cars, not on the door.

  Johnny, who still had the men by the collars, brought his knee up into one’s chin out of line of directly under the lens, out of sight of it. The first man yelped, then slumped. The second tried to shout, reaching for a weapon at his hip, but Cora hit him from behind.

  They both hit the ground in a matter of seconds.

  Johnny adjusted his sunglasses. Cora rolled her eyes. “Really?” she said.

  Johnny glanced down, then up. He snatched an ID card off the first man, approached the door, and waved it in front of a card reader. At the response of a click, he pushed the door open and waved a hand like a magician. “Voila,” he said.

  Cora rolled her eyes, glancing at his sunglasses. “You look ridiculous in those, you know?”

  “But they make me feel so cool,” Johnny shot back.

  And the two of them slipped through the front door, past the two unconscious thugs, into the illegal racetrack.

  Cora blinked a few times as her gaze adjusted to the strange, faux lightning. Most of the illumination was provided by giant floodlights over the racetrack, beaming down like the glaring sun at the vehicles speeding around the indoor track below.

  The cars looked as if they’d been pieced together from go-carts and lawn mowers. They moved in an impossible blur of speed, rounding the indoor track, and leaving streaks of black where the curves were the sharpest.

  The small crowd, gathered in stands like some semi-circle seating around an ice-rink, was bellowing now. They sounded like a high school gym filled with rambunctious teenagers hollering at the tops of their lungs.

  But the impression turned ominous at the appearance of these fans. The drunkenness was apparent and, perhaps, expected. It was the weaponry that most turned Cora’s stomach.

  Many of the figures who were clapping, cheering, or pumping their fists were flanked by squat, flat-faced men in black suits. The weapons were visible in shoulder holsters or at their hips. One man was boasting a chest strap with an uzi, which he’d shoved off to the side, dangling at his lapel as he sipped from a red solo cup.

  Skimpily clad waitresses moved through the gathering, handing out more beverages and avoiding the grabbing hands of the spectators. Cora felt a flash of pity for the women and the haggard look in their eyes. She wondered if the men ogling them ever thought of these women as people with parents, children, loved ones, and hopes and dreams. With souls.

  One man made a loud kissing sound, waving towards a young blonde woman with red hair clips and a tray full of small shot glasses. The woman sighed but as she turned, adopted a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She bounced over to the man gesturing at her, adjusting her tight outfit, and keeping her distance.

  Many of the onlookers and spectators were older men. Their watches, jewelry, suits, and attitudes communicated a serious air of wealth, and an equally serious desire that everyone in their vicinity notice their money.

  She spotted more than one Rolex flash beneath the faux lightning from the floodlights in the ceiling.

  The makeshift cars, which Cora knew were created by the drivers themselves, were made of flimsy, lightweight material. No halo for protection. No fireproof, retardant alloys. Just speed. Thin sheets of metal and plastic around far too fast of engines.

  The drivers, like horse jockeys, were somewhat small in size. The smaller they were, the less weight to account for in the design of their vehicle. It all came down to a matter of fractions of inches.

  Now, a new cheer erupted as one of the cars, a green vehicle with a number 5 on the nose, passed a red vehicle marked 23.

  An announcer’s voice echoed over the gathered crowds, penetrating the cries, shouts, and conversations.

  Cora’s heart skipped as she listened to this sudden burst of prattle over speakers placed throughout the stadium. Johnny had her by the arm and was tugging her forward, away from the door. She spotted the reason why. Behind the indoor, makeshift racetrack, near a section of the space that resembled a bar, two men with shoulder holsters were patrolling and slowly moseying towards the two new arrivals.

  Johnny was pulling her in the exact opposite direction. The scent of alcohol, rubber, and oil mixed on the air to present a particularly flammable combination of odors.

  “God damn, they’re going like one-twenty,” said Johnny, sounding impressed, staring as the thirty or so vehicles made another pass around the indoor loop.

  Her eyes scanned the passing vehicles, and she shook her head. She sighed. “Dammit,” she muttered.

  “What’s that?”

  “I don’t see him.”

  “See who?”

  “Johnny, focus. We’re here for Josh Ohana.”

  “Right . . . right, the Cop Killer. Mhmm.”

  “Johnny, stop watching the race.”

  He looked at her and winced sheepishly. “My bad,” he muttered.

  She said, “He was often involved in placing bets. He liked to gamble, but I don’t see . . .” she trailed off, then nodded towards the bartender. The two men with the shoulder holsters were moving past the bartender, but other figures lingered near the bartender and were pressing small, folded notes towards the figure.

  The woman behind the bar was nodding, taking the papers, and shaking her spiky, green-tipped hair do at one of the figures before sliding the piece of paper back.

  The man, a beefy fellow with a lumberjack beard, looked frustrated by this response. He shook a meaty fist bedazzled with diamonds and jeweled rings. But he went quiet as the two-armed guards called out to him, gesturing with their weapons for him to move on.

