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Authors: RICHARD LANGE
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after that.
As he suspected, the wire that raises the sash is tangled on its spool. Luckily, he bought a few extra replacement units the last time a tenant had this problem, so he doesn’t have to make a trip to Home Depot.
He removes the old spool from the frame, puts in a new one, attaches the wire to the sash, and reseats it. In less than half an hour the window slides up and down smoothly again.
On his way out Boone notices a collection of framed photos on Amy’s dresser. Even though he’s pretty sure it’s crossing the tenant/property-manager line, he pauses to look them over.
There’s an old black-and-white with scalloped edges, probably Grandma and Grandpa, and a color one of a naked baby on a blanket, probably Amy. Everybody’s smiling in the family portrait. Mom, Dad, a couple of brothers, a couple of sisters. It’s easy to pick out Amy. She’s ten or eleven, cute even in braces. There she is in a graduation gown; there she is in front of the Eiffel Tower; and — what’s this? — there she is in a police uniform, LAPD, an official portrait.
Damn! It figures that the first woman he’s had eyes for since getting out of prison is a cop. At least he found out now, before he did anything stupid. It’s not like he was planning to make any big moves on her anyway. Let’s be realistic: He’s an ex-con surviving on tips and charity, a man who’s blown every chance he’s been given, whose life seems to be moving backward instead of forward. Now is not the time to be chasing a girl like Amy. He’s got to hunker down and stick to the basics, like he did after Lila left him. Look what one moment of weakness, agreeing to help Robo out, led to: he’ll be lucky if he doesn’t get his ass shot off tonight.
In a dark mood, Boone stashes his toolbox in the little shed where he keeps the lawnmower and paint and plumber’s snake and returns to his bungalow. He collects his dirty clothes and shoves them into his old seabag, then sets out on foot for the Laundromat in the minimall a couple blocks away.
The jacaranda trees are in bloom, and the sidewalk is covered with crushed purple blossoms. An old man pushes a paleta cart down Franklin, the tinkling of its little bell no match for the whoosh and roar of traffic in the street. He looks like Oscar’s grandfather. Boone buys a mango popsicle from him and eats it on the way, his bag balanced on his shoulder.
At the Laundromat, Boone divides his clothes into two loads, one hot, one cold, whites and everything else. The only other person in the place is a fat homeless man who is standing around in a Hawaiian-print bathing suit while he waits for the rest of his clothes to dry.
“How you?” he asks Boone.
“I’m all right.”
“You see that on the news about those bombs?”
“Sure did,” Boone says, with no idea what the guy’s talking about.
“Fucking bombs.”
“Fucking bombs.”
The Laundromat’s air-conditioning is on the fritz, and Boone is sweating by the time he gets his washers going. His phone rings. Berkson, his lawyer. He steps outside to take the call, squeezing past the homeless guy’s shopping cart, which is piled high with newspapers and aluminum cans.
“How’s tricks?” Berkson asks. “The job? The apartment?”
“Good,” Boone replies. “Everything’s good. Weinberg’s son, the kid who runs the restaurant, is a real tool, but I can deal.”
“If he’s giving you trouble, I can talk to his father.”
“Nah, it’s just that I thought my past was going to stay between me, you, and Weinberg.”
“And so it has,” Berkson says, sounding surprised to hear differently.
“Well, someone told Simon,” Boone says. “He made a crack about it last night.”
“Yeah?”
“Something about how I fucked up as a bodyguard.”
“Ahh, Jimmy, I’m truly sorry,” Berkson says. “You think you can trust someone. Weinberg promised, but we both know what that’s worth. I’ll talk to him this afternoon.”
Boone tilts his
As he suspected, the wire that raises the sash is tangled on its spool. Luckily, he bought a few extra replacement units the last time a tenant had this problem, so he doesn’t have to make a trip to Home Depot.
He removes the old spool from the frame, puts in a new one, attaches the wire to the sash, and reseats it. In less than half an hour the window slides up and down smoothly again.
On his way out Boone notices a collection of framed photos on Amy’s dresser. Even though he’s pretty sure it’s crossing the tenant/property-manager line, he pauses to look them over.
There’s an old black-and-white with scalloped edges, probably Grandma and Grandpa, and a color one of a naked baby on a blanket, probably Amy. Everybody’s smiling in the family portrait. Mom, Dad, a couple of brothers, a couple of sisters. It’s easy to pick out Amy. She’s ten or eleven, cute even in braces. There she is in a graduation gown; there she is in front of the Eiffel Tower; and — what’s this? — there she is in a police uniform, LAPD, an official portrait.
Damn! It figures that the first woman he’s had eyes for since getting out of prison is a cop. At least he found out now, before he did anything stupid. It’s not like he was planning to make any big moves on her anyway. Let’s be realistic: He’s an ex-con surviving on tips and charity, a man who’s blown every chance he’s been given, whose life seems to be moving backward instead of forward. Now is not the time to be chasing a girl like Amy. He’s got to hunker down and stick to the basics, like he did after Lila left him. Look what one moment of weakness, agreeing to help Robo out, led to: he’ll be lucky if he doesn’t get his ass shot off tonight.
In a dark mood, Boone stashes his toolbox in the little shed where he keeps the lawnmower and paint and plumber’s snake and returns to his bungalow. He collects his dirty clothes and shoves them into his old seabag, then sets out on foot for the Laundromat in the minimall a couple blocks away.
The jacaranda trees are in bloom, and the sidewalk is covered with crushed purple blossoms. An old man pushes a paleta cart down Franklin, the tinkling of its little bell no match for the whoosh and roar of traffic in the street. He looks like Oscar’s grandfather. Boone buys a mango popsicle from him and eats it on the way, his bag balanced on his shoulder.
At the Laundromat, Boone divides his clothes into two loads, one hot, one cold, whites and everything else. The only other person in the place is a fat homeless man who is standing around in a Hawaiian-print bathing suit while he waits for the rest of his clothes to dry.
“How you?” he asks Boone.
“I’m all right.”
“You see that on the news about those bombs?”
“Sure did,” Boone says, with no idea what the guy’s talking about.
“Fucking bombs.”
“Fucking bombs.”
The Laundromat’s air-conditioning is on the fritz, and Boone is sweating by the time he gets his washers going. His phone rings. Berkson, his lawyer. He steps outside to take the call, squeezing past the homeless guy’s shopping cart, which is piled high with newspapers and aluminum cans.
“How’s tricks?” Berkson asks. “The job? The apartment?”
“Good,” Boone replies. “Everything’s good. Weinberg’s son, the kid who runs the restaurant, is a real tool, but I can deal.”
“If he’s giving you trouble, I can talk to his father.”
“Nah, it’s just that I thought my past was going to stay between me, you, and Weinberg.”
“And so it has,” Berkson says, sounding surprised to hear differently.
“Well, someone told Simon,” Boone says. “He made a crack about it last night.”
“Yeah?”
“Something about how I fucked up as a bodyguard.”
“Ahh, Jimmy, I’m truly sorry,” Berkson says. “You think you can trust someone. Weinberg promised, but we both know what that’s worth. I’ll talk to him this afternoon.”
Boone tilts his
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