28

I reserved a seat on the next flight back to L.A., threw clothes in my bag, and told Milo and Rick's message machine my arrival time. Checking out of the Middleton, I flagged a taxi to Kennedy.

A fire on Queens Boulevard slowed things down and it took an hour and three quarters to reach the airport. When I got to the check-in counter, I learned my flight had been delayed for thirty-five minutes. Pay TVs were attached to some of the seats, and travelers stared at their screens as if some kind of truth was being broadcast.

I found a terminal lounge that looked half decent and downed a leathery corned beef sandwich and a club soda while eavesdropping on a group of salesmen. Their truths were simple: the economy sucked and women didn't know what the hell they wanted.

I returned to the departure area, found a free TV, and fed it quarters. A local station was broadcasting the news and that seemed about as good as it was going to get.

Potholes in the Bronx. Condom handouts in the public schools. The mayor fighting with the city council as the city accrued crushing debt. That made me feel right at home.

A few more local stories, and then the anchorwoman said, "Nationally, government statistics show a decline in consumer spending, and a Senate subcommittee is investigating charges of influence peddling by another of the President's sons. And in California, officials at Folsom Prison report that a lockdown has apparently been successful in averting riots in the wake of what is believed to have been a racially motivated double murder at that maximum-security facility. Early this morning, two inmates, both believed to have been associates of a white supremacist gang, were stabbed to death by unknown inmates suspected of belonging to the Nuestra Raza, a Mexican gang. The dead men, identified as Rennard Russell Haupt and Donald Dell Wallace, were both serving sentences for murder. A prison investigation into the killings continues…"

Nuestra Raza. NR forever. The tattoos on Roddy Rodriguez's hands…

I thought of Rodriguez's masonry yard, shut down, cleaned out, and padlocked. The flight from the house on McVine prepared well in advance.

Evelyn had entertained me in her backyard, as her husband's homeboys honed their shanks.

Making an appointment for Wednesday, then going into the house with her husband and changing it to Thursday.

Twenty-four more hours for getaway.

Hurley Keffler's debacle at my house made sense now, as did Sherman Bucklear's nagging. Prison rumblings had probably told the Iron Priests what was brewing. Locating Rodriguez might have forestalled the hit or, if the deed had already been done, given the Priests instant payback.

Payback.

The same old stupid cycle of violence.

Burglary tools and a quick shove out a eight-story window.

A corpse on a garage floor, a little boy baby never to be.

Two little girls on the run.

Were Chondra and Tiffani in some Mexican border town, being tutored in Fugitive 1A with more care than they'd ever been taught to read or write?

Or maybe Evelyn had taken them somewhere they could blend in. On the surface. But, suckled on violence, they'd always be different. Unable to understand why, years later, they gravitated toward cruel, violent men.

Static dripped out of the speakers- a barely comprehensible voice announcing something about boarding. I got up and took my place in line. Six thousand miles in less than twenty-four hours. My mind and my legs ached. I wondered if Shirley Rosenblatt would ever be able to walk again.

Soon, I'd be three time zones away from her problems and a lot closer to my own.

• • •

The flight got in just before midnight. The terminal was deserted and Robin was waiting outside the automatic doors.

"You look exhausted," she said, as we walked to her truck.

"I've felt perkier."

"Well, I've got some news that might perk you up. Milo called just before I left to pick you up. Something about the tape. I was just out the door and he was running, too, but he says he learned something important."

"The sheriff who was working on it must have picked up something. Where's Milo now?"

"Out on some assignment. He said he'd be home when we got there."

"Which home?"

The question threw her. "Oh- Milo's house. He and Rick took really good care of us. And home is where the heart is, right?"

• • •

I slept in the car. We pulled up at Milo's house at twelve-forty. He was waiting in the living room, wearing a gray polo shirt and jeans. A cup of coffee was in front of him, next to a portable tape recorder. The dog snored at his feet, but woke up when we came in, gave out a few desultory licks, then collapsed again.

"Welcome home, boys and girls."

I put my bags down. "Did you hear about Donald Dell?"

Milo nodded.

"What?" said Robin.

I told her.

She said, "Oh…"

Milo said, "Nuestra Raza. Could be the father-in-law."

"That's what I figured. It's probably why Evelyn postponed her appointment with me. Rodriguez told her they had to leave Wednesday. And why Hurley Keffler hassled me- where is he?"

"Still in. I found a few traffic warrants and had one of the jailers lose his paperwork- just another few days, but every little bit helps."

Robin said, "It never ends."

"It's all right," I said. "There's no reason for the Priests to bother us."

"True," said Milo, too quickly. "They and the Raza boys will be concentrating on each other now. That's their main game: my turn to die, your turn to die."

"Lovely," said Robin.

"I had some Foothill guys drop in on them after Keffler's bust," he said, "but I'll see if I can arrange another visit. Don't worry about them, Rob. Really. They're the least of our problems."

"As opposed to?"

He looked at the tape recorder.

We sat down. He punched a button.

The child's voice came on.

Bad love bad love.

Don't give me the bad love.

I looked at him. He held up a finger.

Bad love bad love.

Don't give me the bad love…

Same flat tones, but this time the voice was that of a man.

Ordinary, middle-pitched, male voice. Nothing remarkable about the accent or the timbre.

The child's voice transformed- some kind of electronic manipulation?

Something familiar about the voice… but I couldn't place it.

Someone I'd met a long time ago? In 1979?

The room was silent, except for the dog's breathing.

Milo turned the recorder off and looked at me. "Ring any bells?"

I said, "There's something about it, but I don't know what it is."

"The kid's voice was phony. What you just heard might be the real bad guy. No bells, huh?"

"Let me hear it again."

Rewind. Play.

"Again," I said.

This time, I listened with my eyes closed, squinting so hard the lids felt welded together.

Listening to someone who hated me.

Nothing registered.

Robin and Milo studied my face as if it were some great wonder. My head hurt badly.

"No," I said. "I still can't pinpoint it- I can't even be sure I've actually heard it."

Robin touched my shoulder. Milo's face was blank, but his eyes showed disappointment.

I glanced at the recorder and nodded.

He rewound again.

This time the voice seemed even more distant- as if my memory was spiraling away from me. As if I'd missed my chance.

"Goddammit," I said. The dog's eyes opened. He trotted over to me and nuzzled my hand. I rubbed his head, looked at Milo. "One more time."

Robin said, "You're tired. Why don't we try again in the morning?"

"Just once more," I said.

Rewind. Play.

The voice.

Completely foreign now. Mocking me.

I buried my face in my hands. Robin's hands on my neck were an abstract comfort- I appreciated the sentiment but couldn't relax.