Street Dreams (10 page)

He led me through a kitchen that still had its original cabinets and fixtures. The counters were tiled in sunny yellow, and
a diamond pattern of midnight blue and yellow made up the back-splash. Klinghoffner’s office was off to the right—a tiny room
that was probably once a pantry. When he closed the door, it was pretty tight inside, but it did have a nice-size picture
window and a skylight giving a blue clue to a world beyond.

“How can I help you, Officer?”

“If you read the papers on Tuesday morning, you’ll know that LAPD found an abandoned baby in Hollywood.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Terrible.”

“The baby is doing well. We have reason to believe that the mother is Caucasian and possibly developmentally disabled.”

“I see.”

“Any ideas?”

Klinghoffner appeared to be thinking about it. “I’m not … aware of any of our women being pregnant.”

“Was pregnant.”

“Or was pregnant. But I don’t know everything.”

Covering his rather commodious butt. “Okay. Maybe we could talk in theoretical terms.”

“I’m not being cagey, Officer Decker, I just don’t know. We try to teach our students about the birds and the bees, but most
of their guardians—the parents, the siblings, the aunts—they don’t like to leave things to chance. Many of our women are sterilized
coming in. The last thing anyone needs is another special child to deal with.”

I thought about my poor little baby. Maybe she’d be okay. Maybe Koby was wrong. “You said many of your women are sterilized.”

“Yes. But it’s
not
a back-alley thing. There is full consent—from the families, from the women themselves. They request it, Officer. They know
that they are in no position to raise a child, should they have sex.”

“You allow them to have sex?”

“No, not here. But drives are drives. We are realistic. And the women who aren’t sterilized, we give them the pill every day
along with their vitamins. We make sure they take it.”

“Are the women aware that by doing this, they can’t get pregnant?”

“We explain it to them. Some comprehend more than others.”

“But you don’t require them to take birth control, do you?”

He heaved a great sigh. “We don’t strap them down, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“I’m sorry. I know you have a difficult task. I’m not passing judgment.”

“That’s good,” the director said. “It’s hard enough teaching our students about hygiene, let alone sex. We just try to make
sure that if sex happens, the women are not left coping with something they’re not equipped to cope with.”

“Do the women know what they’re doing when they have sex?”

Klinghoffner pursed his lips. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Is it consensual as opposed to forced on them?”

“Good Lord, I hope it’s consensual, although I suspect I know what you’re saying. The young women here … They’re not used
to having control over their bodies. They’ve been told what to do all their lives. We have counselors here to help them integrate
sex and health education.”

He looked away.

“We do not allow sex within these walls. But the few times I’ve actually caught a pair in the act, I’ve looked the other way
in terms of punishment. I did take the parties involved aside and insist they get some couples counseling. For precisely the
reason you stated. To make sure that nothing was forced.”

“And?”

“The parties were all right with the sexual relationship. But their guardians were not. A few times, I’ve had students pulled
out of the programs because of it.”

I tried being charming. “And might you know any woman pulled out of the program because of having sex, say … within the last
nine months? Maybe one with Down’s?”

“Not Down’s, although we do have students here with Down’s.”

“So you’re thinking of someone specific.”

Klinghoffner stalled. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“The girl needs medical attention.”

“Yes, of course.” Klinghoffner drummed his fingers on the table. “We have a girl here. She’s been sick on and off for the
last year. I haven’t seen her in a month. She lives with her sister.”

“Heavyset and very blond?”

He thought for a moment. Then he nodded.

“But not Down’s,” I said.

“No, she’s not Down’s. She has cerebral palsy, although that doesn’t tell you anything. It’s a garbage-can term. Her gross
motor coordination is very, very poor. Her fine motor coordination is not as bad as you’d think by looking at her. She’s mentally
disabled, no doubt about that, but she has skills. She can take care of herself—bathe, dress, go to the bathroom, even cook
a little. And she can work a computer. She does some data entry for us. Quite good at it.”

I was quiet.

“A very sweet girl. Maybe a bit more subdued the last couple of months. I probably should have said something, but there are
so many kids here.” Now he was upset. “They’re like children. They upset easily. Sometimes I miss things.”

