As I reached my street I quickly made a U-turn and headed back to the freeway that would take me to Pacoima.
***
I could barely hear the doorbell over the whine of the leaf blower from the neighbor next door. I stepped back off the front stoop and watched the curtained windows for any sign of movement, but none came. I then walked the perimeter of the house just in case the occupants were prone to fleeing, but on this day I hoped they wouldn’t because the heat was excessively oppressive.
At the back of the house the yard was in even greater need for maintenance than the front. The dirt was like powder and coated my shoes in a thin film. I found the garbage cans around the side of the house. The fact that they had contents confirmed there were people living in the house. The existence of several used diaper bundles convinced me the occupants were who I was looking for.
“Can I help you?” asked an irritated voice.
The nosy neighbor held the silenced leaf blower like a shotgun.
“You know the people that live here?” I asked.
“Who are you?” he replied.
“We met before, remember?”
“Yeah, but who are you?” he persisted.
“I work for the original owner. The people staying here aren’t supposed to be.”
“No kidding? They’re squatters? But they seemed so nice.”
“Is there anyone else staying here with them? Maybe another woman, a little overweight, dark?”
“Nope, there’s none of that going on here,” he said defensively. His mind clearly went to a darker place than I implied. It felt like the neighbor still felt protective of the young couple. I decided to ease off lest he stir something up before I could talk to them.
“Well, I’ll swing by later to see if they are home,” I said casually.
“Hey,” he called after me, “don’t go getting them into any trouble.” He wagged his finger at me. “They’re good kids, you know.”
“I know,” I waved back and returned to my car.
I drove around the block and parked further down the street where I could still have a good view of Sheila’s house but wasn’t in a direct sightline of the overly-protective neighbor. I didn’t want him to see me and bring the local police down for questioning.
MAN LEFT IN CAR
I was a case study for why you should never leave your dog in a parked car. Even with the windows rolled down, the temperature inside was well over one hundred. I had a half-filled water bottle from a previous purchase that was warm enough to make sun tea. I futilely angled the visor to keep some of the sun off of my face but I didn’t want to completely obstruct the view of the house and so I was forced to get the full brunt of the rays. An hour in, I hit a point of woozy bliss where the body is covered in a sheen of perspiration and the breaths are short and metered and hypnotic. With every passing car I angled my head to catch the slightest of breezes they cast which were as refreshing as a tall glass of ice water. After about the fifth one of these I kept my head in that position leaning against the door frame. That’s when I saw a set of eyes staring at me from across the street.
It was Nelson.
The adrenaline shot through me and I awoke from my lethargic state. His body started to lean, and I knew he was going to try to make a break for it.
“Kid, don’t make me run. It’s too hot,” I pleaded. His eyes hung with me but his shoulders slowly swung around. “Come on, you couldn’t outrun me in a million years.”
He tried anyway.
I flung open the door in pursuit and fell flat on my face. My knees had buckled on the first step. The asphalt burned my palms and the tender skin on my forearms. Scrambling to my feet my head swirled from the quick movements and from the heat off the pavement. For a moment I thought I might vomit.
“Will you stop?” I shouted, but Nelson had no intention of obeying my command. I was more annoyed than anything because despite the head start he hadn’t made it very far down the street. And now I had to run, jog maybe, to catch up to him.
Nelson fumbled with his cell phone. He was a slow runner made impossibly slower when trying to text and run at the same time. My head cleared somewhat and I gave pursuit. I got within five feet of him long before he reached the intersection and by the end of it he was so gassed that I briskly walked up behind him and horse-collared him to a halt.
“Stop with this nonsense, already,” I said and wiped the prodigious amount of sweat off my hand that came from the back of his shirt. “Who are you texting?” I asked but didn’t wait for a reply. I snatched the phone out of his hand and read the latest text: Don’t come home. I didn’t have to read the recipient’s name because I already knew it was Jeanette. “Nice,” I grumbled and handed him back the phone. “Let’s go talk inside. I hope you have air conditioning in that house.”
The living room was mired in an early 1980s remodel. The coffee table and TV console were made of lacquered blonde wood. The floral-print wallpaper bubbled in spots and was starting to peel at the corners near the popcorn ceiling. It harkened back memories of my parents’ living room and getting a lecture for missing curfew.
“Listen, kid, I meant what I said before. I want to help you. If I didn’t, don’t you think the cops would be here right now?”
Nelson wasn’t buying it, and I didn’t think he ever would. He spooked Jeanette with the text he sent her, and if I had any hope of her ever coming back I was going to need him to help.
“Give me your money,” I demanded. Nelson looked at me like I was mad. “Come on, give me your money. Don’t tell me you guys are broke already?” I shook my head, “That rules out that option. Jesus, this is a mess.”
It was the first step from a persuasive selling technique called “controlled drowning.” The idea was to present the subject with several scenarios that all ended in locked doors. By gradually building on each hopeless scenario you could then dangle a solution that they never thought existed. The technique was undoubtedly developed by former Black Ops specialists.
I built an airtight case for gloom. They didn’t have enough money to last a week. They didn’t have the friends or relatives who would be willing to help them. And then add the unavoidable fact that the authorities wanted him for questioning in a murder case. Eventually they would track him down.
“I didn’t do anything to her,” he cried. He tried to elaborate but the words stumbled out in an incoherent babble. The boy rocked in the chair.
“All right, take it easy. I know you didn’t have anything to do with it.” I let him come a few steps back from the edge before giving him another shove. “The detective on the case seems like a reasonable guy but you never know with cops. They’re a stubborn bunch and they got one and only one suspect — you.”
“But I didn’t do it,” he said.
“Sure, but these guys’ job is to close the case. That doesn’t necessarily mean closing it with the guilty party going to jail. We just somehow have to convince these guys that you are innocent,” I said but shook my head like what I had just uttered was a next-to-impossible task.
“How’s the baby doing?” I asked. I needed to ease into this part lest he completely shut down. “What’s his name?” I asked, even leaning back in the sofa to ease the tension.
“Holden,” he muttered.
“Catcher in the Rye fans?”
“Yeah.”
“Great book,” I lied. I thought it was great when I was too young to know better. “You left the father out of that decision, huh?”