Halfway House (14 page)

When all was silent he approached the square.

He touched it with the toe of a boot then jumped back.

The clowns
oohed
.

He touched it with a finger then jumped back again.

The clowns
ahhed
.

He nudged it with his foot and the clowns screamed with glee.

But when he sat full on it and crossed his legs as if he hadn’t a care in the world, the clowns gasped.

No sooner was he sitting, than the man was leaping aside as a great rumbling filled the interior of the big top. The square was growing. A little at first, it began growing larger and larger until it dwarfed the squat man and took up the center of the ring. It continued to grow until it ripped through the fabric of the tent and soared into the sky. When it finally stopped, Maria couldn’t help but recognize it as one of the fixtures of San Pedro.

When the house ceased growing and stood full-sized, the clowns released their balloons and began to clap. Whistles, laughter and raucous applause accompanied her as she joined the rest of the balloons soaring to a place above the halfway house. She hung there with her string dangling until a wind began to spin her about in a never-ending pirouette.

She didn’t understand it.

She’d died.

She’d ascended.

But she didn’t go to heaven and she didn’t go to hell, she went to the halfway house by way of a supernatural circus. Nowhere had she ever heard of such a thing in her Bible, and she’d read it from cover to cover.

They escaped bumper-to-bumper traffic by jumping in the High Occupancy Vehicle (HOV) lane just before the cloverleaf where 110 met the 105. They sped past the Shrine Auditorium, Patriot’s Hall, and almost made it to Staples Center but were forced to make a detour at the 10. An accident. Construction. Unidentified flying objects. It could have been anything. You never knew in Los Angeles. And Bobby would never know, because he timed out somewhere on La Brea.

When he returned, they’d slung onto Rampart, short-cutting to Van Nuys. The seizures were becoming more frequent. He needed medication, or else something really bad would happen, like a grand mal in the middle of a busy intersection. He worked his jaw muscles as they tightened. He thought he’d outgrown this.

Trading the highway for a two-lane street bordered by parked cars on both sides was faster, but scarier by tenfold. Potholes, people stepping into the street, and the occasional mutt dog slashing across their path kept Split twisting the wheel and slamming on the brakes. Bobby had to give the boy kudos. Bobby had never driven, but he’d hitched rides his entire life and knew how much skill the boy possessed. Strapped into the vinyl backseat with a seatbelt assaulted by Mexican radio some crazy combination of heavy metal and mariachi and barely able to breathe from the coconut pimp oil dousing the carpet, Bobby tried to pretend the whole thing was a video game.

Then Bobby timed out again.

And returned along a suburban street.

The radio off, Bobby could feel the tension in the car. Split stared straight ahead. They came to a stop sign. To their right stood seven young men in differing versions of red flannel, Bloods all the way. Bobby watched as Blockbuster nodded carefully. The nod was returned just as carefully. Split slipped the car into gear and rolled slowly past.

They searched row after row of what Bobby had come to think of as the quintessential L.A. apartment building: long, two-story buildings perpendicular to the street with ground floor parking underneath. It seemed as if one architect had designed every apartment building in L.A., his saving grace a penchant for
Miami Vice
colors. Surrounded by tall palms, mauve, chartreuse, peach and lime green, apartments stood in plots of bougainvillea, birds of paradise bushes and impossibly green grass.

The Chevy slowed.

“That was it. I just passed it.” Split stopped the car in the middle of the street and looked in his rearview mirror.

Blockbuster turned as well, peering back between the two front seats. “Then back the fuck up. There’s no one back there. It’s not like we’re sneaking up on anyone.”

“Fuck it.” Split slammed the gearshift on the steering wheel to the right and gunned the accelerator, sending the car in reverse at a good enough clip to make Bobby’s head leave the seat. When the car stopped, his head slammed back.

They were parked in front of a goldenrod-colored apartment building. A sixty-something man stood in the middle of the front lawn in his open bathrobe, tight blue shorts, a Goofy T-shirt from Disneyland and pink flip-flops, holding a thin leash attached to a quivering Chihuahua with its ass in the air. Both man and dog watched the neon green Chevy.

