Housebroken (2 page)

“Good mauwning, sih.”

Before Blake could react, Conrad darted through the gap, squeezing between him and the door. She leapt onto the kid outside, who toppled over, landing on his bulky backpack.

Blake shot forward, ripping the dog back by the collar. “Inside, Conrad!” She whined, pawing at the air.

The orange-haired kid smiled, kneeling up from the ground. “It’s okay, sih. I weawy wike dawgs.”

He reached into his bag, pulling out a doggy treat, and came forward on his knees, offering Conrad the reward.

“Yo a good dawgy, yes, you awe.”

The young man got down in Conrad’s face, grabbing at her front paws and darting in, as if about to attack. He bared his teeth, his low guttural growl met by Conrad’s throaty whine, then pulled Conrad on top of him, ripping her from Blake’s grasp. They rolled together on the porch, wrestling in one moment, the kid rubbing her belly the next. Conrad played along as if they had known each other for years, her flying slobber proof she had made a new friend.

A strange uneasiness settled over Blake as he observed the young man on the ground. Fiery curly hair clipped short and gelled back, shoes shined but edges peeling, a collared business shirt that was starting to fray . . . and what kind of person kept dog treats in their bag? What, for emergencies? As if the lisp weren’t bad enough, he seemed to have a tic, blinking his left eye and opening his mouth as if yawning.

Blake stepped onto the porch, grabbing Conrad’s collar, and ushered her into the house. He moved back inside, keeping the door open just a crack.

“Stay, Conrad. Stay!” He turned to the young man. “Sorry about that.”

Conrad placed her nose against that sliver of an opening, sniffing for her new playmate. The orange-haired kid stood, brushing his clothes off. He cleared his throat, eyes down, then looked up with a smile that seemed to swallow the rest of his face.

Like a jack-o’-lantern
, Blake thought, the kid’s orange hair almost causing him to laugh.

“Hewe’s yo newspeipo.”

Blake couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Terribly off. He opened the door just wide enough to grab the paper, every instinct screaming at him to slam the door, throw the lock, and walk away.

He kept it open, barely. Didn’t want to seem quite that rude. “You the paper boy?”

“What? No, no, I don’ wuhk fo’ da newspeipo, sih.” He laughed. “My name is Joje.”

He held out his hand, that haunting smile back on display. After some hesitation, Blake opened the door wider, shaking the kid’s hand. He kept his leg in place, blocking Conrad’s attempted escape.

A confident shake. At least the kid had that.

“I noticed you wecentwee moved in. How do you wike da neighbohood?” George smiled.

Or should I call him Joje?

“You live here? Nearby?” Might explain something.

“Oh, no, I wish. I weawy wish.”

The kid’s left eye started blinking again, his mouth opening. He cocked his head and looked down. Cleared his throat. Then he was back as if nothing had happened. He continued with his lisp.

“I’m here for a school pwoject, to interview someone about their career.” He gave a rehearsed shrug. “I like to think, why not start at the top. You know, go fo’ fowce and ask the guys that are successful so maybe one day I can, you know, have the same success.”

It took Blake a few seconds, but finally he got it. Go
full force
. He almost missed Joje’s question.

“So what do you do for a living?”

“You realize this is a private community?”

“Oh, sure, but I’m not sowiciting. What is it you do?”

The tic was back. Some tiny inkling of decency made it hard not to feel bad for the kid. Some people were dealt a rotten hand, not his fault if he was trying to make the best of it. Still, Blake couldn’t shake the creep factor emanating from this broken kid on his porch.

“I really don’t have the time,” Blake said as he closed the door. Or tried to.

The kid’s foot was extended into the doorjamb, keeping it from shutting.

“You mind?” Blake asked, all pretenses of good-natured neighboring quickly fading.

Joje met him with the blankest of stares.

He really is a jack-o’-lantern
, Blake thought.
There’s nothing behind those eyes
. Then that winning smile not even a mother could have loved reappeared.

“Hi, deo!” Joje waved with his fingers past Blake.

