“Chicago,” Joel clarifies.
The girl comes around the front of the car and stands there, bouncing the baby. The little boy is there, too, her other leg. Butchie cocks his head, watching them.
The driver asks, “You and your dog lost?”
“No,” Joel says. “I have a map.”
“That map don’t tell you you’re in Oaktown, does it.”
“No.”
“Probably don’t tell you these are the Satan Disciples’ streets, neither.”
“No.”
“Ay, Carmelita, he look like a gangsta to you?”
The girl mouths no at Joel, same as he had before.
Joel says, “I’m not a gangster.”
“Well, ’sokay then, bro. I got no problem with you. But old man Gonzales? He thinks you’re one of us. Says you and your dog are putting in work for the SDs. I tried to talk to him. Told him I never seen you before. But he don’t ever believe anything I say. He’s calling the cops right now.”
“I don’t want the cops to find us,” Joel says; they’re so close to the courthouse.
“You don’t have to explain to me,” the driver says. “You want to come by my house, lie low for a little while?”
Joel is surprised by the offer. He looks at Carmelita: no help. He thinks of the driver’s gun.
“Thanks, but we have to go home.”
“So then the question is, bro, do you want to stop off at my place, or do a night in county? ’Cause cops looking for a white boy and a dog around here won’t have much problem picking out you two, know what I’m saying?”
He’s speaking English, sure, but Joel still doesn’t understand. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Ay, bro, in this hood, that don’t matter.”
The baby starts to cry again but Carmelita keeps bouncing her, blank-eyed; the boy is sitting between her legs now, tugging at the flared hem of her otherwise tight jeans.
Butchie looks back at Joel; he doesn’t know what to make of it, either.
“Where’s your house?” Joel asks.
“A block or so. Come on,” he says, a jerk of his chin, “you can put the dog in the back.”
“I’m not supposed to ride with strangers.”
“If I tell you my name is Agapito, am I still a stranger?”
Joel looks down at his shoes, the orange Cheetos stains. He’s made some dumb mistakes on this trip. No way he’s getting in that car.
“Ay,” Agapito says, “’sokay, bro. I don’t need hair all over my seats. Just follow me, okay?” He turns up his music, puts the car in Reverse, and backs out of the alley.
Joel gets up, and he thinks about stopping to ask Carmelita if the cops are really going to come, or if it’s safe to go to Agapito’s house, but she already sold him out once. He ropes Butchie and they follow the car.
On the street, it turns out Agapito was telling the truth since he parks in front of a two-story house on the other side of 24th Street. With both coasts clear, Joel skips Butchie over there.
Agapito arms the car’s alarm, a triple chirp, crosses the walk, and descends a flight of steps to where a basement unit is crudely sketched by a wood door and a draped window. A square of concrete is supposed to be the patio.
Agapito knocks on the door, a hammer fist, but nobody answers. When he turns and sees Joel and Butchie at the top of the steps he says, “Ven abajo. Come on.”
Joel leads the dog downstairs and immediately feels trapped. The fence rises up and around them, jail bars. When Butchie reaches the patio, he paces.
Agapito knocks again and says, “Nobody’s home.”
“I didn’t see any cops.” Hesitant, Joel puts one foot up on the first step out of there, Butchie a step ahead. “I think we’ll be okay.”
“Hang on, bro,” Agapito says. “This is my sister’s place. I didn’t want to freak her out, leaving the dog down here without telling her. We can’t bring him upstairs to my place cause mi madrastra has a Chihuahua. Moco. Fierce little fucker.”
“What’s madrasta?” Joel asks, knowing he mixed up the word.
“Ay, madrastra. She’s my mom.”
Joel stops on the first step. How bad can this be? Agapito, his sister, his mom, and a place to hide—why does he feel scared?
It must be the gun. Agapito was quick to draw on Mr. Gonzales. He was fearless.
But Joel’s dad carries a gun, and he is fearless, too—and there’s nothing scary about his dad at all.
“What’s wrong, bro?”
“Nothing,” Joel lies.
“I didn’t mean to freak you out about the cops. I just know, from experience, ay? Better to lie low, especially because you got the dog—what’d you say his name is?”
