29

Juice Fedekwas Joseph Nicholas Fedek: twenty-one years of age, a young man with a seasoned record-two breaking-and-entering charges, one assault, two misdemeanor drug possessions, two DUIs with a suspended license for a year. Eight months in county, bumped into early parole due to overcrowding. Then he was picked up on a DUI, served an additional four months, another early release, same reason. Where he parked himself was anyone’s guess and Germando claimed he hadn’t seen him since his last tour in the cellar.

Pepe Renaldes was gainfully employed by Do-Rite Construction-bonded and licensed. The company’s claim to fame was custom-built homes in Brentwood, a liberal, ritzy white area in the West Side of Los Angeles, a neighborhood I knew intimately because my mother and stepfather lived there. They had their book clubs, their wine-and-cheese parties, and their endless discussions on the state of the world. I loved my mother dearly. As my father admitted, she had not been given a fair shake in her first marriage. She was happy now, and that was good. But I could take the intellectualizing only in small doses. Their lifestyle had all the pitfalls of backbiting academia without the college credits.

Since both lads were lacking outstanding warrants, I had no choice but to wait until a game plan was formulated between El Paso’s lawyer and the DA. I had wanted to show their mugs to Sarah Sanders, see if she could pick them out of a six-pack, but I was told to hold off. With my hands figuratively bound, I went on my shift and worked a solid eight hours, getting home around twelve, exhausted and depleted.

Lots of phone messages, but none from Koby. No e-mails from him, either.

Why wasn’t I surprised?

Saturday was devoted to finding David Tyler. That meant phone calls to homeless shelters, halfway houses, and other community centers for the developmentally disabled. Then there was my “sacrosanct” lunch with Mom. As I traveled around Brentwood, I looked for houses going up and Do-Rite Construction signs, but was out of luck.

There were still no messages from Koby when I got home. That would die unless I got things going again. So on Sunday, I swallowed my pride. I went shopping and bought him an orange shirt-on sale and nonreturnable. Afterward, I wondered why in the hell I did it, because who was this guy to me.

I should have dusted him, except I was lonely. Over the past year, I couldn’t find the energy to attend parties or barhop, so where was I going to meet guys except at work and that wasO-U-T-out. There had been chemistry between us and I was loath to give that up. Still, I waged an internal debate.

In the meantime, I hopped in my car and went over the canyon to visit Dad, wanting to fill him in on my search for David Tyler-or so I told myself. What I really wanted was some old-fashioned pats on the back for a job well done with Germando El Paso. As I approached my father’s house, Koby’s gift in hand, I wondered why I was carrying it.

Yeah, right.

I knocked on the door. Rina answered. “Hi, honey. Your dad isn’t home. He took Hannah out for one of those painting things. You know, you paint a plate and they charge you fifty bucks for something you’re going to put in a drawer and never use.”

I smiled. I knew what she was talking about.

“Come in. I’ll find the address for you.”

“Nah, never mind. Just tell him I stopped by.”

Rina studied my face. By the look on hers, I must not have appeared neutral, let alone happy. “Cindy, you drove out all this way. Why don’t you wait for him? He’ll be back in an hour.”

“No thanks. Just tell him I’ve gone through about a quarter of the possibilities and I’m still looking for David. He’ll know what I mean. He can call me later on. Just to discuss a few things.”

Rina pulled me inside. “How about some coffee?”

I smiled and shrugged. She hooked a thumb in the direction of the kitchen. I followed obediently. I swept my hand across the kitchen counter.

Rina said, “What’s wrong, honey?”

“Nothing.” What a stupid response. “I’ll get through it, Rina. Thanks.”

She didn’t push it. “What’s in the bag?”

“Oh.” I took out my purchase. “It’s for Koby.”

The shirt was bright orange, more vivid than I had remembered. Rina stared at it.

I said, “I got it on sale. Nonreturnable.”

“I can… understand that.”

I smiled. “Koby likes color.”

“Well, then, he’ll certainly like that.”

“He ruined one of his shirts at the accident, using it to stop some bleeding. I thought I’d replace it.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you.”

“It will be if I give it to him.”

Rina waited for more. I didn’t offer up anything. She poured two cups. “It’s fresh. You take yours with cream, right?”

“Cream and an Equal. Girly coffee.”

“Me too.”

I drank the coffee. It was good and had cinnamon in it, and that only made me feel worse.

She said, “This, too, shall pass.”

“I guess everything passes eventually. You die.”

Rina smiled. “Now you’re sounding like your father.”

“God forbid.”

“No, that’s a good thing. I love your father.”

“That makes two of us.” I put the cup down. “I don’t know, Rina. This was going to be a peace offering. Now I have doubts if it’s even worth it. Maybe I should cut my losses.”

“You know best.”

“I like him. But men are so damn difficult.”

“Get me in the right mood, I’ll agree with you,” Rina said. “This weekend, your father has been a doll.”

“Maybe it’s me.”

“Want my advice for what it’s worth?”

“Sure.”

“The shirt’s not returnable. It’s for a rather specific taste. Give it to Koby. Otherwise it’ll go to waste.”

The day was spectacular, even if I wasn’t. His car was in the driveway, and for a moment, I just wished it would all go away-all the bad feelings that got in the way of life-so we could hop inside and cruise on an endless highway. I rang the bell, and when he didn’t answer, I went by the side and peered over the gate. This time, the back door wasn’t open, but I could see motion in the garden. I tried the latch, but it was padlocked. He wasn’t expecting visitors, but I didn’t care. I hopped the fence.

“Hello?” I called out.

“In back.”

The orange trees were still heavy with blossoms and perfume. I stopped at the entrance to his backyard. He was right. A week later and the garden had turned all color and aroma. He was trimming the rosebushes, wearing faded jeans, a green tank top, and sneakers without socks. He gave me the courtesy of a glance, then clipped off a stem containing a ruby red bud.

“Wow!” I brushed my black slacks off, dirty from my excursion over the fence. “It’s beautiful back here.”

“Thank you.” He glanced at me, then began to peel thorns off the branch. “But I think I have the better view.”

I thanked him. “How’s the back-room floor coming?”

He spoke to me, though he was focused on the flower. “It’s not coming. I don’t use power tools when I’m upset.”

He held out the stem to me.

I took it and sniffed it. “Très élégant!And as long as we’re in a giving mood…” I lifted the bag. “A little more pedestrian, but like someone said, it’s the thought that counts.”

He regarded my present, wrapped in tissue paper and placed in a shiny gift bag with rope handles. “For me?”

“Unless there’s someone behind you, yes.”

His eyes, although no longer bloodshot, still lacked sparkle. They went from the gift to my face. “I’m utterly stunned. I don’t know what to say.”

“ ‘Thank you’ is always in fashion.”

“Thank you.”

“Take it and open it.”

He did and pulled out the shirt. His smile was a brilliant crescent of white. “It’s perfect!”

“If you wear it with black on Halloween, people will think you’re a jack-o’-lantern.”