“We all do.”

“Let me walk you back to reception. I’ll get you the address.”

“Thank you, Mr. Klinghoffner. You’re doing the right thing.”

“I hope so.”

I sat back on the couch and waited. I hoped I didn’t have to tarry too long, because “Beanpole Buck” had taken a real dislike
to me. He glared at me over his piles of paper. I guess if I looked like him and was named Buck, I wouldn’t be too happy,
either.

At last Buck spoke. “Find what you’re looking for?”

“Maybe.”

“If you tell me what you need, maybe I could help you out.”

A legitimate offer for help? I couldn’t believe it. Nor did I trust him.

“Thanks, but I’m okay.”

He stiffened. “Only trying to help.”

“I know. I appreciate it.”

Klinghoffner returned, ending the awkward moment. “Let me walk you out.”

He handed me the paper once we were outside and away from prying eyes. I thanked him again, and he left me at the curb. The
name was Sarah Sanders. Her guardian was Louise Sanders, her sister.

They lived in the foothills of Hollywood.

I turned the address over and over in my hand. I really,
really
wanted to go to the house, but it wasn’t my place to be the primary interviewer. I was just too low on the food chain. At
this point, all I could do was collect the data and give it to someone else to interpret.

Still, I didn’t call Greg Van Horn right away. I had a lunch date to keep. No sense in making decisions on an empty stomach.

L
ittle Addis Ababa
sat on the corner of Fairfax and Olympic—an incongruent disk of Ethiopian culture encircled by predominantly Jewish areas
and establishments. On my way home from work, I must have driven by there dozens of times, but I never paid much attention.
Now I observed with virgin eyes. I found metered parking on the street a few yards away from the ubiquitous Star$s. Catercorner
to where I was standing was a block-long Jewish school called Shalhevet—grades six through twelve.

Standing directly across from me, Koby was dressed in black jeans and a long-sleeved coffee-colored shirt two shades darker
than his skin tone. Several gold chains rested around a bare neck. He waved and so did I. After I traversed the heavily trafficked
street, he greeted me with a peck on the cheek and a wide smile. He was carrying a large blue paper bag from The Gap.

“You look lovely,” he said. “Nice outfit. I like the scarf. It adds flair.”

“You look rather fetching yourself. I like the jewelry.”

“Sort of retro disco, no?”

“All you need is a gold razor blade to complete the image.”

“Yeah, then I really give the cops an excuse to pull …” He looked away and clenched a fist. “I don’t believe I say that!”

I laughed. “That’s all right. I would have pulled you over. Feel better now?”

“I am very stupid!”

“You are very honest.” I quickly switched gears, pointing to the school across the way, specifically to a lit candle painted
on the wall. “Does
‘shalhevet’
mean fire in Hebrew?”

“Fire is
‘aish,’”
he told me.
“‘Shalhevet’
is flame.”

“My stepmother would love you. You should come to the house for
Shabbat
dinner sometime.”

“That would be great. I am free this Friday.”

My mouth opened and I shut it quickly. My foot was so far down my throat, it was in my stomach. “Uh, I’ll ask her. I don’t
know her plans. …”

His laugh was good-natured, but tinged with embarrassment. Even through the dark complexion, I detected a rosy glow. “Again
I speak without thinking. I am too anxious. Sorry. Whenever is fine, Cindy. You barely know me.”

If I reneged now, I’d be a chump. “No, really, it’s fine. I’ll ask her.”

“If you ask and she says yes, I’ll come. So I give you an excuse. You can always say that she said no.”

“I don’t need excuses, Koby, I have an open invitation.” Now it was a matter of pride. “You’re invited. I’ll tell my dad to
tell my stepmother, all right?”

“If you still feel that way after lunch, I’d be happy to come.” He handed me the sack. “This is for you. I didn’t have a chance
to wrap anything.”

I knew how late he had worked, and was touched by his thoughtfulness. “Thank you. How do you know my size?”

“I don’t. Look inside.”

I did, pulling out a pound of coffee and a round, spongy brown disk packaged in plastic. He took the coffee from me and opened
it. “Special blend. Smell.”

