Charlie Chan Is Dead 2

by Jessica Hagedorn

  Here the dogs peer at the buildings we pass: the mix of discount stores West LA people come down to shop in; taquería stands for the wetbacks who live three or four families to an apartment close by; a Starbucks on the way to the on-ramp that looks posh once you get beyond the iron railings that protect it.

  I wonder if the dogs can see our reflections in the rapidly passing glass, in mirrored and tinted storefronts. In these reflections I can make out Tomas, me, and the dogs—just barely—and it looks as though they are looking at me, but I doubt they can see anything. They cannot even see the images on a television screen.

  II

  We stop at the Brentwood Country Mart and have the cheese pizzas we used to come for with our mother each time we visited our Tita Dina, who lives close by. It is strange how they have this covered courtyard with benches surrounding a tree; it feels somehow rustic, even though we are in the middle of a great urban city, and the people who frequent it are rich and mostly Jewish, from Brentwood Park. Daylight floods in pleasantly and we have always loved sitting here, but it seems sad without our mother this time. Tomas buys the pieces and folds mine over like a taco for me, the New York way our father showed us, then he gets some fries from the chicken stand and brings out the little cups of barbecue sauce they have that we always loved to dip them in, and he shakes the garlic salt seasoning on.

  Dig in, he says, and folds his own piece over.

  A few people watch us eat. Probably they are taking note of Tomas. A fortyish woman in slender black bicycle pants and a pink T-shirt. An older woman I recognize who works at the toy store. The wetback behind the pizza counter who spoke a few words of Spanish to my brother. Tomas did not understand the Spanish, though he nodded and tried to make it look as if he understood. I wonder if Tomas senses all this attention as he hunches over his piece. Probably he does, though he pretends not to, or at least not to care. In those days when we came with our mother or aunt nobody ever paid any attention to us, except at the toy store where they knew us, or the market where we bought chocolates, and the bookstore where Tomas used to read magazines and talk to the old skinny man who ran it and smelled like shoe polish and who would recommend to him all the Michener books my brother loved because they would take you to faraway places. Even after he stopped reading them, I would scour his old copies and buy the latest books. The same skinny old man still works there; he looks the same, but didn’t recognize us walking in. He watched Tomas carefully as he paused to look over a few magazines and then told him not to look unless he was going to buy one. Tomas crumpled the one he was reading back into its slot and made his way to order our pizza.

  Tomas buys a couple of drumsticks for the dogs and lets me feed them once we get into the car. As we roll up Twenty-sixth Street you can see the Santa Monica Mountains up ahead. Their sadly wrinkled sides face south, sunbathed in worn shades of purple and blue. My fingers are covered with slobber and sticky, plum-colored barbecue sauce that does not come fully off onto a napkin. We pull off San Vicente, and immediately it is as if we are in the countryside. There are mailboxes here, on the streets. There are no sidewalks. On some blocks you can see huge lawns leading to houses that look like they belong in the countryside or on some farm, but on other blocks the houses are barely visible, surrounded by fences and trees and gates with intercoms and video cameras.

  This is a cool neighborhood, I say. It’s just like being out in the countryside.

  Tomas ignores me. He concentrates on the road. From the way his tendons rise on the back of his hand, gripping the wheel, I can see how tense he is, though he tries not to show it. Probably it is his car which makes him nervous, a white Oldsmobile, the type Mexican gangsters prefer because they can pile so many people into the backseat. He studies the houses and gates and fences and intercoms, the manicured lawns and cobblestone driveways. Strangely there are no cars parked on the curbs here; they are parked beyond the gates in the driveways, Mercedes, BMWs, and some utility vehicles too. The dogs circle about the backseat, worry in their eyes. It could be they have picked up my anxiety, or maybe they sense that something will soon happen to change their lives forever.

  Look for the address, Tomas says.

  I can’t make them out, I say. None of them have numbers on the curbs and you can’t see past the fences into the houses.

  Sometimes we pass iron gates, and I get a glimpse of a house and then only trees and fences again.

