CHAPTER EIGHT

"Nate? Nate is that you?"

My first instinct hearing that voice is to once more fantasize about leaving this damned neighborhood and driving the van back to the lot at Best Pool Cleaners with a thank you very much but also fuck you very much. It's like every single worst thing that could possibly happen to me has to happen in the last twenty-four hours.

"Holy shit, it is you! Damn, son, when did you start lifting? You look like Thor!"

I turn to Marco Delgado and smile. "When did you start eating donuts all day? You look like Sumo Sam."

Marco laughs and throws his arms around me, wrapping me in a tight bear hug. "Damn, bro, where you been? I haven't seen you in years!"

He pulls away, and I get my first good look at him. He doesn't look at all like Sumo Sam. He's five-foot-eight and maybe a hundred fifty pounds of wiry muscle with not an ounce of fat on him. In fact, other than a rough stubble on his chin, he looks exactly like the kid I used to get high and boost cars with.

"Trying to live clean, man," I say, "you know how it is."

"For real, bro, straight up."

That's how most conversations with Marco go. He strings together a bunch of slang that sort of makes a conversation, and I reply pretty much the same way.

"So you're a pool boy now? That must be why none of the bitches here look at me anymore. They've got a new boy toy to play with."

That"s another thing about Marco. He has a… shall we say, juvenile attitude toward women.

"Are you kidding man? No one's looking at commoners like us."

I think of Vivian's dinner invitation and hope Marco can't tell that I'm lying.

"Seriously, bro," he replies. "I'll be honest, I took this job thinking I could comfort some lonely housewives, you know what I'm saying? But they won't even let me in the house."

"What job is that?" I ask.

"Gardener, bro!" he opens his arms and looks down at himself. "You can't tell?"

It's true that his olive-green polo shirt and khaki shorts are stained with dirt and grass. "I guess I missed it. I was too busy looking at the caterpillar that died on your chin."

Marco frowns hurtfully. "Hey man, ladies love this beard. This is how I get chicks."

"I thought you said the women here didn't like you."

"Well, yeah, here. There's women everywhere, bro."

"Good point."

"So you want to share a sandwich with me or what? I finished working already, and I don't have to give the truck back until six."

I hesitate, but my last appointment isn't for another forty-five minutes, and while part of me says I should make an excuse and keep Marco in the past with all of my other mistakes, I don't feel like sitting alone in the van, and despite my earlier spiel about Marco being yet another terrible thing to happen to me today, his cheerfulness is infectious, and I'll take all the cheer I can get right now.

"Sure. Just as long as it doesn't have chilis in it."

He rolls his eyes and shoves me playfully. "Come on, don't be a little bitch. Why are white people so afraid of spicy food anyway?"

"That's offensive," I say with a grin.

"So report me for a hate crime. I saw some cops here earlier. Maybe they'll arrest me."

"Did you hear what happened?"

He shrugs. "Probably some rich kid OD'd or something."

I stagger when he says that, and he says, "Christ, did you trip on your own feet?"

I force a smile and say, "It's just that you're too beautiful. I can't take my eyes off of you."

"Just as long as you keep your hands to yourself."

We reach his truck and sit on the tailgate. He hands me a half sandwich. It's a Philly cheesesteak with a very generous helping of hot peppers.

"You can just pick them out if you want, sweetheart," he says gently.

"Bite me."

He laughs and says, "So, you like the truck?"

"It's nice. Is it yours? I thought you said you had to bring it back."

He scoffs. "Is it mine? Come on, dude, you know I don"t live like that. Even when we were boosting, I had to give the rides to someone else. No, it"s the company's. But I get to drive it forty hours a week." He pats the bed and adds, "It's got wireless phone connection, navigation, satellite radio, heated seats… it's like a freaking Mercedes with a bed. Only the best for rich people. They can't even see other people drive shitty cars, so the landscaper makes sure that we get the top of the line."

I shrug. "Beats boosting, am I right?"

Marco looks me up and down, and I feel a chill. I'm not afraid of him, but I'm afraid of the life I left behind. Everything that's happened—the drugs, the cops, Marco showing up—is beginning to feel a lot like that life coming back to me.

