Chapter Seventeen
With Sanchez directing me, we drove slowly through a quiet residential neighborhood filled with small suburban houses. It was late evening, about 7:00 p.m. We were about nine blocks from Disneyland. Hard to believe there was going to be a royal ass kicking down the road from the happiest place on Earth.
While we drove, Jesus walked me through it. "Charlene and I were walking home through Hill Park. It's a shortcut from school."
"I don't like you walking through Hill Park," said Sanchez. "That park's trouble."
Jesus and I ignored Sanchez.
"Charlene is...?" I asked.
"My girlfriend. At least one of them."
"How many do you have?"
"Two, but I keep two or three on the side."
"For emergencies?" I asked.
"Something like that."
"Lord," said Sanchez.
I was watching the kid through my rearview mirror. Jesus' face was turned, staring blankly out the side window. He was so little. Hard to imagine the kid being so tough. But he was. Somehow.
"Okay," I said. "So you and Charlene are walking home through the park."
"When we are surrounded by twelve guys. Most are on bikes. Some on skateboards."
"Did you run?"
"No. But I told Charlene to beat it, and she did. They let her go, of course. They were after me, not her."
"Why were they after you?"
"Nothing I did, at least nothing I could help."
"One of their girls took a liking to you."
"That's what I hear. Like I can keep track."
"I know what you mean."
Sanchez shook his head, and pointed me down a side street. I turned the steering wheel. The Mustang rolled along smoothly, the engine throbbing.
"So they surround you, what happened next?"
"I told them all to go ahead and kick my ass, but someday I was going to hunt each of them down one at a time."
"You said that?"
"Yes."
Tough kid.
"What happened next?"
"Four of them took off running."
"Because they were scared of you?"
"I suppose."
Sanchez spoke up. "They threw a rock at him, hit him in the mouth."
I looked at Sanchez. He was staring straight ahead. His jawline was rigid. A vein pulsed in his neck.
"He who is without sin," I said, "cast the first stone?"
Jesus said, "What does that mean?"
Sanchez shook his head. "Ignore him. Go on, son."
"The rock hit me in the mouth, knocked out my front tooth. Split my lips open - lips that were made for kissing."
Sanchez shook his head. "I created a monster."
"So I charged the one who threw it. Kid named Doyle. Jumped on top of him and started wailing on him. After that, things are just a big blur of fists and feet and blood."
"They knocked him out," said Sanchez. "His girl, whichever one she was, called 911. He was still unconscious when the police came. So were two of the kids."
I looked in the rearview mirror.
"Two?" I asked.
He shrugged. "I don't really remember what happened."
Jesus was sitting in the middle of the bench seat, looking out the right window. He was unconsciously poking his tongue through the gap in his incisors.
Sanchez told me to stop in front of a smallish house with no porch light on. There was a chainlink fence around the house.
"Who's this?" I asked.
"Brian. It was his girl who started this mess."
"How old is he?"
"Thirteen."
"How old are you?"
"I turn twelve next month."
"So you're eleven?"
"I'm old for my age."
"Boy are you ever. Need any help?"
He shook his head, but now he was looking eagerly toward the small dark house. I looked, too. Not much was going on. There was some faint light coming from the back of the house.
Sanchez said, "I cased the house last week. The kid came home alone around this time."
"Cased?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Don't you have murderers to find?"
"Don't start with me."
"Brian hangs out with his friends at this time," said Jesus. "They have a gang. Pick on kids in school, harass teachers. They get suspended all the time, smoke cigarettes, sometimes even dope."
"Here he comes," said Sanchez.
I looked down the street. A kid was coming towards us on a bike. Big kid. Much bigger than Jesus. And he was smoking. I could see the glowing tip of a cigarette. He passed under a streetlamp and I had a good look at his face. Wide cheekbones. Big head. The kid looked like a bully. Self-satisfied, content, mean.
He pulled up next to the chain link fence across the street.
The car door banged open behind me.
Jesus was out, running.
The boy flicked his cigarette away, stepped off the bike, and reached for the latch on the chain link fence. And turned his head just as a small dark figure tackled him hard to the ground.
Chapter Eighteen
I instinctively went for my door, but Sanchez put his hand on my shoulder. "No. Jesus wants to do this on his own." Sanchez was frowning. He didn't like this either.
"The other kid has him by about twenty pounds." And since these were just kids, twenty pounds was a significant advantage.
"Jesus fights big."
There was just enough leftover light from a nearby streetlight to see what was going on. Jesus had tackled the kid onto a grassy parkway. Now they were rolling.
Dropped over a curb and into the gutter. As this was southern California, the gutter was dry.
The other kid, the bigger kid, landed on top.
Uh oh.
But Jesus promptly reached up, grabbed a handful of the kid's hair, and yanked him off to the side. The kid screamed.
I almost cheered.
Jesus, I discovered, did not fight fairly. And in street fighting - and when you are younger and smaller, that was the only way to go.
They were rolling again, out into the street.
There were no cars coming, luckily.
"Kid better not get dirty," said Sanchez, shaking his head. "We're supposed to be out getting ice cream."
"Jesus might have other things on his mind."
"It's Hay-zeus, dammit."
"Same thing."
"No, it's not," said Sanchez. "For one thing, it's a completely different language. And considering you date a world renowned anthropologist, you show a surprising lack of cultural and religious sensitivity."
"The word you want is ethnocentric."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"Thinking one's culture is superior to others," I said. "Most people in most cultures suffer from it. I, however, do not suffer from it."
"And I happen to disagree," said Sanchez. "You are one hell of an ethnocentric motherfucker."
Shouts and the sound of smacking flesh reached our open windows. It was hard to tell who was doing the smacking.
"Your kid winning?" I asked.
"I can't tell, but it's a good bet. I told him not to kick his ass too bad. I didn't want his knuckles scuffed. His mother would have my head if she knew what we were doing. We're supposed to be getting ice cream."
One kid staggered to his feet, while the other lay in the middle of the street in the fetal position. Luckily, no cars were coming.
The kid on his feet was smallish. Dark hair. Good looking.
Son of a bitch, I thought. He did it.
Jesus surveyed the street, ignoring the moaning kid, spotted the bike. He staggered over to it, then dragged it over to a trash can by its front tire, sparks flying from where one of the peddles contacted the asphalt. He picked the bike up, and deposited it inside the trashcan, and closed the lid.
"Very thorough," I said.
Jesus staggered over, pulled open the door and collapsed inside. I could smell his sweat and something else. Maybe blood, maybe bike grease. Outside, a couple of porchlights turned on, including the one we were parked in front of.
"Let's go," said Sanchez.
"Anyone feel like ice cream?" I asked.
