“By the cops?”
“By anyone. Why would the cops ask me about you?”
Sly smile. “I dunno. They come in, you tell ’em, right?”
“Wrong.”
“What if they busted you and beat your ass?”
“I’d have nothing to tell them.” I showed him his chart. “This is what I write every time you’re here.”
He flipped pages. Read. The identical note every week: “Patient doing well.”
He said, “That’s bullshit, man. I’m fucked up.” He laughed. And remained jocular for the rest of the session.
When he arrived looking settled, we talked in my office. When he was antsy, we moved to the garden where he got a huge kick out of feeding the fish and threatened to come back with a hook and line to “catch their asses for dinner.”
When he flagged he asked for juice. Soon, he began thanking me for “keeping it nice and cold, man. You got beer?”
“Not for you.”
“Awww.”
“How about vodka?”
“Really?”
“No.”
A couple of times sitting anywhere wouldn’t do and we walked. Leaving the property and getting as far as the Glen before returning. Once we spotted hawks circling and I had to disabuse him of the notion that they were those “vultans that eat dead stuff.”
I learned about him. The TV he watched, the movies he liked, the foods he enjoyed. A girl in his class that had “like tits out to here, man, and prolly a real hairy pussy.”
The subject of his father never came up. Same for his gang heritage. Not a word about the drive-bys in his Boyle Heights neighborhood, including two fatal attacks reported in the papers that I looked up in my Thomas Guide and found to be walking distance from his house.
Same for diabetes.
On the twelfth session, I took the risk.
“Let me ask you something, Effo.”
“What?”
“You’re a smart guy — more than smart, you’re sharp, perceptive — you see things clearly—”
“I know what that means, man.” Grin. “Like a college perceptor.”
“On top of being smart, you like yourself. Which is good, that’s a sign of strength. You also understand all about diabetes. The scientific part.”
“All that shit? Keep the sugar smooth, man.”
“Exactly,” I said. “So how come when they sent you to me you weren’t keeping it smooth? I’m asking ’cause I’m curious.”
Shifting sideways, he stretched prone on the couch. “Know what I’m doing, lying down?”
“What?”
“I saw it on TV, they say that’s the way you spose to do the head-doc shit.”
I smiled. “Make yourself comfortable.”
He closed his eyes. His breathing slowed and I figured he’d sleep, or fake it, to avoid answering.
He said, “Why’d I do it?”
The eyes opened. He turned sideways. Winked. “It’s the diabetes, man. That shit don’t fit my lifestyle.”
I thought: Lifestyle? You dumb kid, you’re lucky you still have a life.
I said, “Okay, makes sense.”
CHAPTER
11
Detective Millie Rivera said, “Looks like you chose the right patient. I never figured Effo could be right about anything but being wrong. When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Years ago.”
“What’d you treat him for?”
I shook my head.
She said, “I hope it wasn’t for his antisocial tendencies. If so, it didn’t work, Doctor. He’s a serious gangster, climbed higher in the gang after his father died. In Pelican Bay. Know anything about that place?”
“Worst of the worst.”
“It’s probably where Effo will end up one day, Doctor. Who knows, he might even inherit Poppy’s cell.”
Heat had come into her voice. Her left wrist rolled up and down a chunky thigh. Working gang detail is an infinite process with infrequent satisfaction.
Rivera turned to Milo. “Big-time killer, now he’s a good citizen, go figure.”
I said, “You’re North Hollywood. Did Effo change his turf from East L.A.?”
Milo said, “He’s got a business in North Hollywood.”
“Alleged business,” said Rivera. “Car stereo place. Where bangers go for boom. We think it’s a front. You haven’t seen him in a long time?”
“He was my patient when he was a teenager.”
“He’s twenty-seven, now,” she said. “So, ten years?”
“Give or take.”
“No contact since then? Even on the phone?”
I said, “I have no ongoing relationship with him or anyone else in the gang.”
“Well, looks like Effo thinks you have a relationship. If he didn’t, Doctor, you wouldn’t be part of this conversation. Because Effo’s not shy about homicide. Like I said, he’s suspected in five and I’m sure there’s a whole bunch of stuff we don’t know about.”
“In those five was he the triggerman or a contractor?”
“Does it matter, Doctor? The point is when he decides people are going to die, they tend to do just that. We’ve been trying to nail him for a long time. He’s integral to the organization and taking him down will be a big deal. Unfortunately, because of your situation we have to treat him like he’s a good person and that means backing off. Until we resolve your situation.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Next time I’ll try to be saved by Batman or the Green Lantern.”
She blinked.
Milo hid a smile behind a hand.
I said, “How are we going to resolve my situation?”
Rivera said, “By wiping the slate clean of Dr. Sykes.”
“What do you want me to do?”
Milo said, “You do nothing, Alex. We’re here to protect and serve.”
Rivera said, “This — us notifying you — is part of the protecting. But you don’t talk to anyone about this, okay? Specifically, you don’t contact Efren Casagrande.”
I smiled. “Not even to maintain clinical support?”
Milo said, “His ego’s doing just fine. Charming little weasel that he is.”
Rivera said, “Doctor, you need to take this seriously: Everything stays buttoned up until Sykes is taken care of. Speaking of which, you need to educate us: Is she crazy, or what?”
I summed up my impressions.
“I’m hearing cold bitch rather than outright loony-tuney,” said Rivera.
I had a grab bag of diagnostic labels to dip into. Said, “Fair enough.”
“She one of those compulsives, Doctor? One try fails, she doesn’t give up?”
I said, “When did she solicit Guzman?”
Milo said, “Four days ago.”
“Six days after she showed up here.”
He nodded.
Rivera was puzzled by the exchange.
Milo said, “Woman takes her time, Millie. Premeditation, not impulse.”
She said, “Smart criminals. Hate ’em.”
I said, “She’s about organization and planning, so sure, she could persevere. What’s the plan?”
Milo said, “Far as Sykes knows — far as Ramon Guzman’s telling her — the hit’s on and ready to go. We’re gonna work with that.”
“Guzman’s cooperating.”
Rivera said, “Guzman, there’s another winner. Sociopath like Effo but minus fifty IQ points. Yes, Doctor, he’s cooperating but only because he has no choice. We can bust him for conspiracy anytime we choose but we’re holding off because his arrest could tip off Sykes and leave her untouchable — the word of a lowlife against a rich doctor. Instead, we had Effo bring Guzman to a meeting and then we popped in. At which time Effo informed Guzman he needed to play nice.”