“Easy, boy, easy,” Amy says, stroking the dog’s head.
Boone carries him to the Olds while Amy runs ahead to spread the comforter over the backseat. She sits with Joto during the ride. The weekend morning traffic is so light, it only takes them five minutes to reach the animal hospital on Santa Monica.
There are two other people in the reception area, older gay men with an empty cat carrier. Boone is embarrassed to tell the receptionist Joto’s name in front of them, so he says he doesn’t know, the dog’s basically a stray.
“Does he bite?” the receptionist asks.
“He tries,” Boone replies, “but he doesn’t have any teeth.”
She says Joto will have to wear a muzzle anyway and retrieves one from a cupboard. Boone can’t figure the god-damn thing out. Amy has to help him put it on the dog.
After completing the paperwork, Boone sits with Joto in his lap. The dog is weaker than ever, can barely keep his eyes open. Boone stares at a poster hanging on the wall: photos of all kinds of animals and the words REAL DOCTORS TREAT MORE THAN ONE SPECIES. One of the gay men begins to cry, and the other reaches over and takes his hand. Amy gives Boone a pout in sympathy with them.
The vet, Dr. Sanchez, is a short, stocky woman with bleached blond hair moussed up into a faux hawk. She has multiple piercings in her ears and is wearing camouflage pants under her white smock.
She notices Joto’s missing teeth as soon as she removes the muzzle and questions Boone about it, rank suspicion in her tone. He explains that he bought the dog last night because he thought he was being mistreated but has no idea how he got so messed up. Sanchez continues the examination but seems a little edgy. She asks Boone to leave Joto with her and come back in an hour.
“Was it just me, or was she ready to kick my ass?” Boone says to Amy as they’re walking out.
“I imagine she sees some pretty sick shit,” Amy replies.
There’s a café across the street from the animal hospital. Boone and Amy sit outside at one of the tables on the sidewalk. The other diners are all men, muscular guys in tight T-shirts with expensive haircuts and fake tans. Boone and Amy order coffee from the waiter and look over their menus.
“Ever been down here on Halloween?” Boone asks. “They block off the street, have a big party. Guys dress like Marilyn Monroe, Pam Anderson, pink flamingos.”
“My friend Victor lives close by, and I came over last year,” Amy says. “He went as J. Lo, and I swear he looked exactly like her. Hotter even.”
“And you’ve got the Russians now too,” Boone says. “That must be a trip, coming from Moscow to Boys Town.”
“Hey, it’s a crash course in America. Might as well throw them into the deep end.”
Boone orders oatmeal. He’s been putting on weight lately, living on hamburgers and french fries from the Tick Tock. Amy asks for eggs over easy, bacon, tomatoes instead of potatoes, and sourdough toast. She’s wearing sandals, and Boone notices that her toenails are painted the same color as her shirt. Cute. The conversation stays surfacy, which is a relief after last night. She hates shopping; he has an unnatural love for Kevin Costner movies; neither has been to a nude beach, but neither has completely ruled out the possibility. They laugh a lot, something Boone hasn’t done in a long time.
The food arrives, and they can’t believe how hungry they are, how good everything tastes.
“You know how sometimes you find yourself shoveling it in without enjoying it?” Amy says. “Like you might as well be eating hay?”
“Mmmm,” Boone replies, his mouth full of toast. He tells a story about a Filipino kid he knew in the Marines, Mike Dagdag, who hit his head in a motorcycle accident and lost his sense of taste and smell. He and Boone became friendly, and Boone figured out a way to turn Dag’s misfortune into easy money for both of them: they’d show up at the bars in Oceanside and convince their fellow jarheads to pay to see Dag do crazy shit like drink entire bottles of hot sauce or eat ten jalapeños, one after another.
Boone acted as Dag’s manager, lining up the action and taking twenty-five percent for his efforts, and they had a good run for a while. Cash poured in, a couple hundred bucks a night, more on paydays. Guys would challenge Dag and wind up passing out or puking, trying to do what he did.
