Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02 (14 page)

Listen to me—the surrogate mother.

She got on the phone and called Dr. Katzman. Got his mellow voice on message and left a message of her own.

Not so mellow.

CHAPTER

19

T
he joke: Richard Jaramillo was fat, so they called him Flaco.

That was back in fourth grade. Then Jaramillo grew up and got skinny and the nickname fit.

Little else about Jaramillo had worked out so neatly.

Isaac had known him back in public school: a jumpy, scared fat kid who wore old-fashioned clothes, sat at the back of the classroom, and never learned how to read. The teacher, faced with fifty kids, half of whom didn't speak English, assigned Isaac to tutor Flaco.

Flaco had reacted to the assignment distractedly. Isaac concluded, almost immediately, that Flaco's biggest problem was that he didn't pay attention. Not long after, he realized Flaco had real
problems
paying attention.

Flaco hated everything about school, so Isaac figured some kind of reward might work. Since Flaco was fat, he tried food. Mama was overjoyed when he asked her to pack extra sugar-tamales in his lunch bag. Finally, Isaac was starting to
eat.

Isaac offered Flaco tamales and Flaco learned to read at the first-grade level. Flaco never got far beyond that. Even with tamales, it was never easy.

“Big deal anyway,” he told Isaac. “I'm passing into fifth same as you.”

Then Flaco Jaramillo's father went to prison on a manslaughter conviction and the boy stopped showing up at school, period. Isaac found that he missed being the teacher and now he had to figure out what to do with the extra tamales. He wanted to call Flaco, but Mama told him the Jaramillos had moved out of the city in shame.

Which turned out to be a lie; Mrs. Gomez had never liked Isaac hanging out with a bad boy from that family, such a rotten bunch. In truth, the Jaramillos had been evicted from their Union District flat and were crammed into a roach-ridden SRO hotel near Skid Row.

Five years later, the boys ran into each other.

It happened on a hot, polluted Friday, not far from the bus stop.

Half day at Burton because of teacher training seminars. Isaac had spent the afternoon at the Museum of Science and Industry, alone, was returning home, from the bus, when he saw two black-and-white police cars, parked at the corner in careless diagonals, lights flashing. Up on the sidewalk, a few feet away, a small, thin boy in a baggy T-shirt, sagging pants, and expensive running shoes was being rousted by four muscular officers.

They had him in the position: legs spread, arms up, palms pressed against the brick wall.

Isaac kept his distance but stopped to watch. The police questioned the boy, spun him around, got in his face and yelled.

The boy remained impassive.

Then Isaac recognized him. The baby fat was gone but the features were the same, and Isaac felt his own eyes stretch wide as the unspoken “huh?” resonated in his head.

He stepped even farther back, expecting the police to arrest Flaco Jaramillo. But they didn't, just wagged warning fingers, screamed some more, and shoved the boy around a bit. Then, as if summoned by a silent alarm, all four got in their cars and sped away.

Flaco stepped into the street and flipped off the cops. Noticed Isaac and flipped him off, too. As Isaac turned to leave, he shouted, “What the fuck you lookin' at, motherfucker?”

His voice had changed, too. Small boy with a deep baritone.

Isaac started walking.

“Yo, motherfucker, you hear me?”

Isaac stopped. The skinny boy was advancing on him. Face dark and scrunched and intent. All that pent-up anger and humiliation ready to blow. Ready to take it out on someone.

Isaac said, “It's me, Flaco.”

Flaco came within inches. He smelled of weed. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Isaac Gomez.”

Flaco's eyes became razor cuts. His skinny face was rodentine with the same oversized nose, weak chin, and bat ears that Isaac remembered. The ears looked even bigger, exhibited mercilessly by a shaved head. Flaco was short but broad-shouldered. Veins popped on his forearms like sculptural bas-relief. The clear intimation of muscle and the desire to use it.

Tattoos on his knuckles and the left side of his neck. The one on the neck was a nasty-looking snake, mouth open, fangs bared, as if about to close on Flaco Jaramillo's jaw line. The number “187” atop his right hand. The police code for “homicide.” Some bangers were telling the truth when they advertised having done it.

“Who?”

“Isaac. Fourth grade—”

“Gomez. My fucking teacher. Man.” Flaco shook his head. “So . . .”

