by Kirk Alex
CHAPTER 395
“You still here?”
“I want to know the truth.”
“The truth? Truth is you caused my brother enough pain, so please—please, stop coming around here.”
“I didn’t do anything to your brother, Rudy. I have to live my life, too, you know?”
“Sure, sure.”
“It just would not have worked out. Doesn’t he understand that?”
“My brother understands more than you think.”
“I’m into things he has no time for and he’s into things I can’t relate to. We have different interests, simple as that. It’s nothing personal.”
“Yeah?” Rudy was right up against her face. “You used him. You let him fall in love with you and then dropped him like he ain’t even human—and then you got nerve to come around here and say it’s nothing personal? You’re full of crap. You got nerve—all you Duartes got nerve, man. You really showed Olivia well. How do you know she didn’t skip off because of all the pressure you caused for her? We had plans to get married and you people had to bust us up. She’s gone because you people messed with her head. Got her all confused.”
Yolanda stood her ground. “All I know is you better not be hiding her, Rudy. That’s a serious offense if you are.” And she stormed off. Rudy followed her outside. He was not about to let her have the last word on this.
“Roe was right. You’re just a ballbuster. I know about your type, know-it-all. Everything is cut-and-dried. What a guy feels in his gut makes no difference at all. And don’t call me a liar until you can prove it.”
Monroe tried to calm him down. It did not work. Rudy had to get it out of his system. Too much had been building up over the last few weeks. “And please do the whole Perez family a big favor and stay away from here.” Rudy glared at the yuppie sitting at the wheel. “You and that yuppie. Yeah, you yuppie. You heard me. I hate yuppies.”
It was then the yuppie and his passengers drove off. The Duartes were gone.
Monroe made another effort to calm his brother. Hooked his arm around his neck. Rudy wanted no part of it. Broke free and hurried back inside the house. He sat on the living room sofa, wiping tears. His grandmother had walked in back of the sofa, so that she stood behind him, and placed her hands on his shoulders. She kissed the top of his head.
“There, there, Rudy. . . .”
CHAPTER 396
Rudy Perez had spent that night driving the streets. Used up two rolls of duct tape taping flyers to street lights and utility poles throughout the neighborhood, then he’d gone down to Hollywood Boulevard, made sure people got a good look at his girl’s picture. Asked around. Talked to street kids, hookers, pimps, the homeless, biker types on choppers, queried cabbies about his missing sweetheart—and got nowhere. Walked up to a cop car parked at the curb even and told them about Olivia. The cops had nodded their heads: they’d heard this story countless times before. It was nothing new, had seen it played over and over again. Especially in Hollywood, especially on Hollywood Boulevard. Drawn to the glitter. However, all that glittered was far from gold. They got on drugs, were reduced to doing porn, or prostituted themselves. Did time. More than a few ended up on a slab. Murdered by psycho johns—or as suicides.
“See these kids out here?” The cop on the passenger side had pointed. “Runaways. Thousands of them. Not much we can do about it. This girlfriend of yours is old enough to leave home if she wants. There’s no crime against running away.”
“She’s not a runaway.”
“Twenty-five thousand kids and adults were reported missing in the state of California last year alone.”
“I keep telling you she did not run away, but you refuse to believe it.”
The cop had looked at him good and long. “What you should do is go to the Missing Persons Unit and file a missing person report.”
“Her family did file.”
“About all you can do,” had been their closing consensus, clearly disinterested, if not downright bored, by his insistence and tales of woe. And Rudy had driven back to North Hollywood in time to pick up the Roscoes’ dogs and take them on their early morning walk. Petunia Roscoe had not been entirely immune to Rudy’s exhausted appearance and look of defeat upon his return with her pets. She had offered coffee. Rudy had gone in and sat on the living room sofa. He had declined the java, and sat there quietly, forlorn. Petunia had excused herself and gone in the back to wake Marty. She had this far-reaching notion that he might be able to offer the love-sick kid a degree of support.
CHAPTER 397
She returned to the kitchen where she ironed a blouse on the ironing board between sips from her coffee mug.
