“To do what?” Evan asks.
Van Sciver has to look down to meet his eyes. “No one knows.”
Chapter 2
Serious Business
Sixty-five motherfucking dollars.
That’s all it costs to jar your life off track. No—not just off track. Pile-driven into the side of a mountain like a locomotive blasted off the rails.
That’s why Andrew Duran was here working the midnight shift at an impound lot on the East Side, crammed into a booth not much bigger than a doghouse, breathing in the overpowering scent of Old Spice deodorant from Juan, who worked the shift before him. Minimum wage put Duran at $420 a week, but by the time federal, state, Social Security, Medicare, and wage garnishment took a bite outta him, it looked more like $300 out the back end. Which was about $500 less than what he needed to pay for child support and food and a roof over his head, but then again he could be a broke-ass beggar selling smoked-down cigarette butts in Calcutta, so he tried not to complain.
Perspective.
That’s what they talked about on all them self-help podcasts. That’s what they talked about in the meetings, too. But there for the grace of God. One day at a time. Nothing’s so bad a drink won’t make it worse.
Clichés, sure, but he’d lost enough already not heeding them. He’d lost everything.
He sighed and stared through the grease-smudged window, king of all he surveyed. Which at the moment was a labyrinth of smashed-to-hell impound vehicles—rusting VW Bugs, wrecked Ferraris, twisted American muscle. Some had blood spatter on the headrests. Others had claw marks scouring the paint jobs at the trunks where the drug dogs got after it. A few, missing wheels, had been hauled in here on the back of a trailer and left for dead.
His job was to watch over them and sign off on a confusion of forms when cops or tow-truck drivers or beleaguered owners came to claim them.
Cerebral work, this.
How he’d gotten here from owning his own home—even a shitty-ass one-bedroom in the city of El Sereno—he’d never know. Wait, scratch that. He did know.
Sixty-five motherfucking dollars.
For a motherfucking parking ticket he got in the twenty seconds when he ran inside a liquor store to get change for the meter. He’d stopped for lunch in Bakersfield on his way to visit his homey in Kern Valley State Prison eighteen months back. Twenty seconds was all it took.
Duran couldn’t pay it ’cuz he’d promised Brianna he’d hit the child-support mark that month for Sofia, who was turning eleven and needed better clothes for middle school. Which she deserved, ’cuz, shit, she drew the short straw when she got him as a daddy, so the least he could try’n do was help Bri get her some shirts from Walmart instead of the Salvation Army so the kids wouldn’t make fun of her the way he got made fun of his whole damn childhood.
So he’d spent the sixty-five bucks on his daughter instead of on the Bakersfield Department of Transportation. And a few weeks later when he was pulled over for a broke taillight ($25 fine, $2 surcharge, $35 court dismissal fee, $115 parts and labor to actually fix the piece of shit), he got another surprise when the cop ran the plates. An outstanding warrant. Turned out that Johnny Mac, Duran’s supervisor on the roof-inspection gig, had put on a half dozen parking tickets when he’d borrowed Duran’s car for lunch runs, and he’d torn up every last one like the Irish fuck he was. On top of that shit, Duran learned he’d already missed a court date he didn’t even know he had, and failure to appear was serious business, even it was for Johnny Mac’s tickets.
The cop wrote up every last late fee, every penalty assessment, every vehicle-code infraction, the accrued fines tripling and tripling till they had more zeros than the national deficit.
Duran felt himself slumping in the driver’s seat, a punch-drunk boxer on a ring-corner stool. “This is some bullshit,” he muttered. “I was on my way to fix it.”
“You’re one of those, huh?” the cop said. “Nothing’s ever your fault?”
“Nope,” Duran said. “I make plenty of mistakes, just like everyone else. But guys like me don’t catch a break when they need it.”
The cop tore off the sheaf of tickets, handed them through the window, then breathed out a breath that smelled like Tic Tacs. “Ah,” he said, smiling with his shiny white teeth. “Lemme guess. I’m a racist, right?”