  I tell him to slow down.

  He looks at me, the amused asshole grin of this morning on his face again. You nervous or something?

  No. I just can’t read the numbers.

  You can’t read numbers? A lot of good it does you to bury your face in those books you read.

  I could read them if you’d slow down.

  We round a corner and enter a canopy of tree branches that tunnel above us like interlaced fingers—between its knuckled branches, the sun is nervous and flickering. The lawns appear brighter from this shade.

  Just cool down and relax, Junior. I cleaned out the car in case we get pulled over.

  I told you, I say. I just can’t read them.

  Often in this car we get pulled over, and sometimes the cops make us get out and put our hands on the warm hood and they frisk us. They run their hands over our back and sides and along our inner thighs. Tomas complains about it at family dinners and says they are perverts and racists, but Tita Dina tells him he is getting what comes to him for dressing like a Mexican and driving a hoodlum car.

  Finally we get to a white brick house that has narrow columns, fronted by a circular drive. I can see all this through the gate, which is wrought iron, unlike those of the neighbors’ houses. Through a window above the front doors I make out that this house has a three-story entryway, and an enormous chandelier of dangling glass hangs from the ceiling.

  This is it, I say after spotting the numbers above the country mailbox. As we pull up closer I can see it is aluminum, with a little red metal flag.

  Dang, he says. That’s some kind of a house.

  I don’t know. I think I’d like mine to be closed in like the neighbors’.

  You mean you want it to be all fenced up and hidden?

  Sure.

  Why? he says. You afraid some photographers are gonna try and take your picture?

  I do not answer him.

  His eyes stay on me, then he looks forward and grins. I wouldn’t count on it, Junior, he says. You’d have to be pretty famous for somebody to want to take a picture of a person with a face like yours.

  Mom has said he should not tease me like this, but I do not remind him. I look out my window.

  He continues observing me, carefully.

  What you looking at so intently, Junior? he says. Haven’t you ever seen a bush before?

  There is a white rosebush before me which I have not noticed until now. But I do not look away from it.

  I got news for you, Gabe. Celebrity bushes are the same as the ones owned by you and me.

  You don’t own anything, I tell him. Only Mom owns bushes. You have to have a job to afford a house.

  I make plenty with the dogs and stolen stereos.

  That’s not a real job. It doesn’t count.

  Okay, Mr. Stockbroker, he says as we pull up to the gate. He stops and lowers his window before a white intercom perched on a metal stand. Tomas pushes a red button. We wait. He tries again and after a minute a lady’s voice that sounds Mexican—probably the maid—asks what we want.

  We’ve come to sell some dogs, he says into the box.

  Again, the sound of static. Then the crackled voice comes on and says they don’t take solicitors.

  No, listen, Tomas says. We have the dogs with us now.

  We no take solicitations, it says.

  Then the static clicks off.

  Tomas frowns and hits the side of the intercom and presses the button. I already talked to the señor of the casa, he says to the voice when it comes on again.

  You speak to him already?
/>
  Sí.

  There is a pause, and then the voice says okay and the gate slowly swings open. Its iron bottom scrapes along the driveway. You’d think they’d get a faster motor if they can afford a house like this, he says.

  That was really great Spanish, Tomas, I say.

  Fuck you, he says.

  III

  We pull up behind a black Land Cruiser that sits high on extra-tread snow tires, and in the polished paint a sunny, ghostlike reflection of our white car warps and twists as it nears. The dogs are nervous, thumping against my seat back.

  Tomas pops open his door and gets out, pulling Johan after him.

  Should I bring Buster out too? I say. She looks at me, then at Tomas—confused—and then to Johan, before laying the side of her head against my bare forearm.

  No.

  But don’t you want her to see Johan off? I thought that was the whole point.

  It is, he says.

  I pause.

  So?

  So Buster is coming to see us off, but I didn’t say anything about you coming inside, he says.

  I am silent.

  I don’t want you coming in and fucking it up, he says.

