The Night Crew

Again

one

    The corner of Gayley and Le Conte, at the edge of the campus:
    Frat boys cruised in their impeccably clean racing-green Miatas and cherry-red Camaro ragtops, with their impeccably blonde dates, all square shoulders, frothy dresses and big white teeth.
    Two skinny kids, one of each sex, smelling of three-day sweat and dressed all in black, unwrapped Ding-Dongs and talked loud about Jesus and the Joy to Come; celebrating Him—and vanilla-creme filling.
    At the Shell station, a tanker truck pumped Premium down a hole in the concrete pad, under the eye of a big-bellied driver.
    And above them all, a quarter-million miles out, a buttery new moon smiled down as it slid toward the Pacific. The Bee was impatient, checking her watch, bouncing on her toes. She was waiting at the corner, a JanSport backpack at her feet. Her face was a pale crescent in the headlights of passing cars, in the Los Angeles never-dark.
    The Shell tanker driver stood in a puddle of gasoline fumes, chewed a toothpick and watched her in a casual, lookingat-women way. The Bee was dressed by Banana Republic, in khaki wash pants, a t-shirt with a queen bee on the chest, a photographer’s vest with fifteen pockets, hiking boots and a preppy black-silk ski mask rolled up and worn as a watch cap.
    When she saw the truck with the dish on the roof, she pulled the mask down over her face, picked up the backpack, and stepped out to the curb. The Bee had small opaque-green eyes, like turquoise thumbtacks on the black mask. Anna Batory, riding without her seatbelt, her feet braced on the truck’s plastic dashboard, saw the Bee step out to the curb and pointed: ‘‘There she is.’’
    Creek grunted and eased the truck to the curb. Anna rolled down the passenger-side window and spoke to the mask: ‘‘You’re the Bee?’’
    ‘‘You’re late,’’ the Bee snapped.
    Anna glanced at the dashboard clock, then back out the window: ‘‘Jason said ten-thirty.’’
    Jason was sitting in the back of the truck on a gray metal folding chair, next to Louis. He looked up from his Sony chip-cam and said, ‘‘That’s what they told me. Ten-thirty.’’
    ‘‘It’s now ten-thirty- three,’’ the Bee said. She turned her wrist to show the blue face on a stainless-steel Rolex.
    ‘‘Sorry,’’ Anna said.
    ‘‘I don’t think that’s good enough,’’ the Bee said. ‘‘We might be too late, and it’s all wasted.’’
    Behind the Bee, the Shell gas-delivery man was taking an interest: a lot of people in a TV truck and a blonde in a ski mask, arguing.
    ‘‘You better get in,’’ Anna said. She could smell the fumes from the gas as she turned and pushed back the truck’s side door. Louis caught it and pulled it the rest of the way. The Bee looked at the two men in the back, nodded and said, ‘‘Jason,’’ to Jason, said nothing to Louis and climbed aboard.
    ‘‘Around the corner to Westwood, then Westwood to Circle,’’ the Bee said. ‘‘You know where Circle is?’’
    ‘‘Yeah, we know where everything is,’’ Creek said. They’d been everywhere. ‘‘Hold on.’’ Creek took the truck around the corner, humming to himself, which he did when he was tightening up. Anna turned back to the Bee, found the other woman gaping at Creek, and grinned.
    Creek looked vaguely like the Wookiee in Star Wars: sixseven, overmuscled and hairy. He was wearing a USMC sweatshirt with the sleeves and neck torn out. Tattoos covered his arms: just visible through the reddish-blond hair on his biceps was an American flag in red, blue and Appalachiawhite skin, deeply tanned, with the scrolled sentiment, ‘‘These colors don’t run.’’
    ‘‘Hello?’’ Anna lifted a hand to break the stare. The Bee tore her eyes away from Creek. ‘‘We need some facts and figures,’’ Anna said. ‘‘How many people on the raid, where you’re based, what specifically you object to—like that.’’
    ‘‘We’ve got it all here, but we’ve got to hurry,’’ the Bee said. She dug into the backpack, came up with a plastic portfolio, and took out a sheet of crisp white paper. Anna flicked on the overhead reading light.
    The press release was tight, professional, laser-printed. A two-color pre-printed logo of a running mustang set off the words ‘‘Free Hearts’’ at the top of the page.
    ‘‘Are these quotes from you or from the collective?’’ Anna asked, ticking the paper with a fingernail.
    ‘‘Anything that’s in quotes, you can