Blake looked back. His son, Adam, was staring past him at the stranger on the doorstep. Adam was tall for his age. At fourteen, he towered over his mother and would soon threaten his father for height dominance. With long, shaggy hair that though slept on, was about as styled as it would ever be, he immediately dismissed the young man on the porch.

“Thought maybe a kid wanted to play,” Adam said through a yawn. “Should have remembered, you moved us somewhere there are no kids my age.”

“Here, take the dog. I’ll make breakfast,” Blake said. “And put her in the crate.” He turned back to Joje, ready to end their conversation.

“Tell your son I wanna pway,” Joje said.

“Excuse me?”

“More questions. The, uh, missus? What does she do?”

The smile was back, but this time Blake wasn’t having it. He opened the door and stepped out, closing it behind him. He was fit for his age, nothing like his wife, who seemed to work out twenty hours a day, but the bulk from his weight lifting days had never completely left, nor had it all turned to fat like so many of his college friends. More importantly, Blake knew how to be intimidating when he needed to be, and there was no question it had become one of those times.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“For my pwoject.”

“Cut the crap. Tell me what you’re doing on my porch or I call the cops right now.” Blake held up his phone, and true to his threat, the numbers nine-one-one appeared on the display as if he had keyed them in.

The AI he was beta-testing made Apple’s Siri look like an Atari from the eighties. He still had so many questions about the technology—how, for instance, it had recognized the need to display the numbers but not actually place the call. The phone was a constant reminder that the move had been the right choice.

Joje looked down, blinking and opening his mouth. “I guess you don’t become successful without weawning to wead a person, huh?”

“I can’t even understand you.”

The smile fell from Joje’s face. “Wead,” he pantomimed with his hands, “wike a book.”

“I’d like you to leave. Now.”

Joje slung his bag off one shoulder, unzipping it and pulling out a laminated card. Blake found himself translating the young man’s crude speech impediment as if his Cyborg’s language app had been hardwired to his mind. “I’m selling magazine subscriptions to pay for my schooling. Twenty dollars for the first, only ten for each additional subscription. I can even renew, uh, subscriptions you already have—”

“Get off my property, George.”

“If every household bought one subscription, I could pay for my entire tuition in just a few weeks . . .”

Screw it. “Joje! Get off my property. Now.”

“Are you making fun of me? My wisp?”

Blake couldn’t help but chuckle. It really was too much. The blink was back, followed quickly by the yawning. This poor kid had no hope.

“You want some advice from our little interview? Pick a career other than sales. You see, in sales, people aren’t buying a product, they’re buying you, and even if by some miracle you suckered some poor old woman to open her purse because she felt sorry for you, as soon as you were gone, she’d realize her mistake and want her money back. It’d be the worst case of buyer’s remorse in the history of sales. Just the memory of wasting three minutes of her time, as you’ve stolen from me today, would be too great a loss. So here’s my advice. Make a career change. Fast-food restaurants are always hiring. Or maybe aspire to be a greeter at Walmart.”

He certainly had the smile for it.

“I’m counting to three,” Blake continued. “One.”

Joje looked down, clearing his throat, then looked back up. Blake couldn’t pretend he hadn’t noticed the moisture behind those eyes. He simply didn’t care.

“I’d like to ask you to reconsider—”
Weconsido
.

“Two.”

Backpedaling down the stone entryway, Joje stopped in front of the rock waterfall. Palm fronds tickled the top of his head.

“One subscwiption wiw weawy make a diffwence—” Joje looked off toward the driveway, his eyes moving down, then up, then back again.

Jenna suddenly walked past, sparing him barely a glance. She wore a purple designer sports bra some might consider too small for all it held and tiny black shorts, sweat glistening off her bronzed body. Blake found it difficult not to stare at his own wife, ten years his junior. He forced himself to look away, picking at an imaginary cobweb on the rock wall.

Jenna moved past him, touching him lightly on the shoulder. The muddled rattle from her earbuds sounded like planes crashing.

Joje stood gaping, his mouth literally hanging open.

“That’s it! I’m calling the cops right now.” Blake heard the first ring in his ear as the phone autodialed, picking up the need from their conversation. He tapped at his screen, ending the call before it was picked up. “It’s ringing.”