  He tells Johan to sit and the dog does, then my brother pulls the seat up again and Buster scrambles out. By now Johan has gotten excited again, and I hear his panting all the way from the passenger seat. His head turns back and forth as he looks rapidly around, making half circles like a cat. Buster comes up beside him, and he looks at her quickly, almost nudging her, but moves away again, distractedly, as he takes in his new surroundings.

  I’m not gonna fuck it up, I say.

  You’d fuck it up just looking the way you do.

  What does that mean?

  I mean take a good look at those clothes you’re wearing. One look at that and they’ll take the offer back for sure.

  I don’t think they’d care what I wear, I say, and come out of the car and force myself to hold my words. I want to ask him why he is being such an asshole, and when will he get over it, but I am beginning to wonder if he has actually become one. My eyes tear and the sun blinds me. If I cried maybe he would stop, but to prevent this from happening I stare hard at the house, studying it. Through the glass in the front double doors a brown-skinned woman approaches. She wears cheap jeans and a faded red T-shirt, probably a maid. She opens the door and steps outside.

  She stands on the brick porch, a hand on her hip, regarding us suspiciously. No doubt she has heard some of our arguing. Tomas composes his face into his hardened unreadable expression.

  He leans over and whispers to me, not turning or looking me in the eye. Calm down. And behave yourself if you think you can.

  I am calm.

  You can come in if you want, but don’t say a word, he says. And don’t stand too close to me or the client.

  He mumbles something to himself about it not being hard for me to not say a word and then turns his back to me and climbs halfway up the porch towards the maid. She studies him—probably wondering if he is a real Mexican, or what other hot country he might have come from—glancing once towards me, then back to Tomas again. He has worn his thin T-shirt again so the white client can see the Virgin of Guadalupe through it. In front of her he seems embarrassed, though, and he keeps it turned away.

  I grab Buster’s collar and whisper for her to be quiet. She stops whimpering.

  The lady sets her hands on her hips and regards her. She makes a lot of noise, the woman says.

  It’s not the one you’re going to get.

  She looks at Tomas as if surprised to hear his voice. This noise, it sounds like this one is not very happy.

  Tomas nods seriously. She’s the mother.

  It takes a moment for the gears in the woman’s mind to put it together and then I see the understanding pass behind her eyes.

  Oh, she says, and nods her head. This one is the mother. I see.

  We wanted her to say goodbye, he explains.

  She nods and comes up to me—no longer suspicious—and reaches down and clenches the fur at the back of Buster’s neck, then starts squeezing in a way meant to be rubbing. The woman is so close to my face now I can smell her hair spray.

  Yes, she says. It is hard for a mother to see her child go.

  She regards me as if for the first time.

  Hello.

  I mumble a greeting after I lower my eyes. Still, I can feel her smiling as she studies me. My face turns red.

  She turns over her shoulder to Tomas, not letting go of Buster’s neck. Ustedes son hermanos?

  He looks like he doesn’t understand but doesn’t want her to know this.

  She wants to know if we’re brothers, I tell him.

  I know that.

  He glares at me and I shut up, but she faces me now and expects an answer.

  Sí.

  Yo creo que no.

  I nod. Mi madre tampoco lo cree.

  She bites her lip and thinks a moment.

  Se parecen por la forma de sus ojos, she says, and then turns to Tomas: You do not seem so. But I can tell it in the shape of your eyes.

  When he catches me looking at him he glares at me, and I look down. Even with the woman still rubbing her neck, Buster manages to rub her side against my jeans, and keeps pressed there, whimpering. The woman notices this.

  This is your dog? she says to me.

  I shake my head. No. It’s my brother’s. And my mom’s.

  She smiles. But she goes to you when she knows her son will be leaving.

  She’s only a dog, I say, then look down again. She can’t know he’s going.

  The woman smiles. A mother knows.