First Split got out, then Blockbuster, and they met at the back door, which they opened for Bobby. Feeling the adrenaline now, Bobby stepped smartly from the backseat. Split led the way past the man with the dog. Bobby followed with Blockbuster bringing up the rear.

The stairs were near the front on the parking side. They found Apartment 14 on the top floor toward the end. The name beside the buzzer read
A. Verdina
.

Bobby felt a trill in his stomach. He was so close now.

Next to the door was a two-pane window. Split tried to peer in, but pollution and the blinds kept him from seeing anything.

Blockbuster glared at the lock for a minute, then brought his left arm down on top of the door knob. A second later, the door creaked open three inches. He turned and grinned. “My sister had the exact same lock on her door.” Then he stepped inside.

Bobby followed and Split closed the door.

The fetid smell of unwashed clothes and stained carpet assaulted them. Bobby and Split pulled their shirts to cover their noses and mouths. Blockbuster used a handkerchief that he yanked from his back pocket.

A kitchen and dining room were on the left, a living room was on the right, and a short hallway led back to the bathroom and what appeared to be two bedrooms. Light filtered through crooked blinds, illuminating microblizzards of dust particles disturbed by their entrance. Old 1960s style low-slung couches hugged each wall, leaving a large clear area in the middle of the living room floor. Rather than framed pictures, pages of magazines had been taped to the walls, pages of small boys in underwear, small boys running around and sweating, and small boys sitting and watching television. None seemed younger than five or older than fifteen.

All three men stared at the walls, trying to come to terms with the pictures and what they meant. As one they turned and looked from the couches to the cleared space in the middle of the floor. For Bobby, there was no doubt what it meant.

“
Hijo de mil putos!
He’s a fucking perv.” Split jerked a 9-mm pistol from under his shirt and headed toward the back. “If he has a fucking kid locked up back here, I’m going to grease his ass.”

Blockbuster leveled his gaze at Bobby. “I’m going to grease his ass anyway.” He reached up and turned on the overhead fan in the living room and kitchen. Then he slid the window open. It might be a giveaway for Verdina, but they had to breathe.

Bobby felt the change in air immediately as fresh air slipped through the dirty screen. He lowered his shirt and breathed shallowly.

He’d been in one of Verdina’s classes. He never liked the thin, Pinscher-faced man, but then Bobby had never liked any of his teachers. He couldn’t remember anyone saying anything bad about the man. If he was into little boys, Bobby doubted this was a new hobby he’d started in Los Angeles. More than likely the man had been feeding his need for years.

Split’s curses from the back rooms were punctuated by a loud crash. When he came back into the living room, his eyes were wild and spittle flecked his lip.

“Calm down,
mi amigo
,” Blockbuster said, putting his hand on Split’s shoulder.

The smaller man ignored it. He licked his lips and took a deep breath. “
Pajiero
had a bookcase filled with videotapes. There weren’t pictures on the outside, just names of kids and ages. Motherfucker is sick.”

Maybe he’d been filling his need through the U.S. postal service. Maybe he’d never really touched a kid, just got off on watching it, like that made it any better. Bobby felt his anger rising. Looking at the couches against the wall and the empty space in between reminded him that the man wasn’t just a watcher of videos.

“I had no idea he was like this.”

“Most people never do.”

Split’s matter-of-fact words made Bobby look at him. There was a faraway look in the gangbanger’s eyes. His upper lip trembled as his mouth opened. Then the moment was over and a sneer skid through the vulnerability.

“We’re gonna toss this place. If we’re lucky, what we’re looking for is here.”

“And if it isn’t?” Blockbuster asked from the kitchen. He yanked the refrigerator door and peered inside.

“Then we’ll find out where it is.”

“We’re going to wait for him, aren’t we?” Bobby asked.

“You’re fucking right.”

“Good.” Blockbuster closed the refrigerator and shuffled through a pile of mail on the table in the cramped dining room. “This is yesterday’s. Milk in the fridge is still good. School lets out at three, so he should be here by four.”

“That gives us enough time to search the place.”

“And then some. What are we looking for anyway, Bobby?”