“So how you been?” said Isaac.

“I been cool.” Flaco smiled. Rotten teeth, several missing on top. The herbal reek of marijuana permeated his clothing. That had kept the police on him. But they'd found nothing, Flaco had dumped his dope in time.

“Fucking teacher,” said Flaco. “So what's with you, why you dressed like a fag?”

“Private school.”

“Private school. What the fuck's that?”

“Just a place,” said Isaac.

“Why you go there?”

Isaac shrugged.

“They make you dress like a fag?”

“I'm not one.”

Flaco looked him over some more. Grinned. “You fucked up as a teacher, man. I don't know shit.”

Isaac shrugged again, working hard at casual-cool. “I was nine. I thought you were pretty smart.”

Flaco's grin faltered. “Shows what you know.”

He flexed the hand with the 187 tattoo. Reached out. Slapped Isaac on the back. Held his hand out for a soul shake. His skin was hard and dry and crusty, like poorly sanded wood. He laughed. His breath was bad.

Isaac said, “Good to see you, man. Guess I'll be shoving off.”

“Shoving
off
? What's that, from a movie or somethin'?” Flaco turned pensive for a second. Brightened. “Let's go smoke up some weed, man. I got it where the motherfuckers can't find it.”

“No thanks.”

“No
thanks
?”

“Don't smoke.”

“Man,” said Flaco. “You fucked
up.
”

He stepped back, reassessing Isaac. “Whatever.”

“Thanks anyway.”

Flaco waved that off. “Go, man. Go away.”

As Isaac turned, Flaco said, “You tried to teach me, I remember that. You gave me some tamales, or some shit like that.”

“Sugar tamales.”

“Whatever, thought I was smart, huh?”

“I did.”

Flaco bared his bad teeth. “Shows what you know. Hey man, check
this
out: How 'bout we shove
off
and I smoke and you watch and we like . . . talk, man. Like find out what's been happening all these years?”

Isaac thought about it, not for too long.

“Sure,” he said. In the end, he'd ended up taking a couple of courtesy puffs.

They ran into each other once or twice a year, mostly the same kind of chance meetings on the street. Sometimes Flaco had no time for Isaac, other times he seemed to crave company. When they got together it was always Flaco smoking and talking, Isaac listening. Once, when they were sixteen, Isaac, in a bad mood for whatever reason, took deep hits of weed, hated the way the smoke burned his lungs, the popcorn lightness in his head, laughing too much, losing control. He walked home woozy, stayed in bed until dinner. Ate well. Mama looking on approvingly.

When they were seventeen, Flaco had Isaac decipher some probation papers because his reading had remained at the first-grade level.

“My P.O.'s a dumb motherfucker but I want to keep it real, man, show up at appointments, get past this bullshit.”

The papers said Flaco had stolen cigarettes from a vending machine and been sentenced to a year's probation. Penal Code 466.3. That kind of thing you didn't tattoo on your hand.

The following year, Flaco showed Isaac his guns. A big, black automatic weighing down a pocket of his saggy khakis, a smaller chrome-plated six-shot thing taped to his ankle.

Ankle gun? He probably saw that in a movie.

Isaac said, “Cool.” By that time he'd developed a solid fix on Flaco's temperament: jumpy, unstable, completely devoid of fear. The last trait made Flaco more dangerous than any fanged snake.

Flaco went on about the guns, what they could do, how you cleaned them, what a bargain he'd gotten on the purchase.

Isaac listened. When you listened, people stayed calm and thought you were smart and interesting.

Flaco liked to say, “That life you leading, man. You gonna be rich.”

“Doubtful.”

“Doubtful my dick, man. You gonna be a rich doctor and get close to all that dope.” Wink wink. “We still gonna be friends, man.”

Isaac laughed.

“Funny,” said Flaco. “Very fuckin' funny.” But he laughed, too.

Isaac got off the downtown bus and found his way to the bar on Fifth near Los Angeles Street. Not far, he realized, from the alley where one of the June 28 victims, the sailor Hochenbrenner, had breathed his last.

Bad neighborhood, even with Downtown getting rejuvenated.

Cantina Nueva was where Flaco hung out during the day, did whatever it was he did. Isaac avoided asking but Flaco was eager to brag. There were stories Isaac listened to. Others he allowed to pass right through his consciousness.

