This Wicked World

by RICHARD LANGE

  Is anybody else here? he asks in Spanish.

  The walleyed guy puts his back into it now, leaning against the door, determined to close it.

  Relax, buddy, relax, Robo says while at the same time pushing the door open wider. His family has a few questions, that’s all. There will be no problems for you.

  Here we go, Boone thinks. He puffs himself up and steps out so that he’s visible behind Robo. Maybe it’ll make someone think twice about getting crazy. The first guy gives up and backs off, but a second rushes in, swinging a frying pan as Robo steps into the apartment. Robo grabs his wrist and gives it a little shake. The guy’s eyes widen in pain, and the pan clatters to the floor.

  “Cálmate,” Robo says, both hands raised in the air. “Cálmate, hombre.”

  By now Boone has joined him in the tiny living room. The dog’s barking grows more frantic, but there’s still no sign of it. The walleyed guy dashes into the bathroom and slams the door. The other one crouches next to one of the three beds in the room. A third man, clad only in white briefs, cowers on another of the beds.

  A dish breaks in the kitchen. Boone moves to the doorway and peers in. A fourth man is trying to squeeze through a small window over the sink, legs kicking wildly. Where the fuck is he going to go, four stories up? Boone grabs a foot and yanks him back inside, drags him off the counter, and slams him to the floor.

  All the fight goes out of him, and Boone twists his arm up behind his back and marches him into the living room. Robo has rousted another man from the bedroom who now slouches red eyed and tousle haired on the junk-store couch, reeking of beer. Boone plops his guy next to him.

  Boone’s heart is pounding, but it feels good. He’s always been at his best when things get rough. Nothing like a little close quarters combat to shake out the wrinkles.

  You in the bathroom, please come out, Robo says. We don’t want trouble; we just want to talk. About Oscar.

  The bathroom door flies open. Talk to him, asshole, the walleyed guy shouts as a brindle pit bull charges into the room, a savage blur of thick muscle and bristling hair that leaps at Boone.

  “Holy shit!” Robo shouts.

  Boone manages to throw a forearm in the dog’s way, and the animal’s jaws clamp onto it. Boone grimaces, expecting pain, but none comes. The dog loses his grip and drops to the floor. He makes another leap and bites again, and again falls, unable to hang on.

  Boone glances at his arm, confused. No damage to the sleeve of his coat, no blood. The dog is now gnawing on his shin. Boone reaches down and grabs the choke chain around the animal’s neck and yanks it tight, forcing the dog to look up at him. The dog snarls and snaps, and Boone sees there’s not a tooth in his head.

  He releases the tension on the chain, and the dog sits beside him, suddenly calm and submissive, his fury spent.

  “You okay, homes?” Robo asks, eyes wide.

  “The fucking thing has no teeth,” Boone replies as he checks his sleeve again.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean no teeth. The worst it could do is gum me to death.”

  The drunk on the couch laughs and points. Did you see his face? he says to his roommates. That white boy shit his pants.

  Hey, you, quiet down, Robo says.

  The drunk sneers defiantly but keeps his mouth shut.

  Robo turns to the bathroom and shouts, Come out now. Stop playing around. After a few seconds the walleyed kid opens the door and sheepishly joins the others in the living room. He sits on one of the beds, and he and his four pals stare glumly at the floor. Boone checks the bedroom again to be sure. Three more beds, but no one else is hiding there.

  It’s Oscar’s dog, the guy who wielded the frying pan blurts out, drawing disapproving glances from his roommates. He brought it with him when he came back from the desert.

  What’s your name? Robo asks him.

  Carlos.

  Good, Carlos, good. May I sit? Robo gestures to a white plastic chair. Carlos shrugs. Robo moves the chair to the middle of the room and sits facing the men. Boone stands behind him, arms crossed over his chest, and looks around the apartment.

  A bunch of hardcore bachelors from what he can see. Clothes and blankets strewn everywhere, fast-food wrappers and empty beer cans, a small TV. The place stinks of work boots and sweat. A Guatemalan flag hanging on the wall, a couple of nude pinups, a baseball-card-sized painting of Jesus. It’s clear that nobody’s doing much more than crashing here between shifts, a couple of them probably sharing the same bed, one using it during the day, the other at night.