  He spat off to the side, tugged at his lapels, and then snatched the small piece of paper off the counter before continuing merrily on his way, moving in the opposite direction of the bar.

  Cora and Johnny both watched, their eyes attentive and their frowns coming out to play.

  “Think that might be our best bet,” Johnny said.

  “Nice pun.”

  “You know the lady?”

  “Nah, never seen her before.”

  “Shit, look at her sling drinks. That’s my typa girl.”

  Cora bristled at this comment. Then bristled that she had bristled. Then deciding that she’d trapped herself in a response loop with no good outcome, she threw up her hands and marched towards the bartender doubling as bookie.

  The men with guns watched as she approached, and other figures all kept an eye on her, most of them seated at the red tables, nursing drinks, and listening to the hum of the race.

  Cora nodded to each in turn, moving past them, past the tables, and approaching the bar. She raised a hand. The woman with the spiky hair tinged with green dye didn’t look up. She was too busy counting something on one of the pieces of paper, using her fingers and muttering beneath her breath in order to accomplish the basic functions.

  “Hey,” Cora said quietly.

  The woman didn’t look up.

  “Hey,” Cora said a bit louder.

  The woman glanced up. “Hey yourself,” she said.

  Cora jammed a finger at Johnny. “He’s new. Wants to place a bet.”

  “What group ID?”

  Johnny frowned, stepping forward, still very much wearing his too-cool-for-school sunglasses. “What ID?” he demanded, choosing his ignorance as a source of strength.

  The woman paused and glanced at Cora as if trying to make sure they were being serious. Then the bartender sighed. “Who are you with?” she tried.

  Cora cut in before Johnny could. “Carpuzzi,” she shot back.

  “Right. So that puts you in group D21. What’s the racket?”

  Cora shook her head. “Actually,” she said, lowering her voice as some of the other patrons in the bar behind the racetrack stands looked away once more, deciding nothing was awry. “We were wondering if you might be able to provide us with some information.”

  “What sort of information?”

  Cora said, “We’re looking for someone.”

  The bartender’s eyes flickered past Cora towards where the two gun-toting goons were still strolling, but then she glanced back. Cora spotted the two patrolling guards moving towards the door now. Once they stepped through and spotted the unconscious figures, things might quickly become difficult.

  Cora said, speaking rapidly, “Josh Ohana.”

  The woman’s eyes darted up now. She swallowed. Opened her mouth, hesitated, then swallowed again. “Who?” she said.

  But it wasn’t convincing. The woman held up a finger and moved to the other side of the bar. With three quick motions, she’d created some strange cocktail, slapped it on the counter, and only spilling a drop, wiped the counter with a flick of her wrist, and then was back at their side, crossing her tattooed arms.

  “Never heard of him,” she insisted.

  “I heard you bullshitting us the first time,” Cora responded.

  The woman frowned. Cora frowned back. They both glared at each other. Johnny leaned forward across the table, his muscled forearms resting on the lacquered material. He said, carefully, “She’s got money, you know,” he said conspiratorially, keeping his voice low and jamming a thumb in Cora’s direction.

  Cora frowned at how seamlessly he volunteered her stipend money, but she also pulled a few crisp hundreds from her pocket, adding to the stack she’d tried to entice the door guards with. She shielded them with her body, so other patrons and the guards didn’t see.

  But the bartender stared greedily at the greenbacks.

  She swallowed hesitantly. “Oh . . .” she said slowly, “Mr. Ohana? Right . . . umm . . .” She glanced off again. She looked ready to say something, though hesitant. Her mouth opened once more. She paused. She began to speak. But then suddenly she stiffened, her eyes widening. She let out a little gasp and then turned. “Sorry, don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said firmly.

  Cora frowned, trying to speak to regain the woman’s attention. But it was no use.

  And then, she felt something tap against her shoulder. Johnny must have felt something, too, because he flinched and then turned sharply. Cora moved slower, but the knot formed in her stomach tightened as she circled to come face to face with one of the men who she’d hit from behind. He was massaging the back of his shaved scalp and glaring daggers at her.

  The two other guards, who’d been carrying weapons, were standing on either side of him, weapons gripped, eyes fixated on Johnny and Cora.

  The man who Johnny had kneed in the dome was nowhere to be seen. Probably still getting some beauty slip.

  “Shit,” Johnny said.

  “Shit,” the guards replied, glaring.

  “Shit,” Cora said.

  “At least we’re all in agreement,” Johnny quipped.

  And then, as she knew he would do, Johnny moved first. He wasn’t the sort to wait and give an adversary the advantage of first strike. The two men with the uzis had wandered close. Cora was standing only a foot from the man who’d jabbed her shoulder with his sweaty finger.

  And now, Johnny moved fast.

  Cora was only a split second behind him, following her partner’s lead.