  She lets go of Buster’s neck, then reaches over again to scratch behind her ear—a last time—then starts up the stairs, leading us inside. Tomas goes first and I hesitate in the doorway, not knowing if he wants me to go in, but the maid turns to me and makes several rapid friendly waves for me to enter—as if I were silly for thinking otherwise.

  I duck my head and follow.

  IV

  Most people wonder what sorts of homes celebrities live in, probably picturing something modern: white carpets and trendy furniture, marble gourmet kitchens, a view onto an exercise room with chrome equipment. But we find our celebrity in a dark room with wood paneled walls and an old pool table with lions carved on its legs. Tomas runs a finger over the green cloth, and I do too. It is feltless and bare as silk. The table has no pockets. The man comes up to us, pulling his robe string tighter, and looks out the French doors at the canyon view. At its bottom rests a golf course covered with brilliant sand traps shaped like oval moons. There are hills and valleys of sunny grass surrounded by mansions. I knew none of this was here. The drapes are held back by gold ropes, their braidlike tassels dangling.

  He turns back to us and I see that he does not have the mustache he has on the TV show. His hair is thinner—the shiny scalp shows through the blown-dry strands—and his skin is far tanner, almost leathery beneath his eyes. But his eyes are as alive and young as the cop character he plays. He studies us sharply.

  So you’ve brought the dog, he says. He has some sort of a southern or western accent, which surprises me since in the movies he always talks like a blue-collar cop from New York City.

  Yeah, Tomas says.

  The man shakes his head. But there’s two. I don’t remember asking for two.

  This one’s the mother, Tomas says. It’s her pup you’re going to get.

  The man studies the dogs. He scratches their heads with his thick fingers, like a man who has been around animals, not like the urban detective he normally plays. He does not seem a bit afraid of them. He returns to Buster and sets his cheek against her ear and scratches firmly under her neck.

  This is a nice one.

  Tomas nods.

  A lovely animal, the man says.

  She’s got good genes. Johan has them too.

  The man purses his lips and nods to himself thoughtfully. He’s a good do
g, he agrees. He returns to Buster and she comes up and sets her side against him. But this one’s better.

  Tomas leans a hip against the pool table.

  Johan is younger.

  The mother’s friendly.

  Johan is too, my brother adds. He’s just nervous now.

  The man sets his cue stick on the carpet, gripping it upright like a staff, and his thumb rubs the tip. His thumb comes off, covered by green chalk. He looks firmly at my brother. Look. I grew up on a farm in Georgia. We had dogs like this one—American bulldogs. They’re great guard dogs, but they aren’t German. So don’t try conning me about animals.

  The man’s thumb stops moving, very still on the tip, and his face is pushed close to my brother’s, and though I can tell this bothers Tomas, he tries not to show it, and he does not lean back.

  I’m not trying to con you, mister.

  Just because I live in Brentwood doesn’t mean I haven’t been around the block. We used to hunt with hounds. Big yellow-eyed beasts. They could chew up a bear, clobber it down with a jaw. But I know these American bulldogs well, and they’re good dogs. Once upon a time they used to kill bulls for British audiences until the nineteenth century when the government there got soft and made it illegal. He shakes his head, the pool cue in his hand now like a rifle. Then they got to figure out what to do with the dogs. They bred some of them into what’s now your cute little condo brat English bulldog, and others they shipped over to the Unites States south where some rednecks taught them a few tricks. Did a pretty good job, I’d say. But they haven’t been to Germany as far as I know.

  I never told you they came from Germany, Tomas lies. I didn’t mean to give you that impression. I only meant that I train them with German techniques.

  Oh yeah, I know.

  The man uprights his cue stick and chalks it and walks up and leans over the table, aiming, and slams the cue ball into another. They fly about the table. Then he returns and stares at Tomas again.

  Tomas runs a nervous finger across his sweaty forehead, beneath his bandanna. Probably he is annoyed with this man for disbelieving him, even though he lied. He wants to do something—hit or yell at him or take the dog off and forget it, but the man had agreed to a price far too high—eight thousand dollars—and Tomas does not want to lose it.