“No,” Duran said, “I’m thinking you’re enough of a asshole to do this to rich white dudes, too.”
That didn’t go over so hot.
The courtroom was packed to the gills, all body heat and working-class weariness, the judge hammering through her docket. Duran’s was the seventeenth case that hour.
He had some scrawled notes he’d prepared from late-night online searches, but ever since childhood courthouses had made him nervous. His hands were sweaty enough to make the ink run, and the judge was exhausted and impatient, and he couldn’t really blame her, ’cuz he was stuttering like a idiot and she had a million more cases to get through before lunch.
She’d imposed a civil judgment, the statute getting an upgrade from an infraction to a misdemeanor, and his only real option to clear the warrant was to go to jail. Turns out it was pay-to-stay up in those parts—$100 booking fee, $50 each day inside. A week to get out meant a fat hotel bill and enough missed appointments for Johnny Mac to fire his ass, and in the meantime them parking tickets kept gobbling up interest and penalties like Pac-Man snarfing him some dots.
When Duran hit the outside, he scrambled for work, took whatever he could find. They garnished his wages, but he swore he’d only let that eat into him and not Sofia. For the income he sublet his tiny little house in El Sereno to a Korean businessman who was barely ever in the country but whose checks never bounced. Then he sold his car for more cash and rented a not-to-code room above a Chinese kitchen. He mailed a check every month to Brianna with a note to use it well for his little girl.
Who he was too ashamed to see.
Living where he was in a place no social worker would approve for visitation. Dressing like he did. Smelling like he did, the stink of General Tso’s chicken seeping up through the floorboards at all hours. He could hardly stand to look in the mirror. He couldn’t imagine what he would look like to Sofia. He’d been through a lot, but he thought if his little girl looked at him with disgust—or worse, pity—it just might break him for good.
Sofia begged to see him—Bri angrily recounted every last tear for him in their monthly call. And he wanted nothing in the world more than to see her. But something stopped him. An invisible hand on his shoulder, keeping him from stepping forward. That familiar voice in his ear, whispering, You ain’t good enough.
You don’t deserve it.
Not until he paid off the last $775 he owed in fines. Till he moved back into his house like he was his own man and fixed up a proper bed for his little girl to sleep in. Till he saved enough to show up with a properly wrapped toy and take her out for a meal and not worry about if she ordered a soda or got a appetizer, too.
Six months had turned into a year and now a year and change, and he caught himself wondering if he’d be able to face his little girl at all—if she even was still a little girl. Wondering if his shame and pride had already cost him everything. She couldn’t know he was scraping by and washing his sheets in the sink with hand soap so he could honor his child support. She couldn’t know he thought about her every waking minute of the day.
She probably felt abandoned. And rightly so.
He knew that feeling, too, knew it in his gut. It was an old song, calling to him from shore, luring him into the jagged rocks.
His stomach grumbled. A Three Musketeers bar from the cabinet cost fifty cents. He kept most of his money in a zippered pouch because fuck ATM fees. He unzipped it now, counted out the change, and left it in the dish. He knew by heart how much he had in the pouch—$147.85 minus one Three Musketeers bar with the employee discount would leave him with $147.35.
He chewed the chocolaty nougat and thought of the sme
ll of Sofia’s head when she was a newborn. How he’d held her in the hospital first ’cuz Bri was whacked out from the C-section. Sofia had fit right in his arms, that warm tiny body snug between his elbows and wrists when he held her out before him on his lap. Looking down at her, he thought he’d finally done one right thing in this life.
All at once the security monitors on the north wall of the doghouse kiosk turned to fuzz.
They’d never gone out before. He slapped the side of the nearest monitor a few times as if that might help. Then he leaned over and checked the cord connections, but they all looked good.
He was so distracted that he didn’t notice the two people who had walked up to the service window till they were standing right in front of him.