“Give him a minute, Rudy. Mr. Lazy Bones rarely gets up and stays up before ten.”
When sleepy-eyed Marty Roscoe appeared at last in his beer and gravy-stained boxers, the first thing he did was head for the refrigerator and reach for a couple of longnecks.
“I wake you up to give Rudy psychological as well as emotional support, instead the very first thing that enters your mind is alcohol? You’re having beer for breakfast now?”
“Can’t you see he needs something to take the edge off? Poor kid’s been up all night.”
“True enough. You haven’t been. Snoring kept me awake as usual.”
“Life is short, babe. Live and let live.”
She shook her head. Looked at Rudy. “I married a nincompoop. That’s the truth.”
“How do you think I feel?”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. It’s too early for this.”
“What I just got through pointing out: It’s too early for alcohol.”
“It’s never too early for a brewskie. Let’s not fight in front of the kid. Can’t you see the shape he’s in?”
“Spare me.”
Petunia went about refilling the large coffee mug that had her name emblazoned on it. Ordinarily Roscoe didn’t mind the back-and-forth sniping, only he wasn’t up to it today and walked over to where Rudy was in the living room. Held one of the bottles out to him. “Grab a beer, Rudy.”
Rudy Perez did that. Got some beer down and stared at the rug. Roscoe lowered himself in the recliner and pulled from his bottle.
“Talked to everybody I could think of. Even went down to Hollyweird. Walked the Boulevard from one end to the other. . . . There was a girl, street kid. Was gonna jump from the roof of an office building. Corner of Hollywood and Vine. . . . Firemen talked her out of it. People on the ground kept yelling for her to jump. They wanted her to jump. I don’t get it. They talked her out of it finally. Turned out she was pregnant.”
Rudy looked up. “No, it wasn’t Olivia. My girl wouldn’t have no reason to try something like that. She ain’t no suicide case.”
“You knock her up?”
Rudy couldn’t believe what he was being asked. Maybe he should have expected it. Didn’t know what to say, how to respond. He shook his head.
“The stuff that happens there. . . . It’s pretty sad. I never liked going to Hollywood.”
Roscoe swallowed beer.
“Olivia’s a hot number, kid. What can I tell you? Could be, like most women, sooner or later she’s gonna get wise and find out she’s got herself a gold mine right between her legs. All she’s got to do is open her knees—and bingo—”
“You calling my girl a whore? That ain’t right, Mr. Roscoe.”
“I gave up on him years ago, Rudy.”
“I didn’t mean it like that, Rudy.” Roscoe cleared his throat. Glanced back at his wife. “Just giving you some facts of life. Women know they can make money that way when they’re young and got the figure and all. It’s like walking around with a pot of gold, that’s all. Like a magic lamp—dreams come true. It’s Christmas every day of the year. Explains why the Good Lord made the vagina in the shape of a purse. Some chicks go into nude modeling, topless dancing, stripping—like Peaches and those other tramps; some turn tricks. It’s an easy way to make some real
bucks. Money still makes the world go ’round.”
“You’re wrong, Mr. Roscoe. My girl ain’t no tramp. She don’t turn tricks. I keep thinking she might be in some kind of trouble.”
Marty Roscoe was shaking his head. He couldn’t understand this kid Perez.
“You should be out getting laid, young buck like you, instead of getting all hung up on one broad. You’re too young for that shit. What do you think that thing between your legs is for? That’s right. Use it. I would if I was you.” He was glancing at his wife again. “Course I don’t carouse these days. Got the right woman finally.”
“Thank you, honey.” Petunia Roscoe walked over and gave her husband a kiss on the lips.
CHAPTER 398
Plenty of beer remained in Rudy’s bottle. He stood up without taking it with him.
“Thanks for the brew.”
He left. Roscoe didn’t waste time getting into his beer and wine-stained bathrobe, grabbed a box of Fruit Loops from the cupboard, and hurried outside.
He had his arm around the younger man’s neck in fatherly fashion: Marty Roscoe had wisdom he was eager to share.
