Los Angeles Noir - Denise Hamilton [111]
I pulled into the driveway behind one of their neighbor’s cars, blocking it in. I stomped around to their garden apartment and banged on the green door. The front blinds moved, then shut. I banged on the door again. It finally opened.
Manny wore a sling, his face blue and black, a piece of skin torn below his eye, stitched. It looked as if someone had pressed barbed wire into his face.
Veronica’s not here, he said.
I want to see Emerson.
He’s at your tita’s place, Manny said. He spoke a bit snidely, as if I should have known.
Get in my car, I said.
What?
We’re going for a drive.
He tried to protest so I grabbed his shirt and pulled him out of his apartment. I put him in the truck and we sat there, engine off, windows open. The air smelled of sun-warmed avocados fallen on the grass.
So, Veronica tells me you got yourself beat up by some kid’s father, I said.
Manny shook his head. Lips tightened, angry no doubt that Veronica came to me. It wasn’t like that, he said.
That was a smart move, I said. Now Emerson will really have his peers’ respect.
You don’t understand. I couldn’t not do anything. We tried talking to the teachers, the principal. They said they were investigating, but they need to expel that kid now, Tomas, to keep him out of Emerson’s face.
So you went over to the father and got beat up.
Fuck you, Tomas.
Maybe you lost your cool? Made them defensive.
You’ve got a lot of nerve, Tomas. This is my son we’re talking about.
His jaw trembled with anger. I felt hot, my shirt damp against my vinyl seat. The fermenting avocado smell made me feel like hurting someone. But I told myself to hold my temper, let him talk.
I said, Tell me what happened.
And he told me.
That’s not a satisfactory explanation, I said.
What the fuck do you want from me?
I plucked one stitch from his face, causing him to kick the dashboard in his struggle. He cursed. I quieted him with a look and said, When Veronica came to me this morning, her face was bruised again. I should really hurt you. But I am going to give you an opportunity to redeem yourself. To be a real husband and father.
Manny began to speak but seemed to think better. Then he asked, Where are we going?
Where does Harley Douglas live?
Venice.
Do you know the house?
Yeah, he said after a pause.
We drove down the hill to Main Street and headed south past the arty boutiques and cafés and restaurants. We crossed Rose and headed into Venice. Beyond the older buildings to the west I caught flashes of bright ocean. We crossed over streets that used to be canals nearly a century ago, blocks where amusement park rides and buildings had once stood.
We reached Abbot Kinney, with its more boho shops, looking a lot like Santa Monica’s posh Main Street had when I was a kid. The martial arts studio where I used to study Filipino stick-fighting when we lived in Oakwood, the black neighborhood inland to its north, the old bungalows and cottages ravaged by cool salty nights. But Harley Douglas lived on the ocean side, on the gentrified streets. Many of the weathered buildings had been renovated, or replaced by condos. I noticed a beautiful woman walking a pure white husky, while sipping from a paper coffee cup. The neighborhood is one of the few in Los Angeles where people actually walk.
When we lived near here it was a different place. The old buildings colonied by hippies were falling apart then. Some were empty, condemned. Our house was on its last legs. On stormy evenings, Pacific Ocean winds would blow against the clapboard walls on our creaking block.
Even then, some of the older structures were starting to be torn down and replaced