The dude had a thin manicured beard and a high-fashion suit like you wouldn’t believe—some kind of not-quite-velvet with dark blue strips lining the lapels and a handkerchief to match. Duran’s two-sizes-too-big security uniform, made more humiliating by the contrast, itched as he regarded the man. Homey looked like he belonged on a red carpet somewhere instead of an East Side impound lot. He was built too—not a swole prison body but like he spent plenty of time in one of them CrossFit gyms where they jump around and swing kettlebells like circus monkeys.
The woman at his side looked equally out of place here, all shiny and new. The organizing principle of her life seemed to be the color red. Red nails, a red hair scrunchie, red pumps, red lipstick, red buckle on her satchel briefcase. Fluffy blond hair like cotton candy.
Duran was so taken aback he needed a moment to find his voice. “Help you?”
“I hope so.” The man’s voice was slightly too high, almost feminine, and it sure as shit didn’t match his alpha-dog bearing or the way he filled out that suit. “We’re trying to find the man who belongs to that truck.” He spoke properly, but there was a street cadence beneath the words that Duran knew all too well. It was like the guy had listened to a bunch of rich people on TV and was doing his best to imitate them.
Dude gave a nod to a Bronco at the end of the nearest row. Crumpled grille, bashed front panel, wires snarled out from the shattered mouth of the headlight.
Duran hoisted his eyebrows. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the black-and-white dots dancing on the security monitors. “You don’t look like no Marshals Service.”
“I know,” the woman said sympathetically. “That’s the point.”
She had a full face of makeup and was attractive at first glance, but Duran got the sense that she looked like a different human when that mask was wiped off.
“Jake Hargreave is his name,” Mr. Slick said. “The man who belongs to that Bronco. There was a shoot-out on the 110, and he crashed and abandoned the vehicle. You can see why it’s a necessity for us to talk with him.”
The man produced a badge and held it out for Duran to see, but Duran didn’t know what he should be looking at, so he just tugged at his chin and frowned as if this answered everything.
The woman unbuckled her briefcase and removed an envelope. “We pay our confidential informants,” she said. “For tips.”
She counted ten hundreds from the envelope onto the counter, fanning them like a casino cashier’s cards. Duran could feel his eyes bulging. A grand meant he’d be out from under those loans. Free and clear. That he could find his way back to his house. And then to his daughter.
The woman gathered up the bills, tapped them once on the counter to align them, and slid them into the envelope again. Neat little magic trick, making all that cash disappear.
The man ran his thumb and forefinger around his mouth, smoothing down the glistening chestnut facial hair. “Owners require an appointment to claim their vehicle, is that correct?”
Duran said, “Don’t know if they require it, but pretty much everyone calls first to make sure their car’s here, yeah.”
“When the man sets up his appointment to claim the car, we’d appreciate a heads-up,” the woman said. She raised the envelope, gave it a shake for emphasis, and put it back in her satchel briefcase. “We can take it from there.”
“Why don’t you just pull the files?” Duran said. “If you’re Marshals Service. Track him down your own selves?”
“We have,” the man said, that thin, reedy voice unexpected each time out. “He’s gone to ground. But he needs his truck.” He was smiling again, like he was the most pleasant guy in the world. “And we need him.”
Duran realized he was sweating. Like his body knew something his mind couldn’t grasp.
The man cocked his head. Not meeting Duran’s gaze, but focusing lower, the just-missed eye contact unsettling. “You broke your jaw,” he told Duran. “When you were a child.”
Duran’s hand rose reflexively, touching the spot where a punch had cracked the bone. It was just a hairline, treated with a bag of frozen peas and a paper cup to drool into, and it had left no visible imperfection. At least that’s what Duran had always thought.
“A closed fracture,” the man continued, his eyes lasering in. “Up by the temporomandibular joint. Must’ve hurt something awful.”
Duran didn’t like the look in the guy’s eyes. Like he was hungry.
Duran forced a swallow, his throat suddenly dry.
The man finally broke off his gaze, jotted down a phone number on a blank slip of paper, and handed it to Duran. “Carrot or stick,” he told Duran with that amicable smile. “You get to choose.”
They turned and walked out of the yard.