“Butch,” he says, “and I’m Joel,” because he’s not Agapito’s brother.
“Bootch.” Agapito’s full lips pucker on the o. “That’s marimacho en Español. Looks like a strong dog. A stud. And a fighter—the way he wanted to get at Gonzales? Shit. That old man is lucky you didn’t let him loose.”
“He’s trained to neutralize danger,” Joel says, pride there.
“Trained, ay? Like a boxer?”
Like a police dog, Joel thinks, but he doesn’t think Agapito would appreciate that fact. “Well trained,” he says.
“Is he a purebred?”
“A mix. Belgian Malinois and German shepherd.”
“He’s badass is what he is. Come here, marimacho, let me have a look at you.”
Butchie sits. He doesn’t seem to understand Agapito’s request, or why Joel isn’t following him up the steps.
Agapito puts his hand in through the fence rails for Butchie to sniff. The dog resists, nose in the air.
“Look at the big balls on you, Bootch.” Agapito scratches the dog’s chest, looks back at Joel. “You want something to eat, bro? Bring him down. Tie him up.”
Butchie climbs another step: maybe he does understand, and he doesn’t want to be tied up.
“Maybe we should both wait here,” Joel says.
“Serious, bro? You act like I want to kidnap you or something and I’m just being nice. Anyway if I take you, what the hell am I going to do with this big fucking dog that could tear my face off?”
“I’d rather stay,” Joel says.
“Okay, bro. Suit yourself.” Agapito rounds the rail and climbs the steps over Butchie. At the top, he rests his palms on the fence. “But you’re going to miss the menudo. Mi madrastra makes it on Sundays. And homemade tortillas, frijoles—so good—sit at her table, bro, and you won’t even care about getting home.”
Joel doesn’t know what menudo is, or frijoles either, but he can’t think of any way homemade tortillas could be a mistake. He’s starving, and Butchie must be, too; a free meal now is going to be better than anything they can buy later for a measly dollar oh-one.
“Butch,” Joel says, cinching the leash, “come here.”
Butchie ignores him; something’s caught his attention and he’s got his tail tucked low, barely a wag.
Joel turns to look and there, yelping and scratching at the main floor’s window is all three pounds of Moco, the teacup Chihuahua.
“See, I told you,” Agapito says. “She’s a crazy bitch, that Moco,”
Butchie whines, ears back.
Joel feels a rush of relief at the sight of the furious little dog. Agapito has told the truth about everything, and that means the menudo must be delicious.
Joel takes Butchie by the collar, steers him down the steps, and ties his leash to the bottom rail. “Okay, Butch, I’ll be right back.” He leans in to whisper, “I’ll steal you a tortilla.”
“I heard that,” Agapito says, and smiles.
Joel climbs the steps and follows Agapito and before he goes inside, he looks over the fence at Butchie, who’s no longer wondering about Moco, but sitting at attention, ears up now, wondering about Joel.
“Hola, Marisol,” Agapito calls out as they enter. Moco turns and blinks at Joel, then resumes propert
y surveillance.
Moco’s vantage point comes from the back of a couch—one of six couches in the room—each one draped with mismatched sheets and blankets. Magazines, socks, shoes, and duffel bags are strewn on the worn carpet in between; this must be some kind of group sleeping area, like military barracks, except there doesn’t seem to be much of a maintenance standard.
Joel follows Agapito into the kitchen where a radio plays, an accordion accompanying a man singing in Spanish. The aromas of chilis and beef in hot oil are in the air, and Joel imagines a plate of corn-shell tacos overstuffed with hamburger and tomatoes and cheese and sour cream.
“Pito,” a woman says, appearing in the doorway across the room, a basket of laundry in her arms. Her long gray hair is parted in the middle and tied up in two loose buns, as round and saggy as her cheeks. “¿Dónde has estado?”
Agapito opens a drawer, takes a ladle, goes to the stove. “¿Desde cuándo le tengo que decir adonde ando, Marisol?”
Marisol puts the laundry on the kitchen table and passes by Joel, no acknowledgment.
Agapito lifts the lid on a giant-size pot. “¿Ya está el menudo listo o qué?”
Marisol takes the lid and looks into the pot. “Ahorita, Pito. Te ví abajo. ¿Qué estás haciendo con este chico y su perro?”
