“You carrying?” Eve asked casually as Roarke pulled over.
“Not to worry.” He gave her hand a pat before they got out on either side.
She saw the looks from the pack—three male, one female—a couple of yards down. And when they switched directions, started to swagger back toward her, she flipped back her coat, put a hand—very overtly—on her weapon.
And smiled, showing her teeth. “Keep moving,” she advised.
The tallest one—skinny as a stick, pasty white with a scatter of old acne scars—grinned back. “Come on now, baby. Why’n you roll with us? We’ll show you how it’s done.”
When he rubbed his crotch, his companions howled with hilarity. Egged on, Eve noted, as their pupils were big as moons, by the chemicals dancing in their bloodstreams.
“With that little thing?” She cocked her head. “My cat’s got a better package. Keep moving,” she repeated. “Or I’ll haul your brain-dead asses in for use of illegals, possession of same, and interfering with a law officer.”
“Yeah?” This was a big one, massive shoulders, as black as his companion was white. The Bangers did go for diversity. “You and what army, bitch?”
Eve cocked her head again, this time toward Roarke. That brought on more hilarity.
“He’s pretty.” The lone female, mixed race, hair a flying flag of gang colors, licked her lips, wagged her tongue with its silver stud. “I want a taste of that meat.”
Roarke glanced casually at Eve, but the blue of his eyes cut as sharp as the wind. “Are these the Bangers then?”
“Ooooh, he even talks pretty.”
“Where I come from bangers are sausages. That doesn’t seem far off, really. If you’ve more brains than a sausage, you’d use them to move along as the lieutenant suggested. Otherwise, you lot will end up bloodied before you land in a cage.”
“Fuck you, limey prick.” Howling with more hilarity, the third male—squat as a barrel, long bleached-white hair flying—heaved the rock in his pocket at the car.
It ricocheted off the security shield Roarke had engaged and smacked into the grinning face of the female. She dropped like, well, a rock.
“I’m Irish, by the way.” Roarke braced for an assault. Eve drew her weapon.
A black-and-white rolled up with a quick one-two of sirens.
The two cops who got out—one male, one female—made the big Banger look like the runt of the litter.
The female cop shouldered her air rifle. It wouldn’t kill anybody, but a blast from it would hurt like holy hell.
“Causing trouble again, Shake ’n Bake?”
Pasty Guy obviously didn’t care for the nickname, and snarled at her. “We’re just walking. We can walk where the fuck we want in a free fucking country.”
“Then pick up Little Easy there and keep doing that. Unless you’d like to assume the position and have us go through your pockets.”
“Fucking cops is wheeze.”
But the big one hauled up the dazed female, and they all kept walking.
The male officer watched them go. “That bunch is mostly just bullshit and noise. Got plenty of worse around here. What’re you after down here, Lieutenant?”
“I’m after Dinnie Duff.” Eve gestured to a four-story building with a street-level tat-and-piercing parlor. It made Rochelle’s apartment building look like a palace. “Last known address.”
“Current Banger HQ. She mostly flops there.” The female frowned at the building. “And some of the worse my astute partner mentioned does, too. She may be working the underground this time of night, but if we’re going down there, we’re going to want more cops.”
“Ten-four,” her partner agreed. “Worst of the worst.”
“We’ll check the flop. She had a busy night, so she may be in.”
“We got your back. What’re you pulling her for?”