Sour Grapes

chocolate-dunked, peanut butter cheesecake. But, as always, these depressing thoughts had a short shelf life in Savannah’s mental archives.
    Long ago, she had decided to live comfortably with those thirty pounds. She liked the extra sixteen that had settled on her chest. And she figured a pound or two on her face filled out any fortysomething wrinkles. A pound on each foot and another for both hands weren’t something she worried about. That only left nine unwanted pounds, which she assumed had wound up on her rear, and since she carefully avoided wraparound dressing-room mirrors, she hardly ever saw her backside. Outta sight, outta mind—it was a motto to live by.
    Yes... after a bit of rationalization, Savannah had conjured a healthy self-image. Nine unseen pounds certainly wasn’t enough to cause her to take drastic measures... like dieting or jogging.
    “You’d think,” Dirk said around a mouthful of burger, “that for the prices they charge, they’d install a decent sound system in here.” He nodded toward the speaker mounted on the wall behind a potted plant with brown, crispy leaves.
    Savannah squirted a glob of ketchup onto her fries as she listened to the scratchy version of “Hotel California.”
    “Glenn Frey sounds good no matter what,” she said.
    “Eh, you’ve just had a crush on him since he was on Miami Vice a million years ago,” Dirk said, sounding slightly miffed. Although they had never been romantically linked, Dirk sulked when she said anything good about another guy. And Savannah had to admit that she bristled when he made “Cindy Crawford-hot-bod” comments. But she wasn’t about to admit that those minor irritations were indicators of anything other than a long-standing, completely blasé friendship.
    “Are you goin’ out with me again tomorrow night?” he asked, reaching for her soda. “That guy’s bound to show up at his mama’s house sooner or later, and then I’ll nab his ass and stick it back in jail where it belongs.”
    “Yeah, I’ll hang out with you again. But only because I have a special feeling in my heart for kid beaters like that one. I think it’s called loathing. Get your hands off my Coke. Buy your own.”
    “What are you talkin’ about? It’s all-you-can-drink. When it runs out, you just go fill it up again. Why should I pay for two?”
    She snatched the Coke out of his hand and returned it to her side of the table. “Because I don’t want to swap slobber with you.”
    “I wouldn’t slobber in it. Geez, Van... for a chick you can be really gross sometimes. I—”
    “Sh-h-h. Heads up,” she said, looking over his shoulder toward the front of the dining room, where a motley entourage was filing in, wearing the baseball jackets and caps, and red-kerchief bandannas that identified them as members of one of Los Angeles’s more vicious gangs.
    “What is it?” Dirk asked, instantly serious. They had worked together so long that they read each other well, and even though a half smile was pasted on her face, her blue eyes registered definite concern.
    “Looks like we’ve got some big-city gang activity,” she said, “right here in the sleepy little beach town, tourist trap called San Carmelita.”
    “How many?”
    She turned back to him but watched them in her peripheral vision as they spread out across the front of the restaurant. “We’ve got five males and a female. The girl’s walking up to the counter. Looks like she’s going to order.”
    “And the others?”
    “We’ve got one very big, older and very mean-looking dude standing in the doorway, eyeing the parking lot. He’s wearing a black-leather raincoat.”
    “It ain’t rained since April.”
    “Exactly. Oversize, and he’s got one hand inside.” Dirk winced. “Oh, shit. That there’s bad news. What do you figure he’s carryin’?”
    “Whatever he ripped off in his last burglary. Could be an Uzi.”
    “Do you think it’s them?”
    Savannah didn’t have to ask who he meant; the same thought had occurred to her the moment the crew had entered. An APB had been issued about a group of teenage gangsters, led by a guy in his early twenties, who had been holding up fast-food joints on the coast of California, north of Los Angeles. They picked spots— like Burger Bonanza—that were near a freeway entrance and hit them late at night, just before closing, nabbing the day’s receipts. As soon as they robbed the place, they headed down the highway and were lost in