“Hmmm. Cinnamon.”

“Better than the hospital cafeteria’s brew, no?”

“Much better.” I held up the plastic package. “What’s with the Frisbee?”

“It’s
injera
—Ethiopian spongy flat bread. It is made from teff— our special grain.” He placed the items back into the bag. “I give you
food. For an Ethiopian, that’s a most precious gift.”

“I’ll bet.”

“I didn’t make a reservation. How about we walk around and see what looks good?”

I told him that sounded fine. We started down the busy street accompanied by vehicular noise pollution and the blare of rhythmic
music coming from the Lion of Judah travel agency and CD emporium. The block was a mishmash of retail outlets—Jewish thrift
shops, a junkyard, discount stores, a cake shop, and, of course, the Ethiopian contingent. Within seconds, I cleverly surmised
that the state colors were green, yellow, and red because at least five storefronts were emblazoned with stripes in those
hues. Even the distant Shell station fit right in.

There were three restaurants, all of them having marquees in English as well as squiggles I assumed to be Amharic. There was
a store that specialized in
injera
and exotic spices. Even through the closed door, I could smell the tantalizing aromas. There was a dress shop boasting organic
fabrics with a white cotton smock in the window festooned with red, green, and yellow ribbons around the neck. The shelves
around the clothes offered a variety of silver rings and crosses, lots of shell jewelry, and a whole host of primitive-looking
dolls. Koby saw me staring.

“Do you want to go in?”

“No, it’s all right. Maybe later.”

“Here is Gursha. Would you like to try it?”

“Great.”

He opened the door for me and we walked in.

The place was small and homey with a chockablock decor. The wallpaper was a pattern of various animal footprints and served
as a backdrop for posters of Ethiopia, a map of the world, and dozens of photographs of smiling patrons. The tables and chairs
were constructed of hay-colored cane painted with red geometric shapes, the ensemble topped by large, fringed cloth umbrellas.
A couple of men ate in a pseudostraw hut next to the window, dining
a mano
: eating with their hands. The hostess was thin and delicate, with a long nose and round eyes typical of other Ethiopians
I’d seen. She glanced at me, then spoke to Koby in her native language. They carried on a short conversation. Then she seated
us at a table and distributed menus.

“I told her we were vegetarians,” Koby said. “She assured me that they have lots of vegetarian specialties.”

“Here we go,” I said. “There’s a vegetarian delight for two. It includes
yater alitcha
—”

“Peas with spices.”

“Yatakilt alitcha—”

“Mixed vegetables with spices.”

“Yemiser wot—”

“Lentils with red-pepper sauce.”

“Collard greens—”

“Collard greens.”

I laughed. “Very funny. There’s baklava. Aha, something familiar. Let’s split that. Does that sound all right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you eat with your fingers like you do in Moroccan restaurants?”

“Very similar. The meal is served on
injera.
”

“The Frisbee bread.”

“Yes, exactly. You use the
injera
as your utensil and plate. You eat it as you go. Very little dishwashing.”

Again I laughed. The waitress came, looking askance at me and focusing on Koby. He ordered the food for both of us, but I
ordered my own drink. After she left, I said, “I don’t think she likes me.”

“Could be because she’s shy and doesn’t speak English too good. Or it could be because you are with me and you are not one
of us. In reality, I am not really one of them because I am Jewish.”

“A black Jew. Don’t make life too hard for yourself, Koby.”

“It is good to move in many worlds. Besides, I am what God made me. Just like the baby you found. Speaking of which …” He
leaned over and spoke barely above a whisper. “I have good news.” His eyes were animated. “The baby … A preliminary genetic
profile came back.”

I grew excited. “She isn’t Down’s—”

“Shhhh. I shouldn’t be talking to you about patients. Even babies.”

I nodded, then whispered, “So she’s normal?”

“Not exactly. She is what we call mosaic. That means she has some regular cells and some that are trisomy 21.”

“How does that happen?”

“Down’s is the result of the egg having an extra chromosome. Mosaic, the accident, happens in the second pass when the nucleus
splits incorrectly.”