Joje looked at Blake as if waking from a dream. “Thank you, sih, fo’ da oppotunity. Have a gweat day.”

He set the laminated card down on a stone bench before disappearing around the corner.

When Blake reentered the family room, he found his son eating a bowl of ice cream on the couch, watching TV. An old rerun of
Family Feud
. Could he try any harder to be bored?

Conrad lay next to him, head resting in his lap, following Blake’s movements with lazy eyes.

“I thought I told you to put her in the crate? And since when is she allowed on the couch?”

No response, from Adam or the dog. Blake sighed. “Really? Ice cream for breakfast?”

Adam shrugged.

“You know what? I want you to unpack your room today. Your mom and I both want you to.” Blake paused, glancing at Jenna pulling out a bottle of Vitamin Water from the fridge. “Adam? You hear me?”

Without looking away from the TV, his son replied, “I hear you.”

Blake followed his wife over to the kitchen, standing at the back sink. She moved rhythmically, earbuds still in, staring out through the open shutters at the sea.

The view from the house was spectacular, one of the things that had sold them on the place. The swimming pool jutted almost directly up against the receding cliffs with more than a thirty-foot drop down to the jagged and uninviting shore below, but from here it looked like the pool flowed straight into the ocean. The rocky beach wasn’t the type to attract visitors, though the occasional surfer could be spotted bobbing out in the water.

They had one of only fourteen homes in this almost-hidden gated community in Malibu. Eight of those homes actually resided against the cliffs and shoreline, as theirs did. The others were set across the street yet raised up to still have at least a glimpse of the view.

It was the setting of paradise, though the past few days since the move had been anything but.

Jenna turned around, catching Blake staring at her. He hated himself for feeling guilty—she was his wife, this should be the most natural thing in the world. Still, he looked away.

Jenna grabbed the roll of paper towels from the counter and pushed it against his chest.

“Go clean up your shit,” she said, louder than she probably realized. “I almost stepped in it.”

Blake pulled the speaker buds from her ears. “I’m not the one who let Conrad out.”

“So what, it’s my fault she’s having anxiety issues about the move? The cage isn’t working.”

“It’s not a cage, it’s a crate. And no, crate training doesn’t work unless you reinforce the environment with good behavior, not bad.”

Jenna set her Vitamin Water down, drops of liquid spurting out onto the counter. “Fine. I’ll call a maid service on my way to Deb’s. Have them come over to wipe up one little mess.”

She swept past him.

“Deb? The interior designer who can’t match her own outfit? What’s wrong with the furniture we have, Jenn? I mean, why bring it if we were just going to replace it?”

She continued out of the room as if her earbuds were still in. “I’m jumping in the shower,” she called back from the foyer.

It wasn’t an invitation.

Blake grabbed her Vitamin Water, polishing it off with a grimace. Nasty stuff. He tossed it into the trash and grabbed the paper towels and a bottle of window cleaner from beneath the sink.

As Blake walked past, Adam stared at him with the hint of a smile that for some reason, reminded him of the lisper outside. Blake held up the paper towels and window cleaner. “Care to join me?”

The TV once again became the focal point of Adam’s attention.

Blake continued from the room, thunderous applause following his retreat. What he really needed was an app on his phone that would help him understand his son. A teenage translator.

He smiled. Now that would be worth millions.

The furniture truck arrived just before two in the afternoon, more strangers walking through their house, carrying what Blake guessed passed for modern decor. A table that looked like a torture rack, vinyl couches so red and shiny they’d reflect the glint off a zipper, wall hangings and paintings he would just have to ignore.

The white grand piano was an especially nice touch, considering none of them played.

Deb was a complete delight, fussing over every detail as if the feng shui of the universe depended on it. She must have been the first woman Blake had met with a British accent who became less endearing when she spoke.

He locked himself in his study for the better part of the day, though he really had little work to do. And lucky Conrad was treated to three walks, each longer than the normal quick stroll through the neighborhood. It was on the third of these walks that Blake met one of his neighbors for the first and last time.

Conrad sniffed at the same bush she had explored earlier that afternoon while Blake poured over his portfolio on the small display of his Cyborg. The numbers hadn’t changed since that morning but had occupied his mind all day.