As soon as they cleared the outer fence, the security feeds blinked back online. Either those deputy marshals had some mage-level government tech skills. Or it was a helluva coincidence.
Duran looked at the monitors, showing nothing now but the empty lot and the midnight mist creeping in. It thickened up until the city lights winked off, until the cars barely peeked out like boulders on some desolate mountaintop. He chewed his lip and thought about the bizarre woman and the guy staring at his jaw with that odd expression. He thought about what the U.S. Marshals Service could do to him if he didn’t cooperate. He thought about that thousand dollars.
They needed his help. No—they’d demanded it.
Okay, he thought.
Why not? he thought.
What’s the worst that could happen?
Chapter 3
Whittled Down to Uselessness
A week later Evan is awakened by a foot in his chest. It is nothing personal. As the smallest kid, he sleeps on the mattress between the bunk beds, and this is what happens. His eyes open to a slow-motion stampede. Andre, back from another fruitless parent search, is the only one who bothers to whisper an apology.
The others are rushing quietly to the doorway, peering around the jamb with a sort of thrilled terror. The frame itself is crosshatched with countless height markers that Papa Z notched with his pocketknife this summer, another endeavor whittled down to uselessness given the turnover rates of the boys. Evan crawls over; the only space left at the doorjamb is floor-level.
From his snail’s-eye view down the long hall, Evan catches a partial angle of Papa Z embedded in his venerable armchair, one meaty fist clamped around a Coors tallboy. His face and neck are splotchy red; it is not the first beer of the evening.
A hushed voice emanates from the space across from him, over by the shit-brown corduroy couch with the missing cushion. “—can only take one right now. Sure it’s a way out. But he needs to show an ability to perform.”
“Charles has that,” Papa Z confirms. He draws again from the sweating can, his tree-trunk throat glugging up and down.
Van Sciver has gone stiff in the doorway. Evan can sense him above, as tense as a dog pointing to prey.
Jamal whispers, “Is that…?”
“The Mystery Man,” Ramón confirms before Van Sciver hushes them viciously.
“Charles seems the most likely,” the hushed voice says. “Or the other one. Andre.”
Andre pulls his head back slightly.
Down th
e hall Papa Z wipes his lips. “What about Evan?”
They strain to make out the Mystery Man’s voice. “The little one?”
“Yup.”
“Too small.”
“But willful,” Papa Z says. “So willful.”
“Nah,” Mystery Man says. “The little one’s no good.”
Muted sneers rain down on Evan. Then cease instantly as the weary floorboards of the living room creak.
Mystery Man steps into view, a facial profile over bony shoulders. Two slender fingers clamp a business card, extended to Papa Z. That gold watch glints. The Ray-Bans are on, even inside, even at night.
“Have Charles Van Sciver call,” he says.
The boys creep back to bed, buzzed on adrenaline. Whispered theories and dirty jokes fly back and forth.
“I’m gonna do it,” Van Sciver says. “Whatever the fuck it is, I’m gonna do it.”
“How ’bout Andre?” Ramón asks. “Mystery Man got his eye on him, too.”
“Oh, no, sir,” Van Sciver says. “Andre’s gonna move in with his mom and pop. Just as soon as he finds ’em. Ain’t that right, Andre?”
“What do you say, Dr. Dre?” Tyrell says. “You find your daddy this time?”
Assorted guffaws.
Andre doesn’t bother to look up from his spiral notebook, the one he draws in constantly, sketches of superheroes and soldiers and curvy girls. He hates being called Dr. Dre, almost as much as he hates being called Dre-Dre or his middle name, some crazy-ass biblical word written on his birth certificate that even he doesn’t know how to pronounce. The home is a perpetual testing ground, every insecurity exposed, every vulnerability jabbed until it broke you or you broke it.
“Least my sister ain’t no whore,” Andre says.
Tyrell’s eyes widen, white against his shiny dark skin. “Least I know who my family is, bitch.”
Ramón laughs, claps his hands quietly, his skinny arms so thin they look like they might snap from the impact. “Always good to know ’zactly who don’t want you.”
The List Page 5
