"Is there anything else you can tell me?" I said. "Anything at all?"
She thought for a long time. "No… I'm sorry, I wish there was."
"Thanks for seeing me," I said. Her hand weighed a ton.
"Please let me know," she said, keeping it there. "Whatever you find."
"I will."
"How long will you be in New York?"
"I think I'll try to head back this evening."
"If you need a place to stay, you're welcome here… if you don't mind a pull-out couch."
"That's very kind," I said, "but I need to be getting back."
"Your nice woman?"
"And my home." Whatever that meant.
Grimacing, she exerted barely tangible pressure upon my hand. Giving me comfort.
We heard the door close, then footsteps. Josh came in, holding Leo, the cat. He looked at our hands and his eyebrows dipped.
"You okay?" he said to his mother.
"Yes, honey. Dr. Delaware's been helpful. It's good you brought him."
"Helpful how?"
"He validated us… about Dad."
"Great," said Josh, putting the cat down. "Meanwhile, you're not getting enough rest."
Her lower lip dropped.
"Enough exertion, Mom," he said. "Please. You have to rest."
"I'm okay, honey. Really."
I felt a small tug atop my hand, not much more than a muscle twitch. Lifting her hand and placing it on the bedcovers, I stood.
Josh walked around the other side of the bed and began straightening the covers. "You really need to rest, Mom. The doctor said rest is the most important thing."
"I know… I'm sorry… I will, Josh."
"Good."
She made a gulping sound. Tears clouded the gentle blue eyes.
"Oh, Mom," he cried out, sounding ten years old.
"It's okay, honey."
"No, no, I'm being an asshole, I'm sorry, it's been a really tough day."
"Tell me about it, baby."
"Believe me, you don't want to hear it."
"Yes, I do. Tell me."
He sat down next to her. I slipped out the door and saw myself out of the apartment.
28
I reserved a seat on the next flight back to L.A., threw clothes in my bag, and told Milo and Rick's message machine my arrival time. Checking out of the Middleton, I flagged a taxi to Kennedy.
A fire on Queens Boulevard slowed things down and it took an hour and three quarters to reach the airport. When I got to the check-in counter, I learned my flight had been delayed for thirty-five minutes. Pay TVs were attached to some of the seats, and travelers stared at their screens as if some kind of truth was being broadcast.
I found a terminal lounge that looked half decent and downed a leathery corned beef sandwich and a club soda while eavesdropping on a group of salesmen. Their truths were simple: the economy sucked and women didn't know what the hell they wanted.
I returned to the departure area, found a free TV, and fed it quarters. A local station was broadcasting the news and that seemed about as good as it was going to get.
Potholes in the Bronx. Condom handouts in the public schools. The mayor fighting with the city council as the city accrued crushing debt. That made me feel right at home.
A few more local stories, and then the anchorwoman said, "Nationally, government statistics show a decline in consumer spending, and a Senate subcommittee is investigating charges of influence peddling by another of the President's sons. And in California, officials at Folsom Prison report that a lockdown has apparently been successful in averting riots in the wake of what is believed to have been a racially motivated double murder at that maximum-security facility. Early this morning, two inmates, both believed to have been associates of a white supremacist gang, were stabbed to death by unknown inmates suspected of belonging to the Nuestra Raza, a Mexican gang. The dead men, identified as Rennard Russell Haupt and Donald Dell Wallace, were both serving sentences for murder. A prison investigation into the killings continues…"
Nuestra Raza. NR forever. The tattoos on Roddy Rodriguez's hands…
I thought of Rodriguez's masonry yard, shut down, cleaned out, and padlocked. The flight from the house on McVine prepared well in advance.
Evelyn had entertained me in her backyard, as her husband's homeboys honed their shanks.
Making an appointment for Wednesday, then going into the house with her husband and changing it to Thursday.
Twenty-four more hours for getaway.
Hurley Keffler's debacle at my house made sense now, as did Sherman Bucklear's nagging. Prison rumblings had probably told the Iron Priests what was brewing. Locating Rodriguez might have forestalled the hit or, if the deed had already been done, given the Priests instant payback.
Payback.
The same old stupid cycle of violence.
Burglary tools and a quick shove out a eight-story window.
A corpse on a garage floor, a little boy baby never to be.
Two little girls on the run.
Were Chondra and Tiffani in some Mexican border town, being tutored in Fugitive 1A with more care than they'd ever been taught to read or write?
Or maybe Evelyn had taken them somewhere they could blend in. On the surface. But, suckled on violence, they'd always be different. Unable to understand why, years later, they gravitated toward cruel, violent men.
Static dripped out of the speakers- a barely comprehensible voice announcing something about boarding. I got up and took my place in line. Six thousand miles in less than twenty-four hours. My mind and my legs ached. I wondered if Shirley Rosenblatt would ever be able to walk again.
Soon, I'd be three time zones away from her problems and a lot closer to my own.
• • •
The flight got in just before midnight. The terminal was deserted and Robin was waiting outside the automatic doors.
"You look exhausted," she said, as we walked to her truck.
"I've felt perkier."
"Well, I've got some news that might perk you up. Milo called just before I left to pick you up. Something about the tape. I was just out the door and he was running, too, but he says he learned something important."
"The sheriff who was working on it must have picked up something. Where's Milo now?"
"Out on some assignment. He said he'd be home when we got there."
"Which home?"
The question threw her. "Oh- Milo's house. He and Rick took really good care of us. And home is where the heart is, right?"
• • •
I slept in the car. We pulled up at Milo's house at twelve-forty. He was waiting in the living room, wearing a gray polo shirt and jeans. A cup of coffee was in front of him, next to a portable tape recorder. The dog snored at his feet, but woke up when we came in, gave out a few desultory licks, then collapsed again.
"Welcome home, boys and girls."
I put my bags down. "Did you hear about Donald Dell?"
Milo nodded.
"What?" said Robin.
I told her.
She said, "Oh…"
Milo said, "Nuestra Raza. Could be the father-in-law."
"That's what I figured. It's probably why Evelyn postponed her appointment with me. Rodriguez told her they had to leave Wednesday. And why Hurley Keffler hassled me- where is he?"
"Still in. I found a few traffic warrants and had one of the jailers lose his paperwork- just another few days, but every little bit helps."
Robin said, "It never ends."
"It's all right," I said. "There's no reason for the Priests to bother us."
"True," said Milo, too quickly. "They and the Raza boys will be concentrating on each other now. That's their main game: my turn to die, your turn to die."
"Lovely," said Robin.
"I had some Foothill guys drop in on them after Keffler's bust," he said, "but I'll see if I can arrange another visit. Don't worry about them, Rob. Really. They're the least of our problems."
"As opposed to?"
He looked at the tape recorder.
We sat down. He punched a button.
The child's voice came on.