Perro. Joel recognizes the word again. Is she talking about Butchie?
Agapito stirs the pot. “Voy a ver si Hector quiere comprar el perro.” He tries the soup.
“Pito—” Marisol says, and she sounds like she wants to stop him, but she doesn’t reach for the ladle or anything.
“Necesita más sal,” he says, dropping the ladle into the soup.
“¿Quiere el chico vender su perro?”
There’s that word again. Joel gets the feeling Marisol doesn’t want Butchie here because he’s making Moco upset.
Agapito says, “Ayy, ya. Pare de preguntarme preguntas. Ponga más sal a la sopa, y déle de comer al niño, ya.”
Marisol pours salt into her hand, throws it into the pot, and stirs. “No creo que él cambiaría su mejor amigo por la sopa.”
“No creo que sea un asunto suyo.”
Marisol crosses herself, stealing a glance at Joel before she turns her back on both of them.
A noisy radio commercial cuts off the end of the song, some pleasant-sounding man clearly excited about whatever he’s selling; his words may be foreign, but at least Joel can understand the tone.
Unlike the tension between Agapito and his mom.
“Agapito?” Joel finally asks. “Is that your mom?”
“Yeah, bro. She don’t speak English though.” Agapito pulls out a chair from the table. “You want to sit down?” He moves the laundry from the table, resting it on top of a full trash can. Then he starts toward the doorway Marisol had come from.
“Where are you going?”
“I gotta take a leak.”
“Is she angry?”
“My mom? No. She’s just like Moco, you know what I mean? Fucking yap-yap all the time.”
“Was she talking about Butchie, just now?”
“Nah, bro. Sit down. Have some soup. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay.” Joel says, though Agapito has already disappeared through the doorway.
Joel drops his pack on the sole-scuffed linoleum floor and sits, tabletop high, past his chest. He watches Marisol tend to the soup—another handful of salt. The radio blares and a woman who sounds like she sucked helium speaks so fast Joel probably wouldn’t understand even if he did speak Spanish.
Under the radio noise, Joel could swear he hears Agapito talking, his speech clipped by ays.
Marisol washes and cuts cilantro, and also a whole lime. She ladles soup into a bowl and stirs in cilantro and presents the dish to Joel. Then she looks down the hallway, eyes dark as she says, “Sabes que tu perro estará forzado vivir en una jaula pequeña hasta que no pueda criar, y después estará vendido o matado?”
Joel says, “Yes, thank you,” because it sounds like a question and yes is usually a polite answer. Marisol lowers her gaze and goes back to the stove. She takes tortillas from the oven and folds them onto a plate with the lime; beans come from a different pot and go into another bowl. She puts both dishes on the table and then a spoon and Joel says, “Thank you,” again. She doesn’t say anything. He thinks he hears a toilet flush, and decides to wait for Agapito.
Music resumes on the radio, this song slow, the singer’s voice sulky, like she got her heart broken.
Joel looks at his soup. He thinks there is some kind of pasta floating in there, large yellow curly-edged noodles in red broth. He wants to try one, and to attack the tortillas, but then Agapito appears.
“Déme un tazón,” he says, and Marisol hands him a bowl. He takes it to the sink.
“Rezo por ti Pito,” Marisol says. “Rezo que no traigas daño al perro.”
Joel looks up: she’s got to be talking about Butchie.
Agapito says, “Usted vive entre pecadores, Marisol. Solo reza para sentirse mejor.” He fills the bowl with water and turns to Joel. “Ay, bro, I’m going to bring water to Bootch.”
“Is that what you two were—” Joel starts to push back from the table. “Do you want me to—”
“Don’t worry, bro, I got it. You try the soup? It’s good, right?”
Joel nods as Agapito turns to Marisol. “¿Ponga algo de sopa en la mesa para mi, ¿sí?”
“¿Te lo comerás frío?”
“Usted la recalentará.” He looks at Joel. “Be right back, I’ll eat with you.”
Marisol turns back to the stove and Joel stirs the noodles around in his bowl. Since she isn’t looking, he reaches for a tortilla and tucks it into his pack for Butchie, like he promised.
