The menudo was delicious, perfect for a chilly November night.
Robin said, “You should mold your practice, darling: patients with moms with culinary skills.”
After the last session of the thirteenth month, Efren announced he was moving from L.A., couldn’t come anymore.
“Where you going?”
He shifted on the sofa.
I said, “Big secret, huh?”
“Nah … Oakland, okay? Anyway, thanks, man. For listening to my bullshit.”
“Actually,” I said, “you put out very little bullshit.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I mean it. You were straight.”
A sunken chest heaved. A flimsy-looking hand moved swiftly to one eye, then the other. He worried a big zit nippling his underbuilt chin.
Back to the eyes, now. “Got some shit in here, like dirt.”
“Smog,” I said. “That’s L.A.”
“Yeah … you been to Oakland?”
“Took my licensing test there years ago but not since.” Before that I’d trained at Langley Porter, UC San Francisco, supplementing my fellowship’s pittance by working as a research assistant on a gang study. Braving some of Oakland’s more murderous streets. Blocks that saw more blood than some butcher shops.
Efren said, “License? Like for driving? Why you go up there for that?”
“My psychologist’s license,” I said.
“Huh?”
I pointed to the framed certificate behind my desk. “That says it’s legal for me to do my job.”
“Legal? What’s illegal for you, man? Doing some gangsta-freak doctor shit?” He bobbed his head. “How you feelin’ I stealin’ you dealin’ we all feelin’ getting real-in.”
I laughed. “Interesting concept.”
“You’re saying you gotta pay to work?”
“There’s a fee, but mostly you need a certain amount of—”
“Oh, man, they pushin’ you around.”
“Not really—”
“You gotta pay? To do your job? That su-ucks — hey, you ever need help, you say, okay?”
“Help with what?”
“Anyone pushing on you.” He winked. “Now I got to go. Long trip to El Oco-land. El Loco-land.”
“You’re driving up there?”
“Maybe.” Another wink. “Oh, yeah, I ain’t legal to drive.” Laughing, he got up and slouched to the door. Walking back to me, he held out his hand.
I shook it. His bones felt fragile. “Hey,” he said. “It’s been real, man.”
I said, “I’ll walk you out.”
“No, no, I know the way, man.”
“Okay, then. Have a good time, Ef.”
“Good?” His eyes slitted. “Ain’t gonna be fun. Gonna be business.”
Now, years later, I reached the West L.A. station twenty minutes early, parked a block away, strolled the distance on foot, kept walking past the building. Figuring if Efren reverted to instinct he’d be on time, if he wanted to strut a bit, he’d keep Milo waiting. Either way, I had a decent chance of seeing him before anyone else got involved.
I’m so fucking pissed some bitch would try to do that, I’m ready to kill her ass. You with that?
Nope.
Just kidding. Maybe.
If I encountered him, what would I say?
He was early. Walking south on Butler from Santa Monica Boulevard next to a curvy blonde, the two of them engaged in animated conversation.
He’d grown a few inches but was far from tall. Had added breadth to his shoulders but remained a skinny, loose-limbed figure with all the bulk of a wire hanger.
He wore a long-sleeved white shirt, dark pants, black shoes. Full head of black hair, brushed straight back; adopting the gangbanger coif of a previous era, none of that shaved-head obviousness.
No ink I could see from a distance. His skin had cleared.
I backed into the shadow of the station’s façade. Whatever the blonde had to say held Efren’s attention. As they got closer I made out details. His face was longer, bonier, with thick black eyebrows and a beak nose bottomed by a faint dark smudge.
Mustache or shadow.
The blond woman was about Efren’s age, taller than him by an inch with Marilyn Monroe hair and a shape to match. She wore a fitted red satin blouse, black pencil skirt, crimson stockings flocked in black, silver stilettos that did nothing to slow her prance-like gait.
They were five yards away. The flocking on her legs turned to applique: tiny black roses. A maroon suede briefcase swung from a black-nailed hand.
Gorgeous face, exuberant makeup, gigantic hazel eyes.
The smudge under Efren’s nose was, indeed, a wispy ’stache.
I stepped in front of them. Efren’s hand shot to a pant pocket. Reflexive move.
He took a second to focus, grinned and grabbed my hand. “Hey, it’s my doctor — this is him, Leese. This is the patron save my life when I was a stupid sugar baby.”
His voice had taken on more East L.A. singsong than before. Hormones had lowered it to tenor. His teeth had been straightened, his smile was radiant, his hair smelled of citrus pomade.
Gangster prince. Same look of easy confidence you saw on Ivy League legacies and showbiz brats.
We shook hands. His bones had laid on some calcium but they still felt flimsy. Nice manicure.
The blonde watched disapprovingly.
Efren said, “Man, it’s been a long time. How you been doin’, Doc — oh, yeah, not so good.” His irises turned to lumps of coal. “Bitch tryin’ to do that. Crazy.”
I shrugged.
The blonde said, “Anyway …”
Efren turned to her. Her gaze was stony.
“This is him, Leese.”
Unimpressed, she offered her fingertips to me. As she pulled away, curving black nails grazed my knuckles and I couldn’t help but take that as a warning.
She said, “Lisa Lefko, Mr. Casagrande’s attorney.”
“Alex—”
“I know who you are,” she said, consulting a Ulysse Nardin watch rimmed with diamonds. “We need to get going, E.C.”
Efren said, “Wait one sec — so, Doc, you sure you okay? I mean psychological.”
“I’m fine.”
He studied me. “So how’re things going for you? Besides all this shit?”
“Great. How about you?”
“Me? Life is be-yootiful, got what they call a thriving business.”
I knew but I asked. “What kind?”
Lisa Lefko tensed up.
Efren said, “Car audiovisual.” He kissed air, bounced on shiny new loafers. “Top-of-the-line entertainment systems, Doc — hey, why don’t you come in, I set you up with something really sick — what kind of music you like?”
“All kinds.”
“All kinds, huh? Well, I got systems for all kinds. We also got a place next door, do custom rims. Got a guy with the best blue squirrel brush in town, does pin-striping it’s like art. Don’t you think, Leese? That stripe on your Jag pretty cool, no?”
Lisa Lefko said, “Lovely. Now, can we—”
“Doc, anything you drive we can make it hyper-bitchin’. What’s your wheels now?”
“The Seville.”
“Same one?”
I nodded.
“You kidding.”
“She’s been good to me, Ef.”