CHAPTER 35

Returning to the office after his first dental exam in five years, Bento passed Sandra coughing and smoking, standing beneath the stairs to escape a drizzle. She waved a finger in the air, nodding her head to acknowledge his presence. Climbing the steps he read a text message from Norah: she’d sold a car ten minutes after opening the doors and another just now. She was taking him out for celebratory sushi. Followed by an exclamation point and a happy face. He’d been simulating fondness for raw fish to please her. Kind of like faking an orgasm.

Just as he sat down, Sonia, looking rather sexy if you were attracted to angry, bored young women with disfigured earlobes, swept into the office and snapped gum as she waited for Phil to get off the phone. After a while he pulled a clump of bills from his wallet. Taking no count, he handed them over.

Bento took a call. “I can’t wait to see you,” said Norah. “You wanna hear about my big sales?”

“Tonight,” he told her. “Life is good.”

“It really is, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, gotta go.” Searching his computer screen, he came up with Leo Hull, Saint Louis. Made the list last week. Visa. Six hundred sixty-seven dollars, minimum wage job. Hull’s voice was vigorous for a schmo.

“Where you at, man?”

“California,” said Bento.

“Well, I’m in the projects, man . . . crackheads breaking into cars, gunshots . . . you know, all that good stuff. The other night, I’m watching the Knicks? And I’m thinking, two, three hundred years ago nobody could watch the Knicks on TV. Not even the richest millionaires. Makes us lucky, right? So how come I don’t feel lucky?” Hull paused. He wanted an answer.

“We measure ourselves against those around us,” said Bento. “Nowadays that includes people we see on TV in tuxedos walking on red carpets. You don’t get to actually see the people who lived hundreds of years ago.”

“That’s right. That’s exactly right. You’re a smart dude, you know that?”

“No, I just read that someplace.”

“You read a lot?”

“Not as much as I used to.”

“What you doing as a bill collector?”

“What you doing in the projects?”

Hull snickered. “I’m guessing you was in prison. Am I right?”

“I guess maybe you were too,” said a deflated Bento. They didn’t trade any of the details. It wasn’t like two Yale men crossing paths. Bento had spent so much energy to disinfect himself of obvious signs, trying not to be just another ex-con that cops and other ex-cons could sniff out in an instant. But he still gave off the telltale stink, just as Hull did. Maybe they always would.

Hull agreed to start paying twenty a month. At 30 percent interest he might pay it off in fifteen years if he stayed out of prison. Meanwhile Bento half listened to Phil and his daughter. Phil didn’t want her driving her car for some reason:

“You want me to poke my head outside and show you your car? The one you drove up in? I told you, take cabs. I’ll pay.”

She let her breath out through her teeth. “Awright.”

“Good. Where you going? I’ll take you.”

“For Christ’s sake, I’m just going home. I don’t want to leave my car in this shit-ass neighborhood all night.”

Phil said something about the money for the car being earned right here in this shit-ass neighborhood. He’d fallen into the hackneyed role of a ridiculous, hectoring parent and was no doubt aware of it, which added to his annoyance. “I’ll take responsibility for your car. Let’s go.”

Bento wasn’t keen on spending time with Sonia, but wanting to do something nice for Phil, volunteered to take his place.

“You’ve got stuff to do,” said Phil.

“I want to,” said Bento. It was almost true. Besides, he loved owning a car, being licensed and insured just like regular folks.

Sonia scrunched her two lips together, which apparently meant it was okay with her. The address she gave him was ten minutes north, but the freeway had been slower since local authorities converted a carpool lane into an expensive toll lane that Speed called the job creators’ lane. Those who could afford to pay whizzed through while everyone else suffered.

Sonia, still chewing gum, lit a cigarette before getting in. As he pulled out of the lot she pressed her head back against the headrest and looking toward the roof, said, “What’re you doing working for my dad?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t take this wrong, but it’s kind of a loser job, isn’t it?”

“It’s very kind of you to point that out.”

“You need to chill,” she said, proud she’d found a cliché to throw at him. Apparently it need not match the situation. Okay, he decided, say as little as possible, get her home and get the hell away. But then she pulled out a rolled joint and lit that too. Now she had a cigarette, the jay, and chewing gum all going at the same time. Medicinal marijuana was allowed in California, but smoking it in a vehicle invited arrest. She was a front-seat tsunami.

“Would you put that out please?”

“I said chill.”

“I mean it. I’m on parole.”

“So that’s why you took that shitty job.”

“I’m telling you to put that out. I won’t say it again.”

The exit was coming up. He’d let her out at the end of the ramp. But she snubbed it out in an ashtray. He rolled his window down. The smell seemed to be receding, but maybe he’d just grown used to it. “What were you in for?” she said. He returned to silence, still the best plan. He’d like to turn on the radio, but she’d argue over station selection.

“I don’t—”

“Listen,” he said. “Will you please just shut the fuck up?”

She was quiet for a while, then said, “I don’t mean to be such a bitch. That’s all I was gonna say.” It struck him how miserable it must be to be Sonia. Now, on top of everything else, she’d made him feel like a jerk. He reminded himself he’d be seeing Norah tonight. This too would pass.

“My dad doesn’t want me driving because I lost my license,” she said.

“I kind of figured that.”

“It was for total bullshit.” He tuned her out as she told him all about it. Heading east on Manchester, they passed a series of vapid-looking, lonely strip malls. Lots of bright colors fading into sun-bleached history. Dry cleaners and fast food seemed to dominate residents’ needs. No wonder visitors didn’t get LA. It was like driving through twenty thousand South Dakota towns all stuck together. But if you got out of the car and circulated you’d find an urban core beneath the crust—hipsters and dealmakers, gay hustlers, artists, science impresarios—people who, if they’re born in places like South Dakota, have to relocate to places like Los Angeles or go mad. At the corner of La Cienega Boulevard he caught a red light across from Randy’s Donuts with its giant doughnut sculpture on the roof letting you know you weren’t in any ordinary town. He was pretty sure Sonia had just asked him a question.

“Sorry, would you repeat that?”

“You don’t like my ear jewelry, do you? I can tell.”

“I guess it makes a statement you want to make.”

“You still think I’m a bitch.”

“We all have bad moments. But if you want to behave differently, the way you do that is to start behaving differently. Anyway, I don’t know what I’m talking about. I don’t really know you.”

“Maybe you should then—get to know me.” She didn’t crack a smile, which made the suggestion stretch across the front seat like a physical presence. After a while she added, “You’re not very friendly.”

“My girlfriend has a pretty big tattoo. I can handle your ears.”

“Yeah? Cool.”

Bento double-parked in front of the apartment building. It was sand colored with half-dead plants around the entrance. Brass letters that needed polishing spelled out “Royal Palms” on the stucco. Cars along the curb were on the same downward spiral as the buildings. Sonia hit a speed dial number on her phone and told someone, “It’s me. I’m here.” Turning to Bento, she said, “Wait here just a minute? I’ll be right out.”

“Isn’t this home?” But even as he said it Bento realized that Phil would never let his daughter live in such a shabby place.

“It’s a quick stop. Two minutes, okay?”

Before Bento could protest she was running through the intermittent drizzle.