sir.
Boone reaches down to scratch the dog’s head. The animal looks up at him with a silly toothless grin and licks his fingers. Boone notices for the first time how skinny the dog is, ribs and vertebrae protruding. A welter of gray scars crisscrosses his body, a map of past pain. Boone takes out his wallet with the intention of slipping Carlos a little money to buy the animal some food but instead says in Spanish,
I’ll give you fifty dollars for the dog
.
“The dog?” Robo asks. “The one that just tried to fuck you up?”
Fifty,
Boone repeats.
Fuck, man,
Francisco says.
We won’t take less than sixty for that champion
.
The other men laugh.
Sixty, okay,
Boone says. He hands the money to Francisco, who fans his face with the bills and whistles loudly.
Does he have a name?
Boone asks.
“His name is Joto,” Francisco says in English. “Faggot.” The roommates laugh again. Boone tugs on the dog’s chain, and the animal follows him to the door.
Once more, thank you for your time,
Robo says before stepping out into the hall.
You gentlemen have a good night.
Will you find out what happened to Oscar?
Carlos asks from the doorway as Robo, Boone, and the dog walk to the stairwell.
I’m not the police,
Robo says over his shoulder.
It’s not my job. I only report to the grandfather.
Carlos points at Boone.
What about him?
It’s not his job either.
Boone and Robo walk down the stairs and through the entryway. Out on the street again, they head back toward the Tango Room. The dog is spooked by all the people milling about, all the noise. He cowers when an empty paper bag skids past, pushed along the sidewalk by a sudden gust of wind that slams windows shut up and down the block and ruins a hot hand in a car-hood poker game by flipping all the cards.
“You’re pretty good at that questioning thing,” Boone says to Robo. “You know, the LAPD is always looking for bilingual recruits.”
Robo chuckles. “Shit,
ese,
you know what those guys make?” he says. “I can’t support my family on that. And all the taxes?”
A disheveled woman in cutoff jeans and a flannel shirt stumbles out of an alley and almost bumps into them as she hurries to the curb. She sits hard and drops her head between her knees.
“So what now?” Boone asks Robo.
Robo shrugs and says, “That’s it for me. I got no other addresses, no other leads. I’ll tell the grandfather what I found out, and he can go to the cops if he wants, though he don’t have much to go to them with.”
One more mystery, Boone thinks. One more loose end in a world unraveling. “You gotta wonder what happened to that kid out there,” he says.
“That’s other people’s problems,” Robo replies. “I did my job, and I got paid.”
“Case closed, huh?”
“For real,
ese.
It’s all about the money, ain’t a damn thing funny. I’m barely gonna turn a profit on this after paying you and that wetback.”
“What about me?” Boone exclaims. “I got a fucking dog to feed out of the deal.”
“
Orale,
Joto,” Robo says, reaching down to pet the dog. The animal snaps at him, slinging slobber. Boone pulls the chain.
“Stupid motherfucker don’t even know he can’t bite no more,” Robo says. “Still thinks he’s some kind of killer. Good luck with that shit.”
6
B OONE RETURNS TO HIS CAR . J OTO HOPS INTO THE BACKSEAT without coercion and promptly flops down on his belly and goes to sleep. He doesn’t stir when Boone stops at Vons for dog food, stuff that looks like it’s soft enough for him to chew, and Boone has to shake him awake when they arrive at the bungalows.
As they are passing through the courtyard, the dog freezes, eyes locked on an overgrown bougainvillea bush, a low rumble thrumming deep in his chest. Boone tugs on his chain, but the dog refuses to move, so Boone crouches behind him and squints over his head in an attempt to figure out what’s got him riled.
The bougainvillea is illuminated from below by the Malibu
Boone reaches down to scratch the dog’s head. The animal looks up at him with a silly toothless grin and licks his fingers. Boone notices for the first time how skinny the dog is, ribs and vertebrae protruding. A welter of gray scars crisscrosses his body, a map of past pain. Boone takes out his wallet with the intention of slipping Carlos a little money to buy the animal some food but instead says in Spanish,
I’ll give you fifty dollars for the dog
.
“The dog?” Robo asks. “The one that just tried to fuck you up?”
Fifty,
Boone repeats.
Fuck, man,
Francisco says.
We won’t take less than sixty for that champion
.
The other men laugh.
Sixty, okay,
Boone says. He hands the money to Francisco, who fans his face with the bills and whistles loudly.
Does he have a name?
Boone asks.
“His name is Joto,” Francisco says in English. “Faggot.” The roommates laugh again. Boone tugs on the dog’s chain, and the animal follows him to the door.
Once more, thank you for your time,
Robo says before stepping out into the hall.
You gentlemen have a good night.
Will you find out what happened to Oscar?
Carlos asks from the doorway as Robo, Boone, and the dog walk to the stairwell.
I’m not the police,
Robo says over his shoulder.
It’s not my job. I only report to the grandfather.
Carlos points at Boone.
What about him?
It’s not his job either.
Boone and Robo walk down the stairs and through the entryway. Out on the street again, they head back toward the Tango Room. The dog is spooked by all the people milling about, all the noise. He cowers when an empty paper bag skids past, pushed along the sidewalk by a sudden gust of wind that slams windows shut up and down the block and ruins a hot hand in a car-hood poker game by flipping all the cards.
“You’re pretty good at that questioning thing,” Boone says to Robo. “You know, the LAPD is always looking for bilingual recruits.”
Robo chuckles. “Shit,
ese,
you know what those guys make?” he says. “I can’t support my family on that. And all the taxes?”
A disheveled woman in cutoff jeans and a flannel shirt stumbles out of an alley and almost bumps into them as she hurries to the curb. She sits hard and drops her head between her knees.
“So what now?” Boone asks Robo.
Robo shrugs and says, “That’s it for me. I got no other addresses, no other leads. I’ll tell the grandfather what I found out, and he can go to the cops if he wants, though he don’t have much to go to them with.”
One more mystery, Boone thinks. One more loose end in a world unraveling. “You gotta wonder what happened to that kid out there,” he says.
“That’s other people’s problems,” Robo replies. “I did my job, and I got paid.”
“Case closed, huh?”
“For real,
ese.
It’s all about the money, ain’t a damn thing funny. I’m barely gonna turn a profit on this after paying you and that wetback.”
“What about me?” Boone exclaims. “I got a fucking dog to feed out of the deal.”
“
Orale,
Joto,” Robo says, reaching down to pet the dog. The animal snaps at him, slinging slobber. Boone pulls the chain.
“Stupid motherfucker don’t even know he can’t bite no more,” Robo says. “Still thinks he’s some kind of killer. Good luck with that shit.”
6
B OONE RETURNS TO HIS CAR . J OTO HOPS INTO THE BACKSEAT without coercion and promptly flops down on his belly and goes to sleep. He doesn’t stir when Boone stops at Vons for dog food, stuff that looks like it’s soft enough for him to chew, and Boone has to shake him awake when they arrive at the bungalows.
As they are passing through the courtyard, the dog freezes, eyes locked on an overgrown bougainvillea bush, a low rumble thrumming deep in his chest. Boone tugs on his chain, but the dog refuses to move, so Boone crouches behind him and squints over his head in an attempt to figure out what’s got him riled.
The bougainvillea is illuminated from below by the Malibu
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