His voice broke and he shut up to hide it.

"Mr. Gutierrez," I said softly, "cooperation from family can be very helpful in these - "

"Hey, man, I told you, this family don't know nothing about this. You think we know what kind of crazy asshole do something like that? You think people around here act like that, man?"

He squinted at my badge, reading it with effort, moving his lips. He mouthed the word 'consultant' a couple of times before getting it.

"Aw, man, I don't believe it. You're not even a real cop. Fucking consultant, they send around here. What's Ph.D." man?"

"Doctorate in psychology."

"You a shrink, man - fuckin' headshrinker they send aroun' here, think someone's crazy here! You think someone in this family is crazy, man? Do you?"

He was breathing on me now. His eyes were soft and brown, long lashed and dreamy as a girl's. Eyes like that could make you doubt yourself, could lead a guy to get into some heavy macho posturing.

I thought the family had plenty of problems but I didn't answer his question.

"What the fuck you doin' here, psychin' us out, man?"

He sprayed me with spittle as he spoke. A balloon of anger expanded in my gut. Automatically my body assumed a defensive karate stance.

"It's not like that, I can explain. Or are you determined to be pigheaded?"

I regretted the words even as they left my mouth.

"Pig - goddammit man, you're the pig!" His voice rose an octave and he grabbed the lapel of my jacket.

I was ready but I didn't move. He's in mourning, I kept telling myself. He's not responsible.

I met his gaze and he backed off. Both of us would have welcomed an excuse to duke it out. So much for civilization.

"Get out, man. Now!"

"Antonio!"

Mrs. Gutierrez had come into the hallway. Raquel was visible behind her. Seeing her I felt suddenly ashamed. I'd done a great job of screwing up a sensitive situation. The brilliant psychologist…

"Mom, did you let this dude in?"

Mrs. Gutierrez apologized to me with her eyes and spoke to her son in Spanish. He seemed to wilt under mama's wagging finger and dark looks.

"Mom, I told you before, they don't give a - " She stopped, continued in Spanish. It sounded like he was defending himself, the machismo slowly rendered impotent.

They were back and forth for a while. Then he started in on Raquel. She gave it right back to him: "The man is trying to help you, Andy. Why don't you help him instead of chasing him away?"

"I don't need nobody's help. We're gonna take care of ourselves the way we always did."

She sighed.

"Shit!" He went into his room, came out with a pack of Marlboros and made a big deal out of lighting one and jamming it into his mouth. He disappeared, momentarily, behind a blue cloud, then the eyes flashed once again, moving from me to his mother, to Raquel, and back to me. He pulled his key ring from his belt and held the keys sandwiched between his fingers, impromptu brass knuckles.

"I'm leaving now, dude. But when I get back you fucking well better be gone."

He kicked the door open and jogged out. We heard the thunder of the motorcycle starting and the diminishing scream of the machine as it sped away.

Mrs. Gutierrez hung her head and said something to Raquel.

"She asks your forgiveness for Andy's rudeness. He's been very upset since Elena's death. He's working two jobs and under a lot of pressure."

I held a hand up to stop the apology.

"There's no need to explain. I only hope I haven't caused the senora needless troubles."

Translation was superfluous. The look on the mother's face was eloquent.

I rummaged through the last two boxes with little enthusiasm and came up with no new insights. The sour taste of the confrontation with Andy lingered. I experienced the kind of shame you feel upon digging too deep, seeing and hearing more than you need or want to. Like a child walking in on his parents lovemaking or a hiker kicking aside a rock only to catch a glimpse of something slimy on the underside.

I'd seen families like the Gutierrezes' before; I'd known scores of Rafaels and Andys. It was a pattern: the slob and the super kid playing out their roles with depressing predictability. One unable to cope, the other trying to take charge of everything. The slob, getting others to take care of him, shirking his responsibilities, coasting through life but feeling like - a slob. The super kid competent, compulsive, working two jobs, even three when the situation called for it, making up for the slob's lack of accomplishment, earning the admiration of the family, refusing to stoop under the weight of his burden, keeping his rage under wraps - but not always.

I wondered what role Elena had played when she was alive. Had she been the peacemaker, the go between? Getting caught in the crossfire between slob and super kid could be hazardous to one's health.

I repacked her things as neatly as I could.

When we stepped onto the porch Rafael was still stuporous. The sound of the Seville starting up jolted him awake, and he blinked rapidly, as if coming out of a bad dream, stood with effort, and wiped his nose with his sleeve. He looked in our direction, puzzled. Raquel turned away from him, a tourist avoiding a leprous beggar. As I pulled away I saw a spark of recognition brighten his doped - up countenance, then more bewilderment.

The approaching darkness had dimmed the activity level on Sunset but there was still plenty of life on the streets. Car horns honked, raucous laughter rose above the exhaust fumes and mariachi music blared from the open doors of the bars. Traces of neon appeared and lights flickered in the foothills.

"I really blew it," I said.

"No, you can't blame yourself." In the mood she was in, boosting me took effort. I appreciated that effort and told her so.

"I mean it, Alex. You were very sensitive with Cruz - I can see why you were a successful psychologist. She liked you."

"It obviously doesn't run in the family."

She was silent for a few blocks.

"Andy's a nice boy - he never joined the gangs, took lots of punishment because of it. He expects a lot out of himself. Everything's on his shoulders, now."

"With all that weight why add a two - ton chip?"

"You're right. He makes more problems for himself - don't we all? He's only eighteen. Maybe he'll grow up."

"I keep wondering if there was some way I could have handled it better." I recounted the details of my exchange with the boy.

"The pigheaded crack didn't help things, but it didn't make a difference. He came in ready to fight. When Latin men get that way there's little you can do. Add alcohol to that and you can see why we pack the emergency rooms with knifing victims every Saturday night."

I thought of Elena Gutierrez and Morton Handler. They'd never made it to the emergency room. I allowed myself a short ride on that train of thought, then skidded to a stop and dumped the thoughts in a dark depot somewhere in the south of my subconscious.

I looked over at Raquel. She sat stiffly in the soft leather, refusing to give herself over to comfort. Her body was still but her hands played nervously with the fabric of her skirt.

"Are you hungry?" I asked. When in doubt, stick to basics.

"No. If you want you can stop for yourself."

"I can still taste the chorizo."

"You can take me home, then."

When I got to her apartment it was dark and the streets were empty.

"Thanks for coming with me."

"I hope it was helpful."

"Without you it would have been disastrous."

"Thank you." She smiled and leaned over. It started out as a kiss on the cheek but one or both of us moved and it turned into a kiss on the lips. Then a tentative nibble, nurtured with heat and want, that matured quickly into a gasping, ravenous adult bite. We moved closer simultaneously, her arms easing around my neck, my hands in her hair, on her face, at the small of her back. Our mouths opened and our tongues danced a slow waltz. We breathed heavily, squirming, struggling to get closer.