  Robo leans forward in the chair, the legs bowing under his weight. You heard about Oscar, right? he asks Carlos.

  That he’s dead?

  His grandfather has hired me to find out what happened. Perhaps you can help. How did you know Oscar?

  Carlos scissors his legs open and closed and bobs his head. He’s short and squat, with Indian features. A million years of history in that face, Boone thinks.

  We grew up together in Guatemala and traveled to the U.S. together, Carlos says. He lived here until he went to work in the desert, and we gave him a place when he returned.

  Tell me about the desert, Robo says. Who was he working for out there?

  I don’t know. A man he had been doing some painting for introduced him to the boss. It seemed like a good thing. More money, a chance to get out of the city. He was a country boy, you know. He had a son and a woman.

  Yes, we talked to her.

  He wanted to get married.

  A helicopter clatters low over the building, rattling every loose item in the apartment — the change and keys on the coffee table, the dishes in the sink. Robo looks at the ceiling while he waits for it to pass, then asks, What happened next?

  He was gone for six months, then returned suddenly, Carlos says. He’d hitchhiked back. It had taken him three days. He’d been hurt, mauled by dogs, but wouldn’t talk about it. He only said that the job had gone badly and that he was afraid there were men looking for him.

  The walleyed roommate, who’s been lying back on one of the beds, suddenly sits up and hisses at Carlos. You’re going to get us killed too, you son of a bitch, he says. Shut your mouth.

  He was like my brother, Carlos replies. Do you know what that means?

  The dog tenses at the sound of raised voices, stands and growls. Boone jerks the chain around his neck, and he sits again.

  Nobody’s going to get killed, Robo says. Nobody will even know we were here. Who did Oscar think was looking for him?

  Men from the desert, Carlos says. He said he had seen some bad things there, things he shouldn’t have. His plan was to hide here until the bites healed, then return to Guatemala. But he wouldn’t go to the clinic because he was afraid that the men who were after him would be watching it. We did the best we could to treat the wounds ourselves, but they got worse and worse.

  Tell the man the truth, the drunk slurs, waving his hand like he’s swatting flies. The boy was possessed. He was seeing devils and talking to angels. He made God angry. That’s why he died.

  Shut up, Francisco, Carlos says. That was only when his blood went bad.

  He turns back to Robo. It’s true that he was delirious at the end, but I know in my heart that he was truly frightened before then. He wouldn’t leave the apartment for anything, not until the last days, when he was too far gone to care anymore.

  Was anyone actually after him? Robo asks.

  I can’t say for sure, but I know that he was scared enough that he chose to rot rather than get help.

  Robo leans back in the chair and strokes his mustache. A shower goes on in another apartment, and the pipes rattle like someone is pounding on them with a hammer. The sound reminds Boone of prison. Suddenly, there’s an icicle twisting in his gut.

  Do you know the man who introduced Oscar to the man in the desert? Robo asks Carlos.

  No, sir. I didn’t meet him.

  Did you have an address for Oscar when he was out there?
>
  No.

  Did he mention the boss’s name? Anyone’s name?

  I’ve told you everything I know.

  Francisco belches, then mumbles an apology.

  How about his belongings? Robo asks. Did he leave anything behind?

  The five men exchange embarrassed looks. Carlos bows his head. We divided them up when we heard he was dead, he says.

  This was his, the kid who was going out the window says, tugging at his faded Rolling Stones T-shirt.

  And these shoes. The walleyed guy points at his feet.

  And then there’s that fucking dog, Francisco says. He gestures at the pit bull. His fish died, we gave the birds to a girl down the hall, but we can’t even get a Chinese restaurant to take the dog.

  A few of the men stifle laughs. Robo smiles and nods, then stands with a grunt.

  Well, I want to thank you very much for talking to us, he says as he tucks in his shirt. It will mean a lot to Oscar’s grandfather. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a roll of bills. Peeling off a twenty, he hands it to Carlos, and says, Keep this for yourself or share it, as you wish.

  Thank you, sir.