Then he takes another tortilla and tries a bite; it is warm and charred in spots and it’s the best thing he’s ever eaten in his whole life. He eats the rest in one bite and another one right after that.
On the radio, the singer hits her high note, and right then Moco starts barking, and Joel could swear he hears Butchie barking, too. For a second, he feels panic, but Agapito is probably the one who’s really sweating it; Butchie never once let on that he was a fan of Agapito’s and a dish of water isn’t going to change the dog’s mind.
“Moco,” Marisol says, and puts down her ladle to go after the yapping dog. While she’s gone, Joel can’t resist: he spoons a piece of pasta with broth and takes it into his mouth.
But the broth is like watered-down chili and the noodle is not pasta at all: it is some kind of animal cartilage or hard fat or soft bone. It tastes like a honeycomb made of old stew meat. He tries to chew and then not chew, to swallow and then not gag, as the singer on the radio gives up, the rest of her song a pipe organ’s goodbye.
And then, in the brief silence before the next song, Joel does hear Butchie barking, and the triple chirp of Agapito’s car alarm makes everything Joel had been afraid of the truth.
He spits out the soup and grabs his pack and tips over the chair as he bolts from the kitchen and climbs over couches and Moco claws to get out from Marisol’s arms as he throws open the front door and jumps down the whole flight of steps to the sidewalk. He’s out in the street in a matter of seconds, but too many seconds, because Agapito has already pulled his car out from where it was parked and he is driving off, Butchie in the backseat, the dog struggling against something that restrains him, as though he’s been harnessed.
Joel runs and runs and he keeps up with the car for at least a block but he doesn’t gain on it, and then Agapito turns right and takes off, his license plate becoming hard, then harder, then impossible to read.
Joel stops running and focuses on the plate: MVM4944. He says the numbers and letters, and repeats them, and keeps repeating them.
And then he sees Butchie: still now, and facing Joel, ears pricked, his silhouette fading with all the other details of the car.
And then the car is gone.
The street sign on the corner reads
25TH STREET. One block from the courthouse.
And Butchie is gone.
25
It’s after four A.M. when Pete wakes up in the hotel parking lot. He didn’t mean to doze off, and he probably would have given up if he’d been waiting instead of snoozing. He figures he missed Elexus, but he calls the Factory anyway.
“She just finished a shower show,” says the girl who answers, so Pete decides to wait a little while longer. And hopes the show had a real powerful shower. And soap.
Twenty minutes later, Elexus shows at the motel.
“Why we going to your dealer’s?” she asks when Pete opens the door and holds her bag while she pours herself into the passenger seat; she’s too busy trying to be sexy, batting her eyes and all that, to notice that he filches her wallet.
“I want to pick up a little Jim Jones,” he tells her, Mr. Jones being a street term for marijuana laced with coke and PCP.
“I don’t like to mess with coke,” Elexus says. “It’s just perfect the way it is.”
“So are you,” Pete says, laying it on thick as he starts the car and heads for the highway.
Pete nearly merges with a semi on the Dan Ryan when Elexus leans over and reaches in to find out exactly what she has to work with. “Not now,” he says, pushing her away. “I’m too keyed up.”
“Up ain’t the word I’d use,” she says.
He cups his zipper. “I didn’t wait all night for a quick fix. Anyway, I thought you wanted a nice place. Room service or whatever.”
“Yeah,” she says, “Snow White on a silver platter. But this doesn’t seem like no fairy tale, so I’ll take what you got now.” She sits back and tries to open the center console, which Pete locked along with the glove box. “Where’s it at?”
“I’m out.”
“Not even one rail, you impotent, fucking inconsiderate shit-pickle?”
Pete guesses that’s as good a glimpse of what LaFonda meant by supreme bitch as he’d like to get. He says, “Listen, I don’t know if I sent the wrong signals or what, but humiliation doesn’t get me off. I’m not into fetish. I like my sex as clean as you like your coke. And I waited all night. You can wait ten minutes.”
After that, Elexus doesn’t say anything, just pouts awhile, and twitches here and there, still chalked up. He hopes the ride goes quickly; he doesn’t want her to get too sober, start to recognize her surroundings.
The Good Boy Page 29