pressured.
“By the cops?”
“By anyone. Why would the cops ask me about you?”
Sly smile. “I dunno. They come in, you tell ’em, right?”
“Wrong.”
“What if they busted you and beat your ass?”
“I’d have nothing to tell them.” I showed him his chart. “This is what I write every time you’re here.”
He flipped pages. Read. The identical note every week: “Patient doing well.”
He said, “That’s bullshit, man. I’m fucked
up
.” He laughed. And remained jocular for the rest of the session.
When he arrived looking settled, we talked in my office. When he was antsy, we moved to the garden where he got a huge kick out of feeding the fish and threatened to come back with a hook and line to “catch their asses for dinner.”
When he flagged he asked for juice. Soon, he began thanking me for “keeping it nice and cold, man. You got beer?”
“Not for you.”
“
Awww.
”
“How about vodka?”
“Really?”
“No.”
A couple of times sitting anywhere wouldn’t do and we walked. Leaving the property and getting as far as the Glen before returning. Once we spotted hawks circling and I had to disabuse him of the notion that they were those “vultans that eat dead stuff.”
I learned about him. The TV he watched, the movies he liked, the foods he enjoyed. A girl in his class that had “like tits out to here, man, and prolly a real hairy pussy.”
The subject of his father never came up. Same for his gang heritage. Not a word about the drive-bys in his Boyle Heights neighborhood, including two fatal attacks reported in the papers that I looked up in my Thomas Guide and found to be walking distance from his house.
Same for diabetes.
On the twelfth session, I took the risk.
“Let me ask you something, Effo.”
“What?”
“You’re a smart guy—more than smart, you’re sharp, perceptive—you see things clearly—”
“I know what that means, man.” Grin. “Like a college perceptor.”
“On top of being smart, you like yourself. Which is good, that’s a sign of strength. You also understand all about diabetes. The scientific part.”
“All that shit? Keep the sugar smooth, man.”
“Exactly,” I said. “So how come when they sent you to me you weren’t keeping it smooth? I’m asking ’cause I’m curious.”
Shifting sideways, he stretched prone on the couch. “Know what I’m doing, lying down?”
“What?”
“I saw it on TV, they say that’s the way you spose to do the head-doc shit.”
I smiled. “Make yourself comfortable.”
He closed his eyes. His breathing slowed and I figured he’d sleep, or fake it, to avoid answering.
He said, “Why’d I do it?”
The eyes opened. He turned sideways. Winked. “It’s the diabetes, man. That shit don’t fit my
lifestyle
.”
I thought:
Lifestyle? You dumb kid, you’re lucky you still have a life
.
I said, “Okay, makes sense.”
CHAPTER
11
Detective Millie Rivera said, “Looks like you chose the right patient. I never figured Effo could be right about anything but being wrong. When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Years ago.”
“What’d you treat him for?”
I shook my head.
She said, “I hope it wasn’t for his antisocial tendencies. If so, it didn’t work, Doctor. He’s a serious gangster, climbed higher in the gang after his father died. In Pelican Bay. Know anything about that place?”
“Worst of the worst.”
“It’s probably where Effo will end up one day, Doctor. Who knows, he might even inherit Poppy’s cell.”
Heat had come into her voice. Her left wrist rolled up and down a chunky thigh. Working gang detail is an infinite process with infrequent satisfaction.
Rivera turned to Milo. “Big-time killer, now he’s a good citizen, go figure.”
I said, “You’re North Hollywood. Did Effo change his turf from East L.A.?”
Milo said, “He’s got a business in North Hollywood.”
“Alleged business,” said Rivera. “Car stereo place. Where bangers go for
“By the cops?”
“By anyone. Why would the cops ask me about you?”
Sly smile. “I dunno. They come in, you tell ’em, right?”
“Wrong.”
“What if they busted you and beat your ass?”
“I’d have nothing to tell them.” I showed him his chart. “This is what I write every time you’re here.”
He flipped pages. Read. The identical note every week: “Patient doing well.”
He said, “That’s bullshit, man. I’m fucked
up
.” He laughed. And remained jocular for the rest of the session.
When he arrived looking settled, we talked in my office. When he was antsy, we moved to the garden where he got a huge kick out of feeding the fish and threatened to come back with a hook and line to “catch their asses for dinner.”
When he flagged he asked for juice. Soon, he began thanking me for “keeping it nice and cold, man. You got beer?”
“Not for you.”
“
Awww.
”
“How about vodka?”
“Really?”
“No.”
A couple of times sitting anywhere wouldn’t do and we walked. Leaving the property and getting as far as the Glen before returning. Once we spotted hawks circling and I had to disabuse him of the notion that they were those “vultans that eat dead stuff.”
I learned about him. The TV he watched, the movies he liked, the foods he enjoyed. A girl in his class that had “like tits out to here, man, and prolly a real hairy pussy.”
The subject of his father never came up. Same for his gang heritage. Not a word about the drive-bys in his Boyle Heights neighborhood, including two fatal attacks reported in the papers that I looked up in my Thomas Guide and found to be walking distance from his house.
Same for diabetes.
On the twelfth session, I took the risk.
“Let me ask you something, Effo.”
“What?”
“You’re a smart guy—more than smart, you’re sharp, perceptive—you see things clearly—”
“I know what that means, man.” Grin. “Like a college perceptor.”
“On top of being smart, you like yourself. Which is good, that’s a sign of strength. You also understand all about diabetes. The scientific part.”
“All that shit? Keep the sugar smooth, man.”
“Exactly,” I said. “So how come when they sent you to me you weren’t keeping it smooth? I’m asking ’cause I’m curious.”
Shifting sideways, he stretched prone on the couch. “Know what I’m doing, lying down?”
“What?”
“I saw it on TV, they say that’s the way you spose to do the head-doc shit.”
I smiled. “Make yourself comfortable.”
He closed his eyes. His breathing slowed and I figured he’d sleep, or fake it, to avoid answering.
He said, “Why’d I do it?”
The eyes opened. He turned sideways. Winked. “It’s the diabetes, man. That shit don’t fit my
lifestyle
.”
I thought:
Lifestyle? You dumb kid, you’re lucky you still have a life
.
I said, “Okay, makes sense.”
CHAPTER
11
Detective Millie Rivera said, “Looks like you chose the right patient. I never figured Effo could be right about anything but being wrong. When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Years ago.”
“What’d you treat him for?”
I shook my head.
She said, “I hope it wasn’t for his antisocial tendencies. If so, it didn’t work, Doctor. He’s a serious gangster, climbed higher in the gang after his father died. In Pelican Bay. Know anything about that place?”
“Worst of the worst.”
“It’s probably where Effo will end up one day, Doctor. Who knows, he might even inherit Poppy’s cell.”
Heat had come into her voice. Her left wrist rolled up and down a chunky thigh. Working gang detail is an infinite process with infrequent satisfaction.
Rivera turned to Milo. “Big-time killer, now he’s a good citizen, go figure.”
I said, “You’re North Hollywood. Did Effo change his turf from East L.A.?”
Milo said, “He’s got a business in North Hollywood.”
“Alleged business,” said Rivera. “Car stereo place. Where bangers go for
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