'Maybe you studied them in school a long time ago,' she said. 'You didn't just vibe it out of thin air.'
'Right…' He turned and walked back out to the lawn to again sit on the old metal chair looking out at the canals.
Their Venice house had started to feel like home again. Shane was determined not to return to the asset- seizure house on North Chalon Road except to pick up his things and get Franco. Something told him there was hidden danger for him there. Hubris and ambition lived in that house. It had started to creep inside and poison him. More and more, he worried about his soul. Some would probably call that growth, but Shane suspected that the barrier that held back his psychic demons was crumbling.
Like Carol White, he also had some dangerous flaws. Carol's flaw had been her foolish dream. Her drug was heroin. His flaw was foolish pride. His drug was self-deception. Alexa returned with a beer for him. He pulled the tab, contemplating his family's future.
'What is it? You have something else you need to tell me,' she said softly. When he didn't answer, she pressed on. 'C'mon, Shane, in your dream, Amac didn't just tell you about courageous Aztec Indians.'
'You're right.' His resolution silently forming, he turned to face her. 'Alexa, I want to make a place here for Delfina when she gets out of the hospital.'
'You're kidding…'
'No, I mean it. She has nobody left here in California. With Amac gone, she's all alone-'
'You're right. It's okay, honey.'
'You don't mind?'
'Take 'yes' for an answer.' She was smiling at him.
'I was thinking we could make a room out of the garage for Chooch. Give her Chooch's room. We could all park our cars in the alley.'
'No problem.'
God, he loved her.
They sat in silence. Night finally descended, swallowing the heavy gray mist in the process.
While Alexa locked up, Shane walked into their bedroom, bone tired. He sat on the bed, then took off his shoes and socks. That's when he noticed a paper on his pillow.
It was Chooch's college essay, with a note clipped onto the front.
Dad, It's finally ready for you to read.
Love, Chooch
HEROES
by
Charles Sandoval Scully
I am six years old, and I am standing in a large room full of toys. I've been told by my teacher that I can only have one, but it is a terribly difficult choice because often I think I want something, but once I have it, I tire of it quickly. I know I must choose, so I study the shelves carefully. Do I want the policeman set, or the tin soldiers? The fire engine, or the doctor set?
I spend almost an hour vacillating-taking one thing off the shelf and almost deciding, before putting it back and choosing another.
I stand looking at the toys, but I cannot choose.
I am fifteen, looking down at my mother's grave, trying to understand my thoughts. She never let me see inside her, never let me know who she really was. I hated her for most of my life… hated her for what she did, for the way she made her living. She sold herself for money, but in the end, she died trying to save me.
I never really knew her, and now that she's gone, I don't know how I feel. Do I hate her? Do I pity her? Do I wish she was alive? Is she better off where she is? Am I better off because she's gone? I do not know. I cannot choose.
I am fifteen and a half, and I'm in a Mexican street gang.
I'm standing with my carnal, a powerful leader. We are brothers and I worship him, but there are guns on the bed. We are planning a payback shooting-a drive-by.
I feel I don't belong here, but I have made so many bad choices in my life that I'm trapped. Do I say no? Do I walk away, and disappoint my brothers? Will they kill me if I leave? Do I pick up a gun and kill a stranger? My big brother says we are fighting to free our people, but is that true? Could it possibly be right to kill, even for a cause?
I do not know… I cannot choose.
But now I am afraid and frightened for my soul.
I am seventeen, standing in my father's den. My new life's choices, like that roomful of toys long ago, are spread out in front of me.
Do I want to be a policeman like my father, or a soldier? Do I want to be a doctor or a fireman?
I have come a long way, and I know I must finally choose. My father is strong and fair. I love and trust him enough to be afraid in front of him. But he cannot help me. The choice is mine alone.
When I was six, my idols were Batman and Superman. I thought I would never find somebody real to look up to. But now I know I was searching for my heroes too high up and too far away. My heroes were always right there in front of me: my mother, who died to save me; my big brother Amac, who tried to achieve an impossible dream to set me free against all odds; my strong, courageous father, who risks everything for me every day.
From him, I have finally learned that to be truly happy, I must live my life for others. I must not take joy from status or power, but from my accomplishments, and the way I chose to accomplish them.
The problem is not what I will become but how I will become it.
I finally have made my decision… I know what 1 want to be.
I want to be exactly like my dad.
Chapter 50
The deal was signed at eleven A. M. in the main conference room on the twelfth floor of the Black Tower at Universal. Stevie Bergman was presiding over a roomful of even tans and perfect teeth. There was precise ethnic and gender balance.
Nicky Marcella arrived just as the meeting was convening. He waved at Shane but never looked directly at him. Nicky was wearing another two-tone number-green and blue this time. The fabric changed colors as he moved. He shined and shimmered like New Year's bunting.
The D people held the perimeter of the room, standing with their backs against the wall, looking proud. The Felt was grinning; so was Tammy Ansara. The African-American Ds looked foxy and cool. Jerry Wireman was there, looking, well, wiry. He was representing CAA's back-end points. Also present were Mike Fallon, Paul Lubick, and Rajindi Singh. Wireman had come with a head crammed full of Latin phrases, ready to kick some loquacious ass.
Along with Shane was Charlotte 'Call me Charlie' Brooks, from LAPD Legal Affairs, who was representing the department. Charlie was nervous and overdressed.
Earlier that morning, Shane had been told by the chief, who was still in the Phoenix hospital, that the federal attorney wasn't going to file charges against Don Carlo DeCesare. The feds had listened to the tape and said it would be useless in court. So the New Jersey Don would just have to finish his life on Earth sentenced to a wheelchair parked in front of a plate-glass window, watching llamas eat grass while his deadly cancer spread.
The Day-Glo Dago must have been feeling better, because at the end of the conversation he implored Shane to 'Get us da fuck outta d' movie business!' Which, at this moment, Shane was desperately trying to accomplish.
'Bueno,' Stevie Bergman said, hosting the event with trilingual charisma. 'This is excellent-o.' He glanced at his watch. 'I only have thirty minutes, boys and girls, so let's cha-cha-cha.'
Shane was having deja vu.