  They’d left their weapons behind in duffel bags in the vehicle, not wanting to arouse suspicion. So outarmed and outnumbered, Johnny and Cora lunged at the three threats, fists bunched and bodies tense, moving fast.

  Just like good old times, Cora thought to herself. And then her fist collided with a meaty face like a slab of beef.

  But the man was moving fast, and he absorbed the blow and tackled her.

  All chaos broke out.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A shout erupted from some of the onlookers as Cora was tackled to the ground. Her head struck the counter with a loud crack. But the noise came from the wooden trip along the edge rather than Cora’s skull. She’d always thought of herself as somewhat thick-headed.

  And now, she moved fast. The pain lanced through the back of her head, but she rolled along the counter, shoving off and allowing the man who’d tackled her to slam into the wooden divide.

  Meanwhile, Johnny had disarmed one of the men, snatching his machine gun away, and was now using the weapon to bludgeon the second armed guard.

  The sound of the racetrack disguised the noise of combat.

  Cora steadied herself, pushing off the bar, her hands bunching into fists. At the same time, the man who had tackled her rose into a boxer’s crouch. His hands raised up, one hovering next to a cheek, ducking behind them with his head in a protective posture.

  This, Cora decided, was often the problem with hired help. They were used to combat sport. The problem with combat sport was that there was nothing sporting about combat. This wasn’t a game, nor was it a competition. At least not in the way that one might conjure the word.

  She wasn’t here to duke it out, fist to fist, playing by some set of arbitrary rules.

  And so, as he clenched his fists, preparing to slug it out, she reached for a bottle behind the counter, and smashed it against the side of his head. He yelled, trying to block it with his left arm. The glass shattered on the upraised limb. Blood flowed freely as glass gouged into the skin. The shards of brown glass bit like teeth, and the man snarled in pain. But Cora wasn’t done. She kicked him between the legs. And then drove her fist into his solar plexus. One cheap shot after the next. It wasn’t a sport. It wasn’t a game. It was life or death.

  In a way, she felt bad for these street toughs. Three against two. But the two had both been Navy SEALs. Their version of fighting had been the sort that neutralized, often permanently.

  Johnny had finished bludgeoning one with the butt of his gun. And now, he aimed the weapon at the man he had disarmed. He didn’t shoot, but it was a close thing.

  Johnny was a very dangerous man.

  “Get on the ground,” Johnny shouted, his voice like iron.

  The thug stared, swallowed, and then spread his arms, stepping back. A few of the onlookers who were sitting at the tables around the bar had hurried away. One had toppled his table and was now cowering behind it. Another, too drunk to care, continued to nurse what looked like his fourth beer.

  The sound of the racetrack continued. The engines whining and growling.

  Cora shot a quick look towards the bartender, who was watching them with a look of fear in her eyes. The man who Cora had cheap shotted was groaning on the ground. The one who had been beaten with the butt of a gun lay unconscious. And the third, who had been disarmed, had his hand spread, pleading with Johnny not to shoot.

  But this wasn’t the only threat. Cora glanced past it all towards the racetrack. Other figures were now moving towards them. Six men, also armed. For a moment, it didn’t look as if they had spotted the source of the trouble, but instead were responding to some secret alarm or phone call. Either way, it was time to go.

  It troubled Cora. She didn’t want to leave. The bartender clearly had something she had wanted to say, but it wasn’t worth getting killed over.

  They had come here to find the Cop Killer. And Cora’s premonition about things dying in the Arizona deserts wasn’t one she wanted to help come true. And so, she grabbed Johnny and yanked his arm the way he had with her. “We’re going!” she shouted.

  He scowled at the men on the ground, but then cursed. He kept his grip on the weapon and spotted the six approaching guards.

  Now, the thugs with guns had spotted them as well. A brief moment of hesitation. The sort of hesitation that always occurred right before a gunfight. One could often tell the humanity found in the soul by how long they paused before opening fire. One could also tell how long someone might have been trained. Often times, in training, hesitation was the first thing to go.

  Everyone knew the truth. It was an incredible advantage to strike first.

  And so, Johnny aimed, and sprayed bullets.

  He wasn’t shooting at the men, not yet.

  Even her old boyfriend knew better than to mow down a group of civilians. Civilians playing soldier, albeit, for less than honorable purposes, most likely, given the company they kept.

  But still civilians.

  The bullet spray, however served its purpose. The men threw themselves to the ground, shouting. And Johnny and Cora broke into a dead sprint, back towards the door. It had been left ajar, from where the man Cora had clocked had managed to come back through. There was no sign of the other fellow, who Johnny had knocked unconscious.

  Bullets ricocheted off the wall, sparking against the metal. Cora heard them whistling overhead. It gave the illusion that they might be able to duck. But bullets had already passed by the time she heard them.

  Thankfully, Johnny’s suppressing fire had kept them safe.