An uneasy expression slithered onto his face.
“What?” she said.
He looked at her blankly.
“You’re holding back, Eric.”
He rolled the fork some more and she braced herself for yet another put off.
He said, “If I go out on my own, it’ll mean less money. Until I build up a clientele. I haven’t been LAPD long enough to get a city pension, all I have is my military pension.”
“That’s decent money.”
“It pays the bills but I couldn’t buy a house.” He returned to his food, chewed slowly- excruciatingly slowly, the way he always did. Petra, a rapid eater, table habits borne of growing up with five ravenous brothers, typically sat idly as he finished. Most of the time it amused her. Or she rationalized that she should learn to emulate him. Now she wanted to flip his switch onto High, squeeze some emotion out of him.
She said, “A house would be nice but it’s not necessary.”
He placed the fork on the table. Shoved his plate away. Wiped his mouth. “Your place is small. So’s mine. I thought… if the two of us…” His shoulders rose and fell.
Petra’s chest grew warm. She touched his wrist. “You want to move in together?”
“No,” he said. “Not the right time.”
“Why not?” she said.
“Don’t know,” he said, looking about twelve years old.
She thought about the magnitude of his loss. What it took for him to express himself emotionally even at this level. Heard herself saying, “I don’t know either.”
CHAPTER 36
FRIDAY, JUNE 21, 8:23 P.M., THE GOMEZ APARTMENT, UNION DISTRICT
The kitchen was hot and fragrant, not even a trace of Isaiah’s asphalt leaking through the savory steam.
His mother washed dishes, pivoted to accept Isaac’s cheek peck. “You’re early.” Not true; it sounded like an accusation. “No more work?”
“It’s the weekend, Ma.”
“You’re not too busy to eat with us?”
“I smelled your food from miles away.”
“This? It’s not fancy, just tamales and soup.”
“Still smells great.”
“A new kind of beans, black ones but bigger. I saw them in the market, the Korean said they would be good.” She shrugged. “Maybe he’s right.”
“Sounds pretty fancy to me.”
“When someone gets married, I’ll make a real meal.” She began puttering at the stove. “Also rice with onions and a little chicken. This time I added more chicken stock and some carrots. I do that for Dr. Marilyn and it comes out good. I cooked a fresh whole chicken to get the stock and put the white meat in the tamales. Whatever’s left is in the refrigerator. Mostly skin, but you can snack on it now if you’re hungry.”
“I’ll wait. Where’s Dad?”
“On the way home. The Toyota acted up again, he had to take it to Montalvo. Hopefully he won’t get robbed blind.”
“Anything serious?”
“Montalvo claims some kind of filter, I don’t know that kind of thing.” She scurried to the refrigerator, poured him a glass of lemonade. “Here, drink.”
He sipped the cool, overly sweet liquid.
“Have another glass.”
He complied.
“Joel’s not coming home,” said his mother. “A night class. On Friday. Can you believe that?”
Isaac figured Joel was lying. If it kept going like this, maybe he’d talk to him. He drained the second glass of lemonade, headed for his room.
“Isaiah’s sleeping, so go in quiet.”
“Did he eat already?”
“He ate some but he’ll come to the table for more.” Small smile. “He loves my tamales. Especially with raisins.”
“I do, too, Mom.”
She stopped, turned. Her mouth was set tartly and Isaac prepared himself for a guilt trip.
She said, “It’s nice you’re here, my doctor.” Returning to the stove. “For a change.”
He removed his shoes and cracked the bedroom door carefully but Isaiah sat up in the top bunk.
“Man…” Rubbing his forehead, as if trying to restore focus. “It’s you.”
“Sorry,” said Isaac. “Go back to sleep.”
Isaiah sank down on two elbows, glanced at the brittle shade that yellowed the solitary window. Air shaft light glared through. The security bulb, yellow-gray. The asphalt smell was strong in here.
Isaiah said, “You’re here, bro.”
“Got out early,” said Isaac.
Isaiah laughed wetly. Coughed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Isaac wondered about his lungs, the alveoli clogged with all that…
“Got out early?” said Isaiah. “Sounds like probation or something.”
Isaac stashed his briefcase well under the bed, took off his shirt, and put on a fresh T. He lifted the shade and stared down the air shaft. Stories below, garbage flecked the pavement.
Isaiah shielded his eyes. “Cut that out, man.”
Isaac dropped the shade.
“I stink bad. Can you smell it?”
“No.”
“You lie, bro.”
“Go back to sleep.”
When Isaac reached the door, his brother called out: “You got a call. Some lay-dee.”
“Detective Connor?”
“I said a lady.”
“Detective Connor’s female.”
“Yeah? She cute?”
“Who called?”
“Wasn’t no detective.” Isaiah grinned.
“Who?”
“You getting excited?”
“Why would I?”
“ ’Cause she sounded excited, bro.”
“Who?” said Isaac. Knowing. Dreading.
“Wanna guess?”
Isaac stood there.
Isaiah’s eyebrows bounced. “Someone named Klara.”
He’d never given her his home number. She’d probably gotten it from the BioStat office. Or Graduate Records. Now, it starts…
He forced his voice calm. “What’d she want?”
“To talk to you, bro.” Isaiah snickered. “I stuck her number under your pillow. Eight one eight- you messin’ with a Valley girl?”
Isaac retrieved the scrap of paper, made a second attempt to leave.
“She cute? She white? She sounded real white.”
“Thanks for taking the message,” said Isaac.
“You better thank me, man. She was hot to go.” Isaiah sat up again. New clarity in his eyes. “She the one you did that other night, right? She sounded like she could be fun. She give good head?”
“Don’t be stupid,” said Isaac.
Isaiah’s mouth hung open and his face turned old. He sank down hard, flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. One hand drooped over the side. Blackened with tar, the fingernails cracked, filthy beyond redemption.
“Yeah, I’m stupid.”
Isaac said, “Sorry, man. I’m just tired.”
Isaiah rolled over. Faced the wall.
CHAPTER 37
SATURDAY, JUNE 22, 2:00 P.M., LANKERSHIM BOULEVARD, FLASH IMAGE GALLERY, NOHO ARTS DISTRICT
No more talk of moving in together. Friday night, after dinner, Petra and Eric had driven to the Jazz Bakery in Venice. Separate cars.
A moody quartet was the main act, sleepy-eyed guys stretching old standards with an ear toward atonality. By eleven, Petra was bushed. The two of them returned to her place- her small place- and fell asleep in each other’s arms.
Saturday morning, they awoke feeling fresh and horny.
The next few hours had been lovely. Now they were checking out the NoHo galleries for some connection to Omar Selden.
Eric’s suggestion.
“You sure?” she’d said.
“Why not?”
Why not, indeed. Doing police work- even unauthorized, probably futile police work- was easier than thinking about the other stuff.
The square mile encompassing Lankershim just south of Magnolia had been a breeding ground for board-ups and petty crime for years. Transformed by creative types and obliging developers into an arts district, the area was an amalgam of pretty and seedy. Petra had been there several times for the street fair and to browse galleries. The fair had great ethnic food and crappy tourist trinkets. The galleries were an interesting mix of talent and self-delusion.