THE RAIN was bucketing down just as hard in San Diego, but at least the electricity burned. Out on Pacific Highway I ran into a red necklace of barricade lanterns, cops in slickers detouring traffic around the flooded underpasses. I drove up into Mission Hills, down Fifth and pulled in at the music shop’s backdoor. I parked so the Chev’s rear wheel was right beside the door.
I jumped out and knocked, Vivette opened up. She had a g*n in her hand.
“Don’t shoot, it’s only me.”
“Where’s Lubaugh? Is he . . .”
“He’s okay, a little damaged by rough handling,” I said. “Have you got the money ready?”
“I couldn’t raise five thousand dollars on five minutes’ notice,” she said.
It wasn’t very comfortable standing outside the door talking in the downpour but I wanted Lubaugh to hear this.
“Go ho