  Boone reaches down to scratch the dog’s head. The animal looks up at him with a silly toothless grin and licks his fingers. Boone notices for the first time how skinny the dog is, ribs and vertebrae protruding. A welter of gray scars crisscrosses his body, a map of past pain. Boone takes out his wallet with the intention of slipping Carlos a little money to buy the animal some food but instead says in Spanish, I’ll give you fifty dollars for the dog.

  “The dog?” Robo asks. “The one that just tried to fuck you up?”

  Fifty, Boone repeats.

  Fuck, man, Francisco says. We won’t take less than sixty for that champion.

  The other men laugh.

  Sixty, okay, Boone says. He hands the money to Francisco, who fans his face with the bills and whistles loudly.

  Does he have a name? Boone asks.

  “His name is Joto,” Francisco says in English. “Faggot.” The roommates laugh again. Boone tugs on the dog’s chain, and the animal follows him to the door.

  Once more, thank you for your time, Robo says before stepping out into the hall. You gentlemen have a good night.

  Will you find out what happened to Oscar? Carlos asks from the doorway as Robo, Boone, and the dog walk to the stairwell.

  I’m not the police, Robo says over his shoulder. It’s not my job. I only report to the grandfather.

  Carlos points at Boone. What about him?

  It’s not his job either.

  Boone and Robo walk down the stairs and through the entryway. Out on the street again, they head back toward the Tango Room. The dog is spooked by all the people milling about, all the noise. He cowers when an empty paper bag skids past, pushed along the sidewalk by a sudden gust of wind that slams windows shut up and down the block and ruins a hot hand in a car-hood poker game by flipping all the cards.

  “You’re pretty good at that questioning thing,” Boone says to Robo. “You know, the LAPD is always looking for bilingual recruits.”

  Robo chuckles. “Shit, ese, you know what those guys make?” he says. “I can’t support my family on that. And all the taxes?”

  A disheveled woman in cutoff jeans and a flannel shirt stumbles out of an alley and almost bumps into them as she hurries to the curb. She sits hard and drops her head between her knees.

  “So what now?” Boone asks Robo.

  Robo shrugs and says, “That’s it for me. I got no other addresses, no other leads. I’ll tell the grandfather what I found out, and he can go to the cops if he wants, though he don’t have much to go to them with.”

  One more mystery, Boone thinks. One more loose end in a world unraveling. “You gotta wonder what happened to that kid out there,” he says.

  “That’s other people’s problems,” Robo replies. “I did my job, and I got paid.”

  “Case closed, huh?”

  “For real, ese. It’s all about the money, ain’t a damn thing funny. I’m barely gonna turn a profit on this after paying you and that wetback.”

  “What about me?” Boone exclaims. “I got a fucking dog to feed out of the deal.”

  “Orale, Joto,” Robo says, reaching down to pet the dog. The animal snaps at him, slinging slobber. Boone pulls the chain.

  “Stupid motherfucker don’t even know he can’t bite no more,” Robo says. “Still thinks he’s some kind of killer. Good luck with that shit.”

  6

  BOONE RETURNS TO HIS CAR. JOTO HOPS INTO THE BACKSEAT without coercion and promptly flops down on his belly and goes to sleep. He doesn’t stir when Boone stops at Vons for dog food, stuff that looks like it’s soft enough for him to chew, and Boone has to shake him awake when they arrive at the bungalows.

  As they are passing through the courtyard, the dog freezes, eyes locked on an overgrown bougainvillea bush, a low rumble thrumming deep in his chest. Boone tugs on his chain, but the dog refuses to move, so Boone crouches behind him and squints over his head in an attempt to figure out what’s got him riled.

  The bougainvillea is illuminated from below by the Malibu lights lining the walkway, and its leaves ripple in the breeze. Maybe that? That silvery shiver in the night? Joto’s growl rises then, and Boone tenses up. A fat skunk waddles out of the flowerbed not ten feet in front of them, and Joto begins to bark. Boone recoils, startled, and almost falls on his ass.

  “Easy, boy, easy,” he croons, springing to his feet and tugging on the chain as the skunk disappears into the shadows.