Sometimes Flaco got really quiet, didn't talk about anything. Both of them were young men, now. Knew it was in their mutual interest if some things remained unspoken.

Isaac had been to the bar twice this year, both times at Flaco's request. Once, Flaco had needed some papers deciphered: the deed to a house on 172nd. Flaco's real estate agent had assured him everything was cool but the dude was a slippery motherfucker and Flaco knew who he could trust.

Flaco, at twenty-three, would soon be a homeowner. Isaac was broke and the irony didn't escape him.

The second time Flaco claimed he just wanted to talk, but when Isaac got there, Flaco remained in his booth at the rear and it was one of those days when he said little. He kept ordering beer-and-shots for both of them and Isaac tried to nurse his to the max. He got drunk anyway, grew really tired, and sat there as people streamed in and out of the cantina, made their way over to Flaco. Exchanged glances. And cash. Shiny chromium things in paper bags. Powders in plastic baggies.

All I need is for the place to be busted right now. Bye-bye med school.

Flaco had seated Isaac on the inside of the booth, facing the pool table, back to the moldy wall. Then he'd gotten in, next to Isaac. Trapping Isaac.

Wanting Isaac to see everything. To
know.

A couple of beer-and-shots later, Flaco said, “My old man died, got cut in the shower at Chino.”

Isaac said, “Oh, man, I'm sorry.”

Flaco laughed.

This afternoon the bar was overheated and dim and sweat-sour, mostly empty except for a couple of old Tio Tacos hunched at the bar and three young guys who looked like they'd just crossed the border, shooting pool at the solitary, warped table.
Snick snick snick
as cues impacted plastic balls. A disagreeable clang as the balls slid down the metal chute. The Doctors Lattimore had a pool table at their house—had a whole, paneled room set aside for billiards. No noisy chute on that one, leather mesh sacks caught the balls silently.

Clang.
Spanish curses. Bad mariachi-rock fusion blared from the jukebox.

Flaco slumped in the booth, wearing a black denim jacket over a black T-shirt, empty beer and shot glasses in front of him. He'd grown his hair out, but in a weird style. Shaved on top with two black stripes running along the side and a short, tightly pleated braid dangling at the back like a reptilian tail. Mustache wisps at the corner of his mouth. All he could grow.

He looked, Isaac decided, like some Hollywood director's notion of an evil Chinese guy.

He looked up as Isaac approached. Sleepily, Isaac thought.

Isaac stood there until Flaco motioned him in.

Quick soul shake. “Bro.”

“Hey.” Isaac slid across from him. He'd stopped at a pharmacy, bought a tube of cover-up makeup, done his best to hide the bruise. A patchy job at best, but if you weren't looking for it, maybe you wouldn't notice.

Nothing could be done about the swelling, but between Flaco's short attention span and the bar's poor lighting, he hoped he wouldn't have to explain.

“Whussup?” Flaco's voice slurred. His long sleeves were buttoned at the wrist. Usually, he rolled them up. Hiding needle marks? Flaco always denied shooting, made a point of preferring inhalation, but who knew?

He'd always been restless; unable to leave well enough alone.

Isaac said, “The usual.”

“The motherfuckin'
usual
but you're motherfuckin'
here.
”

Isaac shrugged.

“You always do that,” said Flaco. “With the shoulders. You do that when you wanna hide something, man.”

Isaac laughed.

“Yeah, it's funny, asshole.” Flaco's head rolled.

“I need a gun,” said Isaac.

Flaco's head rose. Slowly. “Say what?”

Isaac repeated it.

“A gun.” Flaco snickered. “What, like to shoot down planes, you gonna be one of them terrorists?” His cheeks puffed as he tried to imitate cannon fire. Feeble puffs resulted. He coughed. Definitely on something.

“For protection,” said Isaac. “The neighborhood.”

“Someone fuck with you? Tell me who, I kill their ass.”

“No, I'm cool,” said Isaac. “But you know how it is. Things get better, then they get worse. Right now, it's worse.”

“You having problems, man?”

“I'm cool. Want to keep it that way.”

“A gun . . . you mama . . . those tamales.” Flaco licked his lips. “Those were
fine.
Kin you get me some more?”

“Sure.”

“Yeah?”

“No problem.”

“When?”

“Whenever you want them.”