"What happened to you anyway, dog? After you got caught."

"What do you think?"

"I mean, you didn't go to jail, or there's no way you'd be working for a company here in the rich part of L.A."

I sighed. "No, I didn't go to jail. The judge gave me probation and community service and told me that if I ever stepped outside of the law again, he'd make sure that I got every possible punishment the law could throw at me."

Marco shook his head. "Pinche pendejos. I"m telling you, man, it"s all about stepping on us. It"s not about race or religion or whether you"re gay or straight. They just want people to believe that, so we don"t pay attention to the real problem. The rich people are stepping on the poor people. They always have. That"s why there"s so much shit in the world."

"I mean, he gave me a break, so…"

"He didn't give you a break, ese, he gave you a warning. He said, ‘Do what I say, or you're going to prison for life.'"

"Well, I wouldn't go to prison for life for boosting a car. That's like ten years max."

"Nah, bro." He shook his head again and said forcefully. "It's for life. Once they have you in their system, you're always in their system."

His smile is gone, replaced by the hard look that characterizes the other half of his personality. This conversation isn't new either. During the rare occasions when I would question whether or not we should be stealing cars, this was the look he'd adopt. He'd get on the tangent of poverty and wealth and end up spouting the same rant he's spouting now.

I'm not interested in hearing that rant again, so I try to turn the conversation by saying, "Well, hey, we get to drive cool cars without the cops trying to drag us to jail, so that's good."

It's a weak attempt at changing the subject, but it seems to work. Marco nods and stays silent a moment, then smiles and says, "So you been doing anything on the side?"

Okay, it doesn't work quite so well. "No, man. Like I said, trying to live clean."

"That why you haven't talked to me in three years?"

My smile fades. I start to stammer an excuse, but he laughs and claps me on the shoulder. "I'm just teasing you, bro. I get it. The cops were watching you, and you couldn't risk them getting to me. I appreciate it, man. Omerta, right?"

"Yeah. Right."

"But hey, we're out now. You're the world's hottest pool boy, and I'm the sexy, exotic ethnic gardener."

"Man, don't talk about yourself like that."

"What? I'm proud of my ethnicity, bro, I don't need to hide from it."

"I know, but…"

"But what? Relax, dog. I'm living the dream."

"Even though the women don't like you?"

He grinned at me. "Like I said. There's women everywhere, bro. I don't just work here. I work weekends at UCLA. Man, there are some babes there. Sometimes I end up with three women in one night."

I roll my eyes. "Sure you do."

"On God, brother. You don't even have to try there. You would definitely not have to try. You'd have girls all around you on their knees begging for it."

Did she beg you to screw her?

I stand and say, "Hey man, I've got to get back to work. I have one more house to do, and my supervisor gets pissy if I bring the van back late."

Marco doesn't seem perturbed at all by my sudden desire to leave. "Sure bro, no worries. Gotta keep the man happy. Hey, you still have the same number?"

"Yeah. Same number."

He nods. "I'll hit you up. Good to see you, bro."

"Yeah. You do that."

It takes every ounce of my strength to appear nonchalant as I walk back to my van. I can feel Marco's eyes boring into my back. When I reach the van, I turn around and my blood freezes. He smiles and waves at me, then gets off the tailgate and into the driver's seat.

In the half-second before that smile, I see a hard look on his face, harder than any I've ever seen him wear. It reminds me more of Arturo, the guy we used to boost cars for. Arturo was a genuinely hard man. He had five teardrop tattoos, and from what I've heard—and what I absolutely believe—he earned every one of them.

The cops don't ask me about him. I wouldn't tell if they had. I'd rather do ten years in prison than be the guy who ratted on Arturo.

Marco never struck me as hard the same way Arturo was, but then again, I haven't seen Marco in three years. For all the shit I've had to deal with, I've tried to go a different way. I don't think Marco has.

I put the van in gear and drive to my last appointment for the day. I can still feel Marco's hard gaze boring into my back.