But then Dag got born-again, thanks to some girl he was dating, and started questioning the morality of their scam. Boone told him he could deliver a little sermon afterward, say it was the power of the Lord that enabled him to guzzle cod-liver oil, or he could give his share of the take to missionaries in China or Ethiopia or wherever. Dag wouldn’t have any of it, though. God had spoken to his heart.
“It was tough watching my dreams die,” Boone says with a smile. “Especially knowing God was behind it.”
When they finish eating, Boone tells Amy he owes her for finding the vet and coming along with him and picks up the check. Amy protests just enough before giving in, and they walk across the street to the animal hospital. The two men and their cat carrier are gone. Boone hopes everything worked out okay for them.
Sanchez takes Boone and Amy back to the examination room, and a girl brings Joto in. The dog is livelier already. He barks at the sight of Boone and tries to lick his face through the muzzle when the girl sets him on the table.
“What do you know about this animal’s history?” Sanchez asks, hands on her hips.
“Nothing,” Boone replies. “Like I told you before, I bought him from some guys in MacArthur Park. He woke up sick this morning, so I brought him in.”
“Well, he’s a real mess,” Sanchez says, consulting a clipboard. “He’s malnourished and dehydrated. He has worms, a broken leg that wasn’t set properly, mange, and fleas. And then someone took it upon themselves to remove his teeth.”
“Remove?” Boone says.
“Someone pulled them for no reason that I can see. And not a professional.”
“Jesus,” Amy hisses.
“He was a fighting dog,” Sanchez continues. “Thus, all the scars. And this —” she points inside his right ear. Boone bends to look and sees a small red star and the number 102 tattooed there.
“That’s the mark of a breeder and trainer we’ve seen before,” Sanchez says. “His name is Bob Morrison, and we’ve been trying to stop him for years with no luck. He’s got a kennel out in Vernon. Sickos pay fifteen hundred dollars for his dogs, then throw them in a ring and let them tear each other apart while other sickos bet on the outcome. This dog’s actually pretty lucky. He survived somehow.”
Boone drifts off for a second, losing track of what Sanchez is saying. He’s thinking that Robo should talk to this Morrison. If Joto really is one of his dogs, Morrison might know something about what happened to Oscar.
“Do you plan to keep him?” Sanchez asks.
“Huh?” Boone says. “No, I mean, I can’t where I live. I thought I’d take him to the pound or get him adopted, whatever people do.”
Sanchez taps her pen on her clipboard and says, “I know someone who rescues pit bulls. She’s found homes for dogs a lot more screwed up than this one. I’ll give you her number.”
“Sounds good.”
Sanchez then lists all the things it’ll take to get Joto in shape — antibiotics, worm medicine, shampoo for the mange — and the whole time Boone is thinking there goes the little bit of money he has stashed under his mattress. She even recommends special food, saying that the vomiting and listlessness were likely caused by what Boone fed him being too rich for his system after he’d gone without eating for so long.
“Basically, he’s got a tummy ache,” she says. “It should clear up in a few days.”
She writes down the number of the rescue woman on one of her business cards, and Boone says, “When you say you’ve been trying to stop this Morrison, what do you mean?”
“It wasn’t me, exactly,” Sanchez says. She tugs at one of the thin gold hoops in her ear. “It was some friends of mine, pretty serious animal activists. They were all over the bastar
d a couple years ago, picketing his place, videoing his every move and posting it on the Web, but they could never get the officials interested. Morrison ended up taking them to court, and the judge made them back off.”
Boone rests a hand on Joto’s head and says, “You know, it’s kind of personal for me now, what they did to this dog. Is there any way for me to get in touch with your friends to make a donation or something?”
“Sure,” Sanchez says. “Just go to Stop the Slaughter dot org.”
Boone writes the address next to the rescue lady’s number on the card. After removing the muzzle from Joto, he carries the dog out to the Olds while Amy follows with the food and medicine. She again rides in the backseat with Joto, who has enough energy now to sit up and snap at a fly that buzzes too close.
They’re headed up Highland when a cop steps into the street and holds up his hand for them to stop. Boone hits the brake hard and feels his scalp tighten, the con in him expecting the worst. But then he notices the trailers, the equipment trucks. It’s a location shoot, and the cop is stopping traffic while the crew films on the sidewalk. Looks like a man and a woman having an argument. The guy is carrying a bunch of yellow smiley-face balloons.