“If he hasn’t taken it apart, it should be a picture frame about
yay
big.” He held his hands apart.

“What’s inside?”

“Elvis Presley’s Double Platinum Award for
Heartbreak Hotel
.”

Blockbuster whistled. “The real thing?”

“I think so. I’ve never seen it. I just learned of it a little while back.”

“And this is yours?”

“That’s what I was told.”

“Bobby Cracker got himself an Elvis connection.” Split grinned and his gold tooth winked as it caught a ray of light through the blinds. “I seen your tattoo, just didn’t think it meant what it did. That explains why Lucy is all hot and bothered to help you.”

“What’s a platinum album look like?” Blockbuster asked.

“The size of a 45,” Bobby said, but when he saw the incomprehension on their faces, he rephrased: “I mean just a little bigger than a CD. Should be a whitish-silver in color with the words Heart Break Hotel by Elvis Presley, 2,000,000 Million Sold. And then at the bottom the initials RIIA.”

“I thought you said you’d never seen it.” Split eyed him critically.

“I’ve seen pictures. The award used to hang in Graceland.”

Split stared for several long moments, then turned and headed to the back. “Let’s do this. I want to be ready when the
Pajiero
returns.”

Each of them split up. The gangbangers took the back two rooms and left Bobby in the front. He didn’t want to touch anything. Just looking at the cushions and the walls made him feel dirty. He tossed the cushions and upended the sofas. Other than change, a comb, a disturbing amount of used tissue and some food crumbs, there wasn’t a hint of an album.

 He moved to the kitchen, and by the time he’d finished the floor was covered with his efforts. Why should he respect the privacy of a perv? He’d upended every jar, bag and box of food he’d found. At first he’d done it slowly, but by the end he was hurling Cheerios across the room.

“Whoa there
Mr. Clean up in Aisle Four.
You sure you emptied everything?” Blockbuster chuckled as he laid a pillowcase filled with odd-shaped objects on the kitchen table. He grabbed the mail and shoved it into the bag. Seeing Bobby watching him, he said, “I have a cousin who specializes in identity theft. Utility bills are gold mines. With what I lifted and the mail, this trip is paid for.”

“You stealing from him?” Bobby dropped the empty cereal box, crunched across the floor and checked in the bag. A few watches, a velvet box and some silver coins jumbled against each other.

Blockbuster pushed Bobby aside and took control of his bag. “You can’t steal from someone like this. You steal from a citizen. You steal from someone who lives life the right way. Stealing is a bad thing.”

“But this guy’s different. He’s a perv.” Split came into the dining room with his own bag. He set it on the table next to Blockbuster’s. “On the scale of crimes, he’s worse than a serial killer. Laws don’t apply to him, which means that when we kill him, it ain’t murder.”

“That’s right. Think of it as a contribution to the community.” Blockbuster chuckled. “Community outreach, that’s what they call it.”

Blockbuster and Split began to argue, but Bobby was getting a bad feeling. He’d seen people die. But he’d never seen two more sadistic people than these gangbangers, who had actually begun to argue over the best way to kill the man. Whatever they’d do would be nasty, and Bobby wasn’t sure he wanted to be a part of it.

Kanga sat on the bench outside the Martial Arts Studio, a three-foot glass sign with the letters
KU
emblazoned in red and centered on the window behind him. Inside Mark was giving a class to kids, concentrating on the most effective ways to disarm a knife-wielding maniac, something that must be a regular occurrence on their playgrounds for it to be taught with such conviction. Wedged between the Red Door Vietnamese Restaurant and a Croatian cobbler, the plate glass window of the studio allowed passers-by a clear view of the goings-on inside.

But Kanga wasn’t interested in the intricacies of a wrist lock or the success probabilities of escaping from a schoolyard headlock from ten different positions. He didn’t care about the man up the street cursing his wife for not giving him more money for another drink at The Spot while she washed the family’s clothes at the Laundromat. He didn’t care about the yuppie who’d stopped for a quick pint at the liquor store, who was now whining into his cell phone about the dent on the front of his Boxter made by a Buick with three different kinds of paint and more dimples than a golf ball.