“It’s like this, Rudy.” Roscoe looked back to make sure that his wife was not following on their heels. Popped Fruit Loops in his mouth. “What you do is get yourself a woman with a money-making job; what you do is give her some turkey neck once or twice a week, and you got it made, kid. Forget the young stuff; you’ll get nowhere fast. They’ll use you up, that’s it. Expect you to foot the bill. I ain’t lived this long without learning a thing or two in my time. Gotta use your brains. Why bust your ass when she can work? Let her get the varicose veins. Life’s too short for that shit. Am I right?”
Rudy said nothing. Listened out of politeness, if anything.
“You gotta learn, kid. Nine-to-five is for dumb assholes, is what I always say. You gotta be smart, smart enough to get them to like you, maybe fall for you—then you got them. You’re set. Only there’s one other thing you gotta learn to get good at now and then—” Marty Roscoe stuck his tongue out. Wiggled the tip around in the air. “Gotta be good at licking that poon. That’s what they all like more than anything, kid. Give them the old tongueroo-lickeroo once or twice a week, some turkey neck—and you got it made. You’re set. No stress. Last time I had any kind of a real job was back in ’78, ten years ago—and even then only worked a few months out of the year. Roadied for Willie and them: Cash, Merle, Dwight Yoakum; some of the rock acts. I was between chicks. Reason I’m telling you all this is because I like you—you’re a good kid. Only reason I put up with this nutty diva’s temper tantrums she might get somewhere with her music, her songs, you know? I helped her out; sure. Put her in touch with some people I knew from when I was in the business. There’s big bucks in it, don’t let nobody tell you different; but you gotta play. Like the Lottery. Keep knocking on doors. It takes time. Until one day you hit the Jackpot. Like old Jed Clampett. She’ll break through, and when she does, we’re moving to a mansion on San Ysidro in Beverly Hills. I’ll be set for life, bangin’ Mexican maids left and right, day and night. Not that I got any complaints the way things are right now.”
He paused to catch his breath and shove some more of the cereal in his mouth. He hustled his groin. “I have to get back. Remember what I said: You gotta get over. Life can be good. Let the losers punch the clock. That’s what you want to do.” And the former roadie headed back to that prefab clapboard bungalow he shared with his song-writing spouse.
Rudy Perez stood there, shaking his head. He couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. To be expected from someone like Marty Roscoe, though. Marty Roscoe was trying to convince him to be the way he’d never want to be, to be the kind of lazy, good-for-nothing his mother and father, rest their souls, and his grandparents had taught him never to be.
Olivia was right. She’s right. He shouldn’t be walking the jerk’s dogs. The man was a negative influence; and that was something he could do without.
“What you want to do, Mr. Roscoe, is keep your advice to yourself.”
“I tried, kid.” Marty Roscoe’s reaction was a shrug. Waved him off. “Ah, screw it. You’re just too damn dumb to figure it out.”
Not giving much thought or paying attention where his feet were taking him, Roscoe held a corner of the cereal box to his mouth and turned the bottom upside down in an effort to nail every last Fruit Loop.
Although he succeeded for the most part, several managed to roll past, missing his gaping jaw. By the time he noticed what was happening with his feet, where he was stepping, it was too late: he’d stepped in it. Ziggy and Darcy’s doing, no doubt. He flung the empty cereal box at the ground. Cursed himself for not being more careful. Cursed the dogs, too—even though they were nowhere around. The shit a man had to put up with just to get over some. Wasn’t right.
Rudy saw him trying to wipe the dog crap against Biggs’s chain-link fence by bracing his foot against it and twisting it back and forth. Running it up and down. Repeatedly. In frustration.
Any other time, Rudy would have laughed, been amused by it for sure: the know-it-all from Arkansas who couldn’t hold down a job and went around giving bad advice—but did not have enough sense to step around a pile.
Instead, he walked on. Left Mr. Martin Thurman Roscoe and his troubles behind. Had enough of his own to deal with.
CHAPTER 399
Jesus “Ace” Ortiz paused in front of the thrift store he’d just stepped out of on Magnolia Boulevard in the City of Burbank to admire “skins” and “kicks” he’d purchased: Hawaiian shirt, pair of ill-fitting jeans (way too baggy and loose for his malnourished frame), pink socks, brown loafers; and he had a plaid sport coat draped over his right arm.