“Hooray for Hollywood,” Boone says.
“Recognize anybody?” Amy asks, leaning forward to look out the windshield.
“I’m no good at that,” Boone says. “Although I should be, considering all the time I spent on sets when I was working security.”
“That must have been exciting, being around the actors and stuff,” Amy says.
Boone wrinkles his nose. “I don’t know. I was always thinking, ‘What’s this guy got that I don’t? He can’t even throw a punch that looks real.’ And they’re a strange bunch, that Hollywood crowd. They’ve got so many people saying yes to them all the time, they forget how to take no like everybody else has to.”
“Yeah, okay,” Amy says. “But you’d still trade places with them in a second.”
“Absolutely,” Boone replies.
They both laugh as the crew gets the shot and the cop waves them on.
WHEN THEY GET back to the bungalows, Joto is strong enough to walk from the car to Boone’s place on his own. Amy helps Boone open a can of the new food and dope it with Joto’s meds. The dog gobbles the mess, then trots into the living room and curls up on his blanket.
Boone is at the sink washing dishes. Amy leans against the counter, watching him. The silence between them stretches into something noticeable, and things are awkward for the first time this morning.
“So last night,” Amy says, finally getting around to it.
Boone doesn’t look up from the plate he’s rinsing. He’s suddenly a little nervous, worried what’s on her mind. “That was weird, huh?” he says. “Superweird, in fact.”
“It was definitely up there,” Amy says. “But I also think it was pretty brave of you to be so honest about your arrest and prison and everything.”
“I want you to know that’s not my usual technique for getting women to like me,” Boone says. “That was special, just for you.”
Amy reaches out and lays her hand on his arm. “Seriously, Jimmy, look at me for a second,” she says. “Every instinct I have tells me that you’re a decent guy, so I’m not going to second-guess you on what happened in Malibu. It was you in that moment, only you, and I was a cop long enough to know that things happen so fast sometimes, there’s no thinking involved. It’s pure aggression and adrenaline, and you sort it out later.”
“Yeah, but I should have seen it coming,” Boone says. “And that wasn’t the first time I’d been stupid.”
“But that’s it: You weren’t stupid. You met an evil genius.”
Boone dries his hands on a towel and says, “What?”
“They’re out there,” Amy continues. “People who are so bad, it’s like a talent.”
“Evil geniuses.”
“Sure, and think about it: How’s a decent person supposed to anticipate what an evil genius is going to do? They can’t. That’s like trying to outthink Einstein. Our brains don’t even work the same way.”
Boone looks down at Amy’s smiling face. He wants to kiss her right now, right on the mouth. “You’re crazy,” he says.
“No, I’m not. I’m right.”
“Okay, then, so tell me straight up: is this your way of saying that we can be friends?”
Amy fishes the sponge out of the sink and wipes the counter. “We can give it a shot, right?” she says.
“Right,” Boone replies. He pulls himself away from her to toss the empty dog food can in the trash. Take it slow, he thinks. Try for something real this time.
VIRGIL IS LYING on the couch in the mobile home watching cartoons with half a hard-on when T.K. comes out of the bathroom, freshly showered and smelling like aftershave, and says, “Breakfast time.” Fucking finally. Virgil feels paper-thin as he jumps up and puts on his Rays jersey and cap. Can’t they see he’s a growing boy?
He and T.K. walk up the dirt road to Taggert’s house, which looks like an overgrown shack that might crash to the ground if you leaned on it the wrong way. Must be painted five different colors, every one of them fading to gray. There’s all kinds of junk scattered around it too — pieces of cars and motorcycles, an old washing machine, a couple of shot-up stereo speakers. Virgil whips a rock at a lizard sunning itself on a discarded toilet bowl. A trickle of sweat runs down the crack of his ass. What kind of place is this hot at ten in the morning?
Taggert waves a spatula from a patio shaded by a tin awning. He’s cooking steaks on a gas grill. Spiller is there too, comfortable in a folding lawn chair, the beer in his hand tucked into a green coozie from Joshua Tree Liquor, and there’s a Mexican kid about Virgil’s age kicked back on the bench seat from an old car.
