Isaac knew he’d made a mistake.

He’d had Petra drop him off at Pico and Union. Near the bus stop where he usually got off, four blocks from his building. Not wanting her to see the liquor stores and abandoned buildings that lined the route. The crumbling wooden houses converted to by-the-day rooming houses. Four-story stucco slabs, like the one his family lived in, marred by the acne of graffiti.

His mother kept an immaculate flat and his building was no worse than any others in the neighborhood. But bad enough. Sometimes homeless guys wandered in and used the entry hall for a toilet. When Isaac walked the squeaky stairs up to his family’s third-floor space, he avoided touching the brown-painted handrail. Painted so often, it felt gelatinous. Sometimes it was gelatinous. Wads of gum stuck to the wood. And worse.

For a brief time, as an undergrad, his head filled with biology and organic chemistry, he’d taken to wearing plastic gloves when entering the building. Careful to shed and hide them before entering Mama’s domain.

The noise, the smells. Generally, he could shut it all out.

This morning, leaving for campus, he’d noticed that the front facade was looking especially shabby.

Most nights, he could forget all that, let his mind drift to the stately trees and brick loveliness of USC, the old-paper fragrance of Doheny Library.

His other life.

The life he’d have one day. Maybe.

Who was he kidding? Petra was smart, she had to know the Gomez family didn’t live in a mansion.

Still, there was something about her actually seeing his home base that repelled him.

So he walked.

A quick right turn at the late-night liquor store favored by old winos, then down dark side streets, past alleys, the usual sprinkle of lolling street people and addicts.

Passive in their misery. A few of them, he talked to. Sometimes he gave them lunch leftovers. Mom always packed too much anyway.

Mostly he ignored them and they returned the favor.

He’d been doing it for years, never had a problem.

Tonight he had a problem.

He was unaware of them till they started laughing.

A hoarse, high-pitched hooting, behind him. Close behind. When had they started following him? Had he been that spaced-out?

Lost in thought: Marta Doebbler. Kurt Doebbler.

June 28 getting closer.

Petra. Those dark eyes. The way she’d taken on that enormous steak. Attacking it… slender hands, but strong. Aggressive in such a feminine way.

More laughter behind him. Closer. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw them clearly as they passed under a streetlamp.

Three of them. A loose-limbed, giggly entourage, maybe twenty feet from his back.

Chattering. Pointing and bumping into one another. Laughing some more. Mexican-accented Spanish interspersed with rude English “Fuck,” the operative word- the all-purpose noun/verb/adjective.

He picked up his pace, hazarded another quick look back.

From the round outlines of their heads, shaved domes. Not tall. Baggy clothes.

One of them drove a fist toward the sky and howled. Soprano howl, like a girl.

Maybe it had nothing to do with him. Maybe they just happened to be walking the same street.

They shuffled and bumped into one another some more. Young voices. Slurred. Punk kids. High on something.

Two more blocks till home. He turned.

They stayed with him.

He walked faster.

One of them shouted, “Yo. Maricon.”

Branding him queer.

All these years, despite the rotten neighborhood, he’d never had to deal with this before. Generally, he was home by eight. But tonight it was well after ten. He and Petra had returned to the station late and he’d hung around some more. Pretending not to pay attention as she worked at her desk.

Pretending to work, himself. Just wanting to be there. For the ambience.

Petra.

The day had shot by so quickly. Tagging along, observing her, listening. Picking up the nuances of detective work, the things no book could communicate. Offering opinions when she asked- and she’d asked a lot more frequently than he’d expected.

Was she just being nice to him or did she really think he had something to offer?

It had to be the latter; Petra didn’t suffer fools.

“Yo, you, maricon- hey faggot, whuh time izzit?”

Isaac kept walking.

One more block.

Dinner, dessert, espresso- he’d never had coffee like that. Even the Faculty Club, when Dr. Gompertz sometimes treated him to lunch, didn’t have coffee like that.

“Hey, you, puto, why you move you ass so fast?”

He began to jog and heard them shouting and whooping and running after him. He picked up speed, was drenched by a sudden, clammy, full-body sweat.

Thank God Petra wasn’t here to see this.

Something hit him from behind, low in his back. Hard boot to the kidneys. Pain shot through him, he buckled yet managed to stay on his feet, but his rhythm had been disrupted, and by the time his legs were ready to move someone was yanking at his briefcase.

His notes. His laptop. He held on but another hand clawed at his neck and as he stepped away from the blow, the case flew out of his hand.

The clasp opened, papers scattered. The computer, heavy, remained inside.

His handwritten calculations lay static, in the curb. Pages of multiple regression analyses of subethnic populations in high-crime regions. He hadn’t had time to enter any of it into his hard drive, stupid stupid! If he lost it, it meant hours down the-

A fist- hard, sharp knuckles- grazed the side of his head. He teetered and tripped backward.

Regained his balance and backed away and faced them.

Even younger than he’d thought. Fourteen, fifteen. Small, ghetto-stunted kids, two skinny, one a bit chunky. Same age as cousin Samuelito. But Sammy was a good, churchgoing boy and these three were shaved-head, baggy-pants scum.

The fact that they were kids was meager comfort. Adolescents could be the most dangerous sociopaths. Poor impulse control, insufficiently developed conscience. He’d read that if you didn’t change their behavior by twelve…

They were surrounding him, a trio of malignant dwarfs shuffling and cursing and giggling. He moved, trying to keep his back clear. The spot on his cheek where he’d been punched smarted and grew hot.

The heaviest of the three planted his feet and held up his fists. Small hands and knuckles. Like something out of Oliver Twist.

A night breeze coursed through the street and sheets of calculations billowed.

The heaviest one said, “Gimme your fuckin’ mawney, puto.” Nasal, barely pubescent voice.

Individually, he could pound each of them to oblivion. But together… as he weighed his alternatives, one of the others, the smallest, flicked his wrist and flashed something metallic.

Oh God, a gun?

No, a knife. Flat in an open palm. The kid rotated his hand in small arcs. “I cut you, puto.”

Isaac backed away some more. Another gust of breeze; one of his sheets blew a few feet up the block.

The heaviest one said, “Gimme the fuckin’ mawney you wanna fuckin’ get cut?” His voice squeaked and cracked.

Gutted by an idiot with no pubic hair… the little one with the blade danced closer. Stepped into the light and Isaac saw the weapon clearly. Pocketknife, cheap thing, dark plastic handle, maybe a two-inch fold-out blade. The kid’s wrist was thin, fragile. He smelled bad, all three of them did. Unwashed clothes and weed and jumbled hormones.

Jumpy little sociopaths. Not a good situation. The thought of that stupid little blade entering his flesh enraged him.

He drew out his LAPD authorized visitors badge and said, “Police, assholes. You walked right into a stakeout.”