  The porch light at Amy’s place comes on, and her door opens. She steps out wearing white shorts and a yellow T-shirt that says IT’S BETTER IN THE BAHAMAS and has a drawing of a sunset on it. Her dark hair is loose and spills over her shoulders. She’s prettier every time Boone sees her.

  “Jimmy?” she says, concern in her voice.

  Boone raises a hand. “Sorry about the noise,” he says. “You should have seen this skunk.”

  “I didn’t know you had a dog.”

  “I don’t. I didn’t. It’s a temporary thing until I can find him a home.”

  Amy steps off her porch and walks across the courtyard toward Boone and Joto. “What, is it a stray or something?” she asks.

  “Kind of like that, yeah,” Boone replies.

  “Can I pet him?”

  “Sure, but be careful. I haven’t quite figured out his temperament yet.”

  Joto sniffs Amy’s hand when she presents it to him, then licks it. She scratches his back.

  “He doesn’t have any teeth,” Boone says.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know why. He looks pretty unhealthy though.”

  Amy drops to her knees and runs a finger over Joto’s gums. “That’s so weird,” she says.

  “Best kind of pit bull to have, I guess,” Boone says. “At least I don’t have to worry about him mauling the mailman or anything.”

  “Does he have a name?”

  “The people I got him from called him Joto.”

  Amy looks up at Boone and says, “That’s Spanish, right?”

  “It means faggot.”

  “Nice,” Amy says with a chuckle. “Hey, wait a second, okay?”

  She stands and walks back inside her bungalow, returning a few seconds later with a bottle of wine, which she holds out to Boone. “I wanted to thank you for fixing my window,” she says.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Boone replies. “That’s how I pay my way around here.”

  “Come on, come on, take it. Don’t make me feel stupid.”

  Boone accepts the bottle and decides, what the hell, cop or no cop, might as well be neighborly. “Hey, if you’re not doing anything right now, we could open this,” he says. “Seeing as how it’s Friday night and all.”

  Amy cocks her head for an instant, considering the offer, then says, “Sure. Okay. But my place is still a mess.”

  “Mine’s not much better, but you�
�re welcome to come over,” Boone replies.

  “Give me five minutes.”

  “No problem.”

  Boone leads Joto to his bungalow, unlocks the door, and ushers him inside. The dog sniffs his way around the place while Boone tidies up, tossing dirty socks into the closet and clearing junk mail off the coffee table. He scrubs the toilet, wipes out the bathroom sink, and, after a glance in the mirror, decides to change into a shirt he hasn’t wrestled illegals in.

  When Amy knocks, he’s searching for a corkscrew, which he has, and wineglasses, which he doesn’t. Joto goes nuts, leaping at the door and barking.

  “No!” Boone yells. “Sit!” Remarkably, the dog obeys.

  Boone lets Amy in, and he’s suddenly aware of how impersonal his place is: no photos or houseplants or softball trophies. The bungalow is as stripped down as he used to keep his cell, like he’s still worried the guards are going to bust in any minute and toss everything in a search for contraband. It’s strange to him; he hopes it’s not strange to Amy.

  “All I’ve got are these,” he says, and holds up two water glasses.

  “That’s cool,” she replies. “The wine’s just something that was on special at Trader Joe’s.”

  Boone notices that she’s applied fresh lipstick and run a brush through her hair. So she’s trying too. Good.

  He sets the glasses on the coffee table next to the wine, then remembers that he’s forgotten to feed Joto. He mentions it to Amy, says, “It’ll only take a minute.”

  She picks up the corkscrew and the bottle. “Go ahead,” she says. “I’ll handle this.”

  In the kitchen, Boone opens one of the cans of Alpo he bought on the way home and scoops it into a bowl. Joto sits at his feet, drawn into the kitchen by the smell. He stares up at Boone with his tongue hanging out, big drops of saliva splashing on the linoleum.

  Boone puts the bowl down in front of the dog, and he’s on it in an instant.

  Amy comes in carrying two glasses of wine. “How’s it going?” she asks.

  “Poor guy’s starving,” Boone replies. He takes the glass she offers and sips from it as they watch Joto wolf down the slop. When the dog has emptied the bowl, Boone dumps in another can.