canvas, marked with splotches, that was strapped to the far wall. Paint dripped from his fingertips, streamed down his broad calves.
I looked at Chic, and he shrugged. We crossed the vast space, admiring the blown-up photos adorning the walls distinctive graffiti art on trains, billboards, even a few cop cars. The cardboard boxes were full of spray-paint cans, tips and nozzles, night-vision goggles flecked with backspray.
Chic cleared his throat, but Bishop didn't turn around. He bent over, plucked a roller from a pan of purple paint, and ran it from his shins to his neck. Emitting a bass roar, he charged forward and flung himself against the canvas, leaving a large purple mark. He took a few steps away from the wall, wiped himself down with a wet towel, and pulled on a pair of velour sweatpants.
'Interesting technique,' Chic said. 'Seems like…'
'Bullshit?' Bishop said in a great rumble of a voice. 'Course it is. But it fetch me three grand at the gallery. If you could get that for a Rorschach of your nutsack, tell me you wouldn't.'
I said, 'If I could get three grand for anything involving my nut-sack, I would.'
He laughed. 'You gentlemen lookin' to buy?'
'Actually, just a quick question for you.' I unfolded a copy of the freeway ramp graffiti from my back pocket. I'd pulled some Kinko's magic, blowing it up, zeroing in so as to leave the body out of frame.
Bishop glanced at it and said, 'Wudn't me.'
'I know the feeling,' I said, 'but we're not cops or prosecutors, and we don't care that it's illegal.'
'No, I mean it wudn't me.' He gestured grandly to the surrounding photographs. 'See the 103 tag? Lower-right corner, every time?'
I studied the photos. The numbers resolved, almost as in the posters at the mall that you squint at for twenty minutes before being awarded a 3-D image or a migraine.
'That 'cuz I came up on 103rd in Watts.' Bishop tapped the copy in my hands. 'Ain't no 103 there. Beside, I don't use no Amazon Green and Metallic Periwinkle. That ain't Bishop's palette. This some toy done bite my piece.'
'Translation for the white guy?'
'I'm a fame writer. That's why y'all knew to come find me. But this a toy writer, a kid comin' up. He bite my work copy my shit to show props.'
'Do you recognize which kid made this graffi '
Chic cut me off. 'Aerosol art?'
'Course. That his name right there, fool.' Bishop flicked the paper in the upper-left corner. Hidden in the puffs and bubbles of color were two letters, rendered in abstract hypercalligraphy. WB. 'West Manchester Boulevard, by the Forum in the 'Wood. That where he came up. Inglewood. Junior do good work, bombs freeway ramps and long- term storage joints. No stencils or airbrushing shit, squiggles the tail on his Qs.'
He'd pronounced the name soft, Latin style: Hoon-yore.
'He Mexican?' Chic asked.
'Ain't no racial issues in the graf community. We about the art.'
'You know where we can find him?'
'Yeah. Boy send me fan mail.' Bishop plodded over to the little metal desk and dug in the drawers, sending candy-bar wrappers fluttering to the ground. He pulled out a crumpled letter from a drawer full of correspondence. It contained a Polaroid shot of a rolling storage door that had been transformed into a spray-paint wonderland. The letter read:.
Dear Bish,
I think your the best there is. Heres a piece I did like your job on the Metro Red. Its not as good but someday I hope to tag as good as you. When I get older I gona tag the white house right on them pillars. Ha ha ha. Maybe when I off probation I could meet you and here your stories.
You da man!
Hurwitz, Gregg
The Crime Writer (aka I See You) (2007)
Junior Delgado.
I flipped the envelope over. The return address listed a place called Hope House with an address on West Sixth. I pulled the Bic from behind my ear and copied the address in a black-leather detective's notepad Cal had given me years ago.
'I gotta go meet with a distributor at the restaurant,' Chic said. 'Think you'll be safe visiting Junior without a big Negro holding your hand?'
'Dunno.' I looked at Bishop. 'Wanna hold my hand?'
Bishop smirked. 'I'm spoken for.'
Chapter 19
A guy with gang tattoos across his throat flew down the handicap ramp on a wheelchair and veered toward the van parked beside my car. I'd called Preston on my way over, and he'd googled Hope House for me. It proved to be a residential placement facility social services-speak for a group home just above MacArthur Park. It was a six- bedroom house, two kids per room, with overnight staff. Last stop before juvy for problematic Angeleno youth.
I climbed out of my car. The guy was laboring to get out of his wheelchair and into the driver's seat.
'Give you a hand?' I asked.
He turned. The lettering on his baseball cap read there but foR the grace of god go you. 'Yeah, I came all the way down here, and I don't know how to get in my fucking van.'
So far I was a hit.
The house was a dilapidated two-story peeling paint, crooked shutters, the whole deal. I walked into a whirlwind of motion, young teens flying out of rooms, screaming at one another, tumbling over the broken-down play structure in the backyard. A Hispanic counselor paced, biting her nails, phone pressed to her ear. 'His PO has not shown up, we're short a driver, and I have to bail Patrick out, so I can't take him.'
She hung up, blew a sigh. 'Are you my driver?'
'No, I'm looking for Junior Delgado. I need to ask him '
'Just' her hands flew out, then she caught herself and finished in a gentler tone 'go wait out back. You'll have to talk to Caroline Raine she's our clinical therapist. She's upstairs dealing with a contraband issue. She'll be down in a sec, but this isn't the best day. Grab a cup of coffee.' She pointed to a row of homemade mugs hanging from wooden pegs. 'Might be a while. Wash it out when you're done.'
Refueling on caffeine, I strolled out back and sat on the lip of a planter filled with dirt but no flowers, next to a kid who looked about as animated as James Taylor. 'You know where Junior is?'
'Dunno, man.' He got up and trudged away. My presence had offended him.
It struck me how much movies had colored my view of kids' homes. Here there were no long-lashed Latin boys with smooth skin, no girls flashing million-dollar smiles from beneath dirt-smudged faces, no eager minds waiting for a role model, a state-sponsored music program, a whimsical mathematics instructor. Just a lot of baggy shorts, Converse sneakers, and scowls. The play-structure slide had rusted, and two of the monkey bars were missing. I thought kids like this probably deserved something better to play on, but they seemed to be making do.
A Down syndrome kid sat in one of the cracked rubber swings, holding his head in his hands and weeping. 'I waa ma mama.'
A boy in a lime green sweatshirt weighed in. 'You killed your mom, retard.'
'I know. I know.'
I thought, I will never complain about anything ever again.
A scrawny Latin kid, maybe fifteen, wore a Lee jacket, bell-bottom jeans, and PRO-Keds. He looked like someone Fat Albert had sat on. When he turned to huddle with a co-conspirator, I saw that the back of his jacket was custom-painted. Aerosol art, I believe the term is.
'Junior?'
