Tick Tock

Scootie shot off the backseat and tumbled onto the floor.
    Tommy thought they were going to roll. It felt like a roll. He was experienced in rolling now, and knew what that penultimate angle felt like, just before the roll began, and this sure felt like it.
    Under Del's guidance, the Jaguar held the pavement tenaciously, however, and it shrieked to a shuddering halt as it came out of a complete three-hundred-sixty-degree spin.
    Not a stupid dog, wanting to avoid being pitched off the seat again, Scootie waited on the floor until Del jammed her foot down on the accelerator. Only after the car rocketed forward did he scramble up beside Tommy.
    Looking out the rear window, Tommy saw the Peterbilt braking aggressively on the street they had left. Even the superior driving skills of a supernatural entity—did they have highways in Hell where demons with Los-Angeles-area assignments were able to practice?—couldn't finesse the huge truck into making such a sharp and sudden turn. Basic physics still applied. The Samaritan-thing was trying only to bring the vehicle to a stop.
    With its tyres locked, the Peterbilt shot past the intersection and disappeared into the next block.
    Tommy prayed that it would jack-knife.
    In the front seat, as the Jaguar accelerated to seventy, Mother Phan said, “Girl, you drive like crazy maniac detective in books.”
    “Thank you,” Del said.
    Mother Phan withdrew something from her purse.
    Tommy couldn't quite see what she held in her hand, but he heard a series of telltale electronic tones. “What're you doing, Mom?”
    “Calling ahead.”
    “What've you got there?”
    “Cellular phone,” she said blithely.
    Astonished, he said, “You own a cellular phone?”
    “Why not?”
    “I thought cellular phones were for big shots?”
    “Not anymore. Everybody got one.”
    “Oh? I thought it was too dangerous to use a phone and drive.”
    As she finished punching in the number, she explained:
    “I not driving. Riding.”
    Del said, “For heaven's sake, Tommy, you sound as if you live in the Middle Ages.”
    He glanced out the rear window. A full block behind them, the Peterbilt reversed into sight on the street that they had left. It hadn't jack-knifed.
    Someone must have answered Mother Phan's call, because she identified herself and spoke into the telephone in Vietnamese.
    Less than a block and a half behind them, the Peterbilt swung through the intersection.
    Tommy consulted his watch. “What time's dawn?”
    “I don't know,” Del said. “Maybe half an hour, maybe forty minutes.”
    “Your mom would know to the minute, to the second.”
    “Probably,” Del agreed.
    Although Tommy couldn't understand more than an occasional word of what his mother was saying, he had no doubt that she was furious with the person on the other end of the line. He winced at her tone and was relieved that he wasn't on the receiving end of her anger.
    Behind them, the Peterbilt was gaining. It had closed the gap to only a block.
    Tommy said worriedly, “Del?”
    “I see it,” she assured him, checking her side mirror and then accelerating even though they were already travelling dangerously fast for the street conditions of this residential neighbourhood.
    With a final burst of invective in Vietnamese, Tommy's mother switched off the cellular phone. “Stupid woman,” she said.
    “Give it a rest,” Del advised.
    “Not you,” said Mother Phan. “You bad news, wicked, dangerous, but not stupid.”
    “Thank you,” said Del.
    “I mean Quy. Stupid woman.” Tommy said, “Who?”
    “Mrs. Quy Trang Dai.”
    “Who's Quy Trang Dai?”
    “Stupid woman.”
    “Aside from being a stupid woman, who is she?”
    “Hairdresser.”
    Tommy said, “I still don't understand why we're going to the hairdresser.”
    “You need a trim,” Del told him.
    The Jaguar engine was roaring so loudly that Mother Phan had to raise her voice to be heard. “She not only hairdresser. She friend. Play mah-jongg with her and other ladies every week, and sometimes bridge.”
    “We're going for breakfast and a nice game of mahjongg,” Del told Tommy.
    Mother Phan said, “Quy my age but different.”
    “Different how?” Tommy asked.
    “Quy so old-fashioned, stuck in ways of Vietnam, can't adjust to new world, never want anything to change.”
    “Oh, I see, yes,” Tommy said. “She's utterly different from you, Mom.”
    He turned in his seat to peer anxiously out the rear window. The truck was bearing down on them, perhaps two-thirds of a block away.
    “Quy,” said Mother Phan, “not from Saigon