[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.Sippingthe drink, he watered all the hanging plants, then returned to the bedroom andbegan to get dressed.When Gabriel was naked, you could see the scars from hislast motorcycle accident: pale white lines on his left leg and arm.His curlybrown hair and smooth skin gave him a boyish appearance, but that changed ashe pulled on jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and heavy motorcycle boots.The boots were scuffed and scratched fromthe aggressive way he leaned into turns.His leather jacket was also scratchedand machine oil darkened the cuffs and sleeves.Gabriel's two cell phones wereattached to a headset with a built-in microphone.Work calls went into hisleft ear.Personal calls went to the right.While riding he could activate either phone by pressing his hand against anoutside pocket.Carrying one of his motorcycle helmets, Gabriel walked outside to thebackyard.It was October in Southern California and a hot Santa Ana windflowed out of the northern canyons.The sky above him was clear, but whenGabriel looked west he saw a cloud of dark gray smoke from the Malibu fire.There was a closed, edgy feeling in the air, as if the entire city had becomea windowless room.Gabriel opened the garage door and inspected his three motorcycles.If he hadto park in a strange neighborhood, he usually rode the Yamaha RD400.It washis smallest bike, dented and temperamental.Only the most deluded thief wouldthink of stealing such a piece of garbage.He also owned a Moto Guzzi V11, apowerful Italian bike that had a shaft drive and a powerful engine.It was hisweekend motorcycle that he used for long trips across the desert.Thismorning, he decided to ride his Honda 600, a midsize sport bike that couldeasily go over a hundred miles an hour.Gabriel jacked up the back wheel,sprayed the chain with an aerosol lube, and let the solvents seep into thepins and rollers.Page 25 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlThe Honda had problems with the drive chain, so he found a screwdriver and anadjustable wrench on the workbench and dropped them into his messenger bag.He relaxed the moment he straddled the bike and started the engine.Themotorcycle always made him feel like he could leave the house and the cityforever, just ride and ride until he disappeared into the dark haze on thehorizon.***###WITH NO PARTICULAR destination, Gabriel turned onto Santa MonicaBoulevard and headed west.The morning rush hour had started.Women drinkingfrom stainless steel travel mugs drove to work in their Land Rovers whileschool crossing guards wearing safety vests waited at the intersections.At ared light, Gabriel reached into his outside pocket and switched on hisbusiness cell phone.He worked for two delivery services: Sir Speedy and its competitor, Blue SkyMessengers.Sir Speedy was owned by Artie Dressler, a 380-pound formerattorney who rarely left his home in the Silver Lake District.Artiesubscribed to several X-rated Web sites and took phone calls while he watchednude college girls paint their toenails.Heloathed his competition, Blue Sky Messengers, and its owner, Laura Thompson.Laura had once worked as a film editor and now lived in a dome house up inTopanga Canyon.She believed in a clean colon and orange-colored food.The phone rang as the light turned green and he heard Artie's raspy New Jerseyaccent coming out of his headset."Gabe! It's me! Why'd you turn off yourphone?""Sorry.I forgot.""I'm watching a live-cam shot on my computer.Two girls are taking a showertogether.It started out okay, but now the steam is messing up the lens.""Sounds interesting.""I've got a pickup for you in Santa Monica Canyon.""Is that near the fire?""Nah.It's miles away.No problem.But there's a new fire in Simi Valley.Thatone's totally out of control."The motorcycle's handlebars were short and the foot clips and seat were angledso that Gabriel was always leaning forward.He could feel the vibration of themotor and hear the gears changing.When he was going fast, the machine becamepart of him, an extension of his body.Sometimes the tips of his handlebarswere only inches away from speeding cars as he followed the broken white linethat separated the lanes.He looked down the street and saw stoplights,pedestrians, trucks making slow turns, and immediately knew if he should stopor speed up or swerve around the obstacles.Santa Monica Canyon was an enclave of expensive houses built near a two-laneroad that led down to the beach.Gabriel picked up a manila envelope lying onsomeone's doorstep and carried it to a mortgage broker in West Hollywood.Whenhe reached the address, he removed his helmet and entered the office.He hatedthis part of the job.On the motorcycle, he was free to go anywhere.Standingin front of the receptionist, his body felt slow, weighed down by his heavyboots and jacket.Back on the bike.Kick-start the engine.Keep moving."Dear Gabriel, can youhear me?" It was Laura's soothing voice coming into his headset."I hope youate a good breakfast this morning [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.Sippingthe drink, he watered all the hanging plants, then returned to the bedroom andbegan to get dressed.When Gabriel was naked, you could see the scars from hislast motorcycle accident: pale white lines on his left leg and arm.His curlybrown hair and smooth skin gave him a boyish appearance, but that changed ashe pulled on jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and heavy motorcycle boots.The boots were scuffed and scratched fromthe aggressive way he leaned into turns.His leather jacket was also scratchedand machine oil darkened the cuffs and sleeves.Gabriel's two cell phones wereattached to a headset with a built-in microphone.Work calls went into hisleft ear.Personal calls went to the right.While riding he could activate either phone by pressing his hand against anoutside pocket.Carrying one of his motorcycle helmets, Gabriel walked outside to thebackyard.It was October in Southern California and a hot Santa Ana windflowed out of the northern canyons.The sky above him was clear, but whenGabriel looked west he saw a cloud of dark gray smoke from the Malibu fire.There was a closed, edgy feeling in the air, as if the entire city had becomea windowless room.Gabriel opened the garage door and inspected his three motorcycles.If he hadto park in a strange neighborhood, he usually rode the Yamaha RD400.It washis smallest bike, dented and temperamental.Only the most deluded thief wouldthink of stealing such a piece of garbage.He also owned a Moto Guzzi V11, apowerful Italian bike that had a shaft drive and a powerful engine.It was hisweekend motorcycle that he used for long trips across the desert.Thismorning, he decided to ride his Honda 600, a midsize sport bike that couldeasily go over a hundred miles an hour.Gabriel jacked up the back wheel,sprayed the chain with an aerosol lube, and let the solvents seep into thepins and rollers.Page 25 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlThe Honda had problems with the drive chain, so he found a screwdriver and anadjustable wrench on the workbench and dropped them into his messenger bag.He relaxed the moment he straddled the bike and started the engine.Themotorcycle always made him feel like he could leave the house and the cityforever, just ride and ride until he disappeared into the dark haze on thehorizon.***###WITH NO PARTICULAR destination, Gabriel turned onto Santa MonicaBoulevard and headed west.The morning rush hour had started.Women drinkingfrom stainless steel travel mugs drove to work in their Land Rovers whileschool crossing guards wearing safety vests waited at the intersections.At ared light, Gabriel reached into his outside pocket and switched on hisbusiness cell phone.He worked for two delivery services: Sir Speedy and its competitor, Blue SkyMessengers.Sir Speedy was owned by Artie Dressler, a 380-pound formerattorney who rarely left his home in the Silver Lake District.Artiesubscribed to several X-rated Web sites and took phone calls while he watchednude college girls paint their toenails.Heloathed his competition, Blue Sky Messengers, and its owner, Laura Thompson.Laura had once worked as a film editor and now lived in a dome house up inTopanga Canyon.She believed in a clean colon and orange-colored food.The phone rang as the light turned green and he heard Artie's raspy New Jerseyaccent coming out of his headset."Gabe! It's me! Why'd you turn off yourphone?""Sorry.I forgot.""I'm watching a live-cam shot on my computer.Two girls are taking a showertogether.It started out okay, but now the steam is messing up the lens.""Sounds interesting.""I've got a pickup for you in Santa Monica Canyon.""Is that near the fire?""Nah.It's miles away.No problem.But there's a new fire in Simi Valley.Thatone's totally out of control."The motorcycle's handlebars were short and the foot clips and seat were angledso that Gabriel was always leaning forward.He could feel the vibration of themotor and hear the gears changing.When he was going fast, the machine becamepart of him, an extension of his body.Sometimes the tips of his handlebarswere only inches away from speeding cars as he followed the broken white linethat separated the lanes.He looked down the street and saw stoplights,pedestrians, trucks making slow turns, and immediately knew if he should stopor speed up or swerve around the obstacles.Santa Monica Canyon was an enclave of expensive houses built near a two-laneroad that led down to the beach.Gabriel picked up a manila envelope lying onsomeone's doorstep and carried it to a mortgage broker in West Hollywood.Whenhe reached the address, he removed his helmet and entered the office.He hatedthis part of the job.On the motorcycle, he was free to go anywhere.Standingin front of the receptionist, his body felt slow, weighed down by his heavyboots and jacket.Back on the bike.Kick-start the engine.Keep moving."Dear Gabriel, can youhear me?" It was Laura's soothing voice coming into his headset."I hope youate a good breakfast this morning [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]