His face, still lumpy and scarred from the beating Biggs and the nigger had given him that night, wasn’t healing as quickly as he would have liked, but at least the swelling had gone down considerably and he knew in time he’d be his old self again.
As in the past, he had stuffed his nose with cotton as a way of dealing with the bleeding. Nose bleeds and sores inside nasal passages was another reason to switch to smoking dope instead of huffing it.
Cotton worked, though. Every time. He had plugged his nostrils with it and he was good to go. His hair was combed for a change and he wanted to take a moment to light a fat stogie and check out his made-over appearance in the glass. He also had a minor dilemma on his hands, sort of: his old clothes and worn shoes that were in a shopping bag at his feet. No point throwing them away. Gotta be somebody can use them. Didn’t know quite what to do about it, when a homeless man pushing a supermarket cart with wobbly wheels appeared out of nowhere, it seemed, startling him.
“I ain’t tasted food in days.”
“That makes two of us.”
Ortiz couldn’t help but notice the transient’s head gear: a Columbia Cachalot hat with the large visor and back flap. Rare enough in itself, but not so that it didn’t make sense in this type of Southern California summer heat; instead, what drew Ortiz’s eyes to it was the tin foil that covered it and had been fastened with paperclips and wire. He was being hit up for jack by a foil-hat-wearing fool.
“I wouldn’t worry about it. Food is overrated.”
Ortiz dropped the shopping bag that contained his old clothes into the guy’s cart. The weather-beaten face looked the items over, the blood-and-sweat stained pants, wifebeater shirt, the worn, scuffed shoes, and was not overly impressed. The handout appeared to be in far worse shape than what he already had on.
“Couple of dollars is all I ask. You can spare a couple of dollars.”
“Your kind used to beg for two bits, now it’s two bucks. What’s up with that shit? I don’t have it to spare. Even if I did I sure as hell wouldn’t give it to a loser like you. Get yourself a fuckin’ job, clean up your act. See these clean skins I got on? Nobody give them to me. Had to bust my ass to get the bread. Nobody ever give me a fuckin’ thing, buddy. Hear? You don’t see me panhandling.”
&
nbsp; “All I asked for was some money, mister, not a lecture.”
“My asshole bleeds for you, rummy. How’s that sound?”
The homeless man spit on the ground, and shoved his shopping cart past him.
“Who’s that for? Why you spittin’? Get your funky ass back here. I’ll kick you in your dick.”
The man pushed his cart, ignoring the threats. He reached in for the shopping bag and flung it behind him, without ever turning his head.
“Faggots always got their hand out. Who the fuck do I look like? Tony Montana? Pockets bulging with dead presidents?”
Ortiz was back focusing on lighting his stogie and admiring his new look in the plate glass, when someone from the street in back of him, a male voice, shouted his name so loud it not only made him jump but hurt his aching brain.
He turned his head, to see Felix Monk leap out of a red ’62 Chevy Impala sedan idling at the curb. Felix’s one-legged Uncle Hilario was at the wheel. Felix had his own share of bruises on his discolored face and he was practically running toward him.
Christ, thought Ace. What was up now with this punk?
CHAPTER 400
“Homeboy, my ass. The Aztec Three-Step? Is that what bought them skins, pendejo?”
“I can explain.”
“Bullshit. I’m tired of your lies, Ace. Gonna see Rudy. Shoulda done it right away. That’s what I shoulda done: gone to see Rudy Perez right away and told him what happened to his girl.”
On that, he spun around and hurried back toward the Chevy, with Ortiz practically pleading after him.
“I’m on parole, Felix. You know I’m on parole. You on probation yourself, ain’t you? I can’t be involved in nothin’ this heavy, man. Long arm of the law gonna try to pin all we seen in the boneyard on me. You know how they do. All them pigs is corrupt. My PO’s just waiting for an excuse to send me back to Q. and throw away the key. The hell’s the matter with you? Can’t you see what I’m saying here? The hell’s going on?”