“You two sure make a cute couple,” Taggert rasps as Virgil and T.K. approach.
“Steak again,” T.K. says. “Man, I sure miss my Cheerios.”
Taggert motions to a cooler. “Grab yourselves a couple Buds,” he says.
T.K. waves him off. “Little early for me.”
“Not me,” Virgil says. He reaches in and takes a cold, wet can from the ice.
Spiller holds out a fat joint and says, “You probably want some of this too.”
Virgil hits it hard, then croaks around the mouthful of smoke, “You guys are my new best friends.” Taggert gives him a look he can’t figure out, half like a smile, half like he’d like to strangle him, and Virgil decides to keep his mouth shut for a while. He passes the joint to the Mexican and just grins and nods when Taggert says, “I hope you like your meat rare and your eggs scrambled, ’cause that’s the only way I do them.”
“Check this out,” Taggert says. He pulls something from his pocket that makes a sizzling sound when he shakes it and tosses it to T.K. “Got those off a snake we saw up at the new house this morning. Thing was huge, a man-eater. Spiller nearly dookied when he tripped over it.”
“Nice place you got here,” T.K. says. “Fucking snakes and scorpions and tarantulas and buzzards.” He passes the rattle to Virgil, who pinches it gingerly between his thumb and index finger.
“It’s what you call harsh beauty,” Taggert says. “Everything out here has to be tough or smart to survive, has to be ruthless.”
“I’ll take my chances in the hood,” T.K. replies. “Least motherfuckers there ain’t sneaking around trying to bite you.”
Taggert laughs and turns the steaks. Virgil holds out the rattle to him, but Taggert says, “Go on, keep it for a souvenir.”
Virgil would like to know when he can get out of here, back to L.A., but is too scared to ask. His sister, Olivia, might dig all this sand and sky, but it just makes him feel lost. He’s got enough cash left for a bus ticket to Tampa, and that’ll be that. He’s had his fill of California. Everything is so god-damn serious out here, and the cost of living way too high. A yellow jacket lands on the rim of his beer can, and he flicks it off.
T
aggert closes the lid of the grill. “Watch the beef,” he says to Spiller, then turns to Virgil. “Come on. I’ve got something to show you.”
Virgil is fine where he is, thanks very much, but there’s no way he’s telling Taggert this. He drags his feet when they step from the shade into the sun and has to squint to see as they walk across the yard.
“Are there a lot of snakes out here?” he asks.
“Man, this is snake heaven,” Taggert replies.
He leads Virgil down a dirt road toward the barn, a big corrugated steel structure set off a couple hundred feet from the house. They pass a rooster on the way, scratching in the sand, and a twitchy black cat Taggert calls Satan. A dog barks as they get closer, then another, then another, until Taggert practically has to shout to be heard when he says, “It’s like a god-damn zoo out here.”
Next to the barn is a coop full of muttering hens and a pen containing a small herd of goats. The goats rush the fence, climbing all over one another to poke their noses through. Virgil reaches down to scratch a few chins. They’re kind of cute, except for their devil eyes: yellow, with strange, slitlike pupils.
Taggert opens a gate and steps inside the pen, and the goats gather around him, some standing on their hind legs to rest their front hooves on his thighs. He bends over to take hold of a little brown one with a white muzzle, picks it up, and cradles it against his chest. “Hey there, kiddo,” he growls as he backs out of the pen and closes the gate.
The barn’s sliding door is halfway open. Virgil follows Taggert inside. The barking of the dogs is louder than ever, bouncing around the cavernous space. Thin shafts of light squeeze through pinholes in the walls and ceiling and spark the dust that swirls in the air. Virgil, really feeling the weed now, can’t ever remember seeing anything so beautiful. It looks like stars, like rivers of stars.
Taggert flips a switch, and the lights — big, bowl-shaped fixtures that hang from a beam overhead — go on. A tractor sits in one corner, partially covered by an oily canvas tarp. There’s also an assortment of hand tools, a table saw, and the chassis of a VW bug. In the center of the barn is a pen with three-foot plywood walls. It’s maybe twelve by twelve and floored with a piece of badly stained green carpet.
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