Stranger in Paradise

“What do you suppose her career represents to her?” Dix said.

“Represents?”

Dix again almost nodded.

“Sometimes,” Jesse said, “a cigar is just a cigar.”

Dix smiled.

“And sometimes it’s not,” Dix said.

They were quiet. The sunsplash on the wall had become longer.

“She started out trying to be an actress,” Jesse said, “and kind of morphed into a weather girl.”

“In California?” Dix said.

“No,” Jesse said. “Here.”

Dix nodded.

“I assume she came here because I was here,” Jesse said.

Dix nodded again.

“And then she morphed into a soft-feature reporter,” Jesse said. “She did a special on Race Week, few years ago.”

Dix waited.

“And then she sort of morphed into an investigative reporter when we had the big murder case last year.”

“Walton Weeks,” Dix said. “National news. How’d she draw that assignment?”

“Probably because she was my ex-wife,” Jesse said. “They figured it would give her access.”

“Did it?”

“Some,” Jesse said.

Dix waited.

“So I’m kind of tangled up in her career,” Jesse said.

Dix waited.

“And sometimes she exploits me,” Jesse said.

Dix didn’t move.

“And sometimes,” Jesse said, “it’s like she compromises her career because of me.”

Dix made no sign. Jesse didn’t say anything else for a while.

Then he said, “So her career and me are clearly tied together in some way.”

Dix looked interested. Jesse was silent again. Then he looked at Dix and spread his hands.

“So what?” he said. “I don’t know where to go with it.”

Dix was quiet for a long time. Then he apparently decided to prime the pump.

“What’s your career mean to you?” Dix said.

“Redemption,” Jesse said. “We already settled that in here.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Redemption for being a drunk and a lousy husband…” Jesse said.

“And for getting hurt,” Dix said, “and washing out of baseball?”

“Yeah, that, too.”

“Being a good cop is your chance,” Dix said.

“To be good at something,” Jesse said. “I know, we already talked about that.”

They were quiet again. Jesse had done this long enough to know that the fifty minutes were almost up.

“You think her career is her chance at redemption?” Jesse said.

“I don’t know,” Dix said. “What do you think?”

“Weather girl isn’t much of a redemption,” Jesse said.

“How about investigative reporter?”

Jesse nodded.

“I just demeaned her a little, didn’t I,” he said.

Dix didn’t answer.

“I must be madder at her than I know,” Jesse said.

“Almost certainly,” Dix said.

“You think she’s after redemption?” Jesse said.

Dix looked at his watch, as he always did before closing the session.

“We’ll have time to think about that on our own,” Dix said. “Until next time. Time’s up for today.”

“Hell,” Jesse said. “Just when it was getting good.”

18.

Crow stood in front of a three-decker on an unpaved street that was little more than old wheel ruts overgrown with stiff, gray-green weeds. There were tenements on either side of the rutted street, the paint long peeled, the clapboards gray and warped with weather. A street sign nailed to one of the tenements read HORN STREET. Crow walked down to a sagging three-decker that blocked the end of the street. Over the skewed front door was a number 12.

A small path that might once have been a driveway ran around the tenement and Crow followed it, walking carefully to avoid the beer cans, fast-food cartons, dog droppings, used condoms, discarded tires, bottles, rusted bicycle parts, and odd bits of clothing and bedding that were strewn outside the building. Behind the tenement was a metal garage, which had been repainted without being scraped. The bright yellow finish was lumpy and uneven. The maroon trim, Crow noticed, had been applied freehand and not very precisely. A window in the side of the garage had a window box haphazardly affixed below it. The box was filled with artificial flowers. The garage door was ajar. Above the garage door was the number 12A.

Crow went through the half-open door into the garage.

Inside, there were six young men and a huge rear-projection television set. The young men were drinking beer and watching a soap opera. When Crow stepped into the garage they all came to their feet.

“Who the fuck are you,” one of them said.

“I’m looking for Esteban Carty,” Crow said.

“And I said who the fuck are you?”

“My name is Wilson Cromartie,” Crow said. “You Carty?”

“You ain’t a cop.”

The speaker was short, with shoulder-length black hair and a full beard. He was wearing a tank top and there were gang tattoos up each arm.

“Cops don’t come in here alone,” he said.

“I’m still looking for Esteban Carty,” Crow said. “And I’m getting tired of asking.”

“Hey, Puerco,” the long-haired kid said. “Wilson getting tired of asking.”

Puerco was big, with a shaved head, weight-lifter muscles, no shirt, and a round, hard belly. His upper body was covered with tattoos, including one across his forehead: PUERCO.

Puerco stared at Crow. He had very small eyes for so large a man. There was something else peculiar about his eyes, Crow thought. Then he realized that Puerco had no eyebrows. Crow wondered if it was a defect of nature, or if Puerco had shaved them so as to look more baleful.