Free Sweet Nothing by RICHARD LANGE Page B

kind of shark?”
    “Because that’s not what you’re looking for, right?” I replied. “You’re a mom, got a son to think about. You don’t need another bad boy messing stuff up.”
    “Well,” she said, “maybe a little bit bad.”
    When her friends started pulling at her to leave, she took out her phone and asked for my number, then dialed it as I gave it to her.
    My phone rang, and I put it to my ear and said, “Hello?” staring right at her.
    “This is Lupe,” she said. “Call me sometime.” And then off she went, swept away by her scandalized amigas, one of them whispering, “Oh my God. I can’t believe you.”
    It wasn’t going to get any better than that, so I hurried home to Larry’s garage, locked the door, and crawled into my sleeping bag before any randomness could ruin a perfect night.
      
    I’M DUE AT Lupe’s at noon, which gives me enough time to pick up my Xterra from Kong’s, where it’s been sitting since I got popped, then drive back to Larry’s and sneak a quick shower while Shauna’s at the store. The hundred dollars stashed in the toe of one of my good shoes isn’t much, but admission is free at Santa Anita today, and they’ve got dollar sodas and hot dogs, so I should be fine.
    Lupe lives in North Hollywood with her sister. The two of them and their kids share a condo. Lupe’s sister lived there with her husband, but then he ran off, and when Lupe got rid of her old man, the girls decided to throw in together.
    I park in the loading zone in front of the building and give Lupe a call. She’ll be down in a minute. While I’m waiting, I walk to the main entrance and look in through the lobby to the swimming pool in the courtyard. The water is perfectly still, and an old man is reading a newspaper at a table with an umbrella sprouting out of it. It’s nice, nicer than anyplace I’ve ever lived.
    Lupe and her son walk out of the elevator, and she looks as good as I remember, in tight jeans and a white tank top. The kid is wearing a Spider-Man T-shirt and Spider-Man sunglasses. I try to get the front door of the building for them, jerk it twice before I realize it’s locked. Lupe pushes it open from inside.
    “They’re serious around here, huh?” I say.
    “That’s right, you lowdown, dirty varmint,” the kid growls.
    “Jesse!” Lupe snaps, then says to me, “He gets all this weird stuff from cartoons. Half the time I don’t even know what he’s talking about.”
    “You like horses?” I ask him.
    “Are we gonna ride some?”
    “We’re gonna watch them race.”
    “Dag-nab it.”
    I keep my Xterra immaculate; wash it every week, polish it once a month. It’s the only decent habit I picked up from my dad. He couldn’t stand it when people paid good money for a vehicle then let it go to pot. “It shows they don’t appreciate what they have,” he’d say. “That it came to them too easy.”
    Lupe straps Jesse into the backseat.
    “Is there TV in here?” he asks.
    “No TV,” I say.
    “My uncle has TV.”
    I ignore him. You have to do that to kids sometimes, otherwise they think every silly thing that comes out of their mouths deserves a response. He’s all wrapped up in a toy he brought with him anyway, some kind of ninja doll.
    Lupe starts right in with a story about a girl she works with who misread the numbers on a lottery ticket and thought she’d won. She got on the phone and screamed to her husband and her mom and danced around the office and promised everyone a cruise.
    “I felt so bad for her,” Lupe says, laughing and shaking her head. “She called in sick for two days afterward.”
    I laugh and change lanes to get around a slow-moving semi with its hazards blinking.
    “Hey, check it out,” Lupe says as we pass the truck.
    The semi is hauling four huge palm trees, their roots encased in heavy wooden boxes, fronds tied to their trunks to keep them from blowing around. They look like prisoners on their way to execution. Lupe takes a photo