cake. You don't know how hard it's been without you. I haven't touched your room. It'll be good to have you back-'
I followed him in. 'Urn, Dad. I don't know how long I can stay. I have a job - '
'A job. That's good. What kind of a job?'
'I'm not really allowed to discuss it. It's that kind of a job.'
'Oh. You're working for the government.'
'I'm not really allowed to discuss it. I'm not even supposed to be here, but-'
'That's all right, I understand. We'll talk about other things. Come sit. Sit. You'll stay for dinner. It'll be like old times. I have spaghetti sauce in the freezer. Just the way you like it. No, it's no trouble at all. I still cook for two, even though it's just me and that old dog, too stubborn to die. Both of us.'
I didn't tell him that wasn't true. I didn't tell him that he and that stubborn old dog would both be gone in a few short months. I rubbed my eyes, suddenly full of water. This was harder than I thought.
Somewhere between the spaghetti and the ice cream, Dad asked what had happened over there. I struggled inside, trying to figure out what to say, how to say it, realized it couldn't be explained, and simply finally shrugged and said, 'It was… what it was.' Dad knew me well enough to know that was all the answer he was going to get, and that was the end of that. The walls were comfortably up again.
Somewhere after the ice cream, I realized we didn't have all that much to talk about anymore. Not really. But that was okay. Just being able to watch him, just being able to skritch the dog behind the ears again, that was okay. That was enough. So I let him talk me into spending the night. My old bed felt familiar and different, both at the same time. I didn't sleep much. In the middle of the night, Shotgun oozed up onto the foot of the bed and sprawled out lazily, pushing me off to the side, grum-pling his annoyance that I was taking up so much room; every so often, he farted his opinion of the spaghetti sauce, then after a while he began snoring, a wheezing-whistling noise. He was still snoring loudly when the first glow of morning seeped in the window.
Over breakfast, I told a lie. Told Dad I was on assignment. That part wasn't a lie.
But I told him the assignment was somewhere east, I couldn't say exactly where, but I'd call him whenever I could. He pretended to understand. 'Dad,' I said. 'I just wanted you to know, you didn't lose me. Okay?'
'I know,' he said. And he held me for a long time before finally releasing me with a clap on the shoulder. 'You go get the bad guys,' he said, something he'd said to me all my life-from the day he'd given me my first cowboy hat and cap pistol. Something he said again the day I got on the plane to Nam. You go get the bad guys.
'I will, Dad. I promise.'
I kissed him. I hadn't kissed him since I was eight, but I kissed him now. Then I drove away quickly, feeling confused and embarrassed.
It was a drizzly day, mostly gray. Skipped the gym, filled the tank, drove around the city, locating the homes of the other seven victims. Two lived in the dorms at UCLA, Dykstra and Sproul. Didn't know if they knew each other. Maybe. One was a T.A. major, the other music. Another lived with a roommate (lover?) in a cheap apartment off of Melrose, almost walking distance from me, except in L.A., there's no such thing as 'walking distance.' If it's more than two doors down, you drive.
One lived way the hell out in Azusa. That was a long drive, even with the I-10 freeway. Another in the north end of the San Fernando Valley. All these soft boys, so lonely for a place to be accepted that they'd drive twenty- thirty miles to stand around in a cruddy green patio-to stand around with other soft boys.
Something went klunk. Like a nickel dropping in a soda machine. One of those small insights that explains everything. This was puberty for these boys. Adolescence. The first date, the first kiss, the first chance to hold hands with someone special. Delayed, postponed, a decade's worth of longing-while everybody around you celebrates life, you pretend, suppress, inhibit, deprive yourself of your own joy-but finally, ultimately, eventually, you find a place where you can have a taste of everything denied. It's heady, exciting, giddy. Yes. This is why they drive so far. Hormones. Pheromones. Whatever. The only bright light in a darkened landscape. They can't stay away. This is home-the only place where they can be themselves.
Okay. Now, figure out the predator-
I got back to the apartment, the drizzle had turned to showers. Matt was sitting by the door, arms wrapped around his knees. A half-full knapsack next to him. He scrambled to his feet, both hopeful and terrified. And flustered. He looked damp and disheveled. A red mark on his forehead, another on his neck.
'Are you all right?'
'I couldn't find the key-'
'Oh, shit. I forgot to put it under the mat-'
'I thought you were angry with me - '
'Oh, kiddo, no. I screwed up. You didn't do anything wrong. It's my fuckup. Shit, you must have thought-on top of everything else - '
Before I could finish the sentence, he started crying.
'What happened -? No, wait-' I fumbled the key into the lock, pushed him inside, grabbed his knapsack, closed the door behind us, steered him to the kitchen table, took down a bottle of Glenfiddich, poured two shots.
He stopped crying long enough to sniff the glass. 'What is this?' He took a sip anyway. 'It burns.'
'It's supposed to. It's single-malt whiskey. Scotch.' I sat down opposite him. 'I went to see-someone. My dad. I haven't seen him in a while, and this might be the last time. I wasn't supposed to, but I did it anyway. I spent the night, I slept in my old room, my old bed. What you said yesterday, it made me think-'
He didn't hear me. He swallowed hard, gulped. 'My mom called me at work. She said I should come home and pick up my things. My dad wouldn't be there. Only she was wrong. He came home early. He started beating me - '
I reached over and lifted up his shirt. He had red marks on his side, on his back, on his shoulders, on his arms. He winced when I touched his side.
Got up, went into the bathroom, pulled out the first-aid kit. Almost a doctor's bag. Stethoscope, tape, ointment, bandages, a flask, even a small bottle of morphine and a needle. Also brass knuckles and a blackjack. And some other toys. You learn as you go. Came back into the kitchen, pulled his shirt off, smeared ointment on the reddest marks, then taped his ribs. Did it all without talking. I was too angry to speak. Finally: 'Did you get all your stuff?'
He shook his head.
'All right, let's go get it.'
'We can't-'
Grabbed his arm, pulled him to his feet, pulled him out the door, down the stairs, and out to the car, ignoring the rain. 'You need your clothes, your shoes, your-whatever else belongs to you. It's yours.'
'My dad'll-he's too big! Please don't-'
I already had the car in gear. 'Fasten your seatbelt, Matt. What's that thing that Bette Davis says? It's going to be a bumpy night.' The tires squealed as I turned out onto Melrose.
I turned south on Fairfax, splashing through puddles. Neither of us said anything for a bit.
When I turned right on Third, he said, 'Mike. I don't want you to do this.'
'I hear you.' I continued to drive.
'I'm not going to tell you where I live -lived.'
'I already know.'
'How?'
'I'm your fairy godfather, that's how. Don't ask.'
'You are no fairy,' he said. Then he added, sadly, 'I am.'
'Well, I guess that's why you need a godfather.'
'What are you gonna do?'
I grinned. 'I'm gonna make him an offer he can't refuse.'
Matt didn't get the joke, of course. It wouldn't be a joke for another five years. But that was okay. I got it.
Turned left, turned right. Pulled up in front of a tiny, well-tended house. Matt followed me out of the car, up the walk. The front door yanked open. Matt was right-he was big. An ape. But he wasn't a trained one. The scattershot bruises on his son were proof of that. He'd substituted size for skill. Probably done it all his life. He wore an ugly scowl. 'Who are you?' he demanded.
Gave him the only answer he was entitled to. Punched him hard in the chest, shoving him straight back into the
