“You’re wrong,” he said.

“Why did you allow what was going on in the house? You clearly knew what they were up to.”

“Why would I do that?” he replied incredulously.

He humored me as I tallied through the litany of moral and ethical reasons. But I could tell right away that he didn’t believe in any of them. It was all just words.

“Let me ask you something,” he said. “What did you, or I, do to deserve the life we got today? I’m sure you have a nice house in a safe neighborhood.” Not nearly as nice a house or neighborhood as yours, I thought to myself. “You have a decent job that doesn’t require you to work very hard but still pays you good money and benefits. Good healthcare, retirement package?” he continued.

My attempt to guilt him was having the opposite effect.

“You probably have a couple of kids going to some private school and playing all the sports they want to.” It had been assumed that I had children so many times lately that I was starting to believe I actually did have my own brood. I was at the point of actually giving them names.

“Have you ever asked, ‘Why us?’” Gao paused but not so I could answer. “Why do we get all this and not someone on the other side of the world? Are we that much better than them? Think about it. The only difference between us and them is that we were born on this soil and they weren’t. Say what you want, but I’m at least giving them a chance. The same one we got.”

In his odd way, the clinic was his only chance to even the score.

EVERYTHING’S ROSES

It struck me later as I was driving back home.

I had stopped off at the office to catch up on work and on the drive home I took the surface route back to Eagle Rock. The normal path involved a series of short jaunts on multiple freeways and at this time of day, taking the full brunt of traffic jams from multiple interchanges was not wise.

I wound my way over to the river and took Riverside up the western shore that skirted Silver Lake and then Los Feliz. Before fully entering into Griffith Park I crossed over the interstate at Colorado and then traversed the river and came into the backside of Glendale.

This section of Colorado Boulevard was stuck in another era, when it was the main route for hundreds of thousands of tourists coming to Los Angeles. Old motels with colorful names and even more colorful signs crowded long stretches. Many were flower-themed and played off the Rose Bowl even though that structure was a good seven miles from here. I imagined the disappointment when a family of four from Akron drove all the way to Los Angeles to the Roses Motel and found one of these. The signs were now rusted in spots and the swimming pools were mostly filled in with concrete.

I had used this road many times and always wondered how they stayed in business. The freeways that skirted Colorado long drew away any sort of tourist traffic and yet a good portion of these motels remained. They had to have some sort of trade. Prostitution, I imagined, was a big source. But what about a young couple on the lam?

I quickly ruled it out. A newborn had to attract a lot of attention. And the couple couldn’t have much in the way of resources. Jeanette didn’t have a credit card. According to Meredith it was Valenti’s attempt to raise a blue-blooded cheapskate. Perhaps Nelson had some money but it was probably not enough to pay for an extended stay at even the cheapest of these motels.

It all led to the suspicion they were staying at a friendly residence where they could remain undisturbed for free. As I progressed along Colorado from Glendale into Eagle Rock proper, I went through the list of possibilities. Neither Jeanette nor Nelson had many friends, if any at all, and even if they did those friends would have parents who most likely would not be willing participants in these sorts of shenanigans. Relatives were another idea that I quickly ruled out as far as Jeanette’s side — no one would cross Valenti, not even Jeff’s family. Nelson’s family was a distinct possibility.

And that’s when it struck me. They were meaningless words when I first heard them, just an annoyed neighbor with an eye-sore of crab-grass suffocating the yard next door and threatening to invade his perfectly-groomed turf. The home was not being cared for and was bringing down the property values of those around it. He hoped I was there to do something about it. I remembered the house looking overly-unkempt, bordering on abandoned. But then the neighbor’s words said otherwise.

“They’re not home,” he told me.

Sheila Lansing had mentioned that she was a reluctant resident of the convalescent home. Such people often hold onto their past lives on the slim hope that they will someday be able to return to them. The empty house served as the perfect hideout.

As I reached my street I quickly made a U-turn and headed back to the freeway that would take me to Pacoima.

***

I could barely hear the doorbell over the whine of the leaf blower from the neighbor next door. I stepped back off the front stoop and watched the curtained windows for any sign of movement, but none came. I then walked the perimeter of the house just in case the occupants were prone to fleeing, but on this day I hoped they wouldn’t because the heat was excessively oppressive.

At the back of the house the yard was in even greater need for maintenance than the front. The dirt was like powder and coated my shoes in a thin film. I found the garbage cans around the side of the house. The fact that they had contents confirmed there were people living in the house. The existence of several used diaper bundles convinced me the occupants were who I was looking for.

“Can I help you?” asked an irritated voice.

The nosy neighbor held the silenced leaf blower like a shotgun.

“You know the people that live here?” I asked.

“Who are you?” he replied.

“We met before, remember?”

“Yeah, but who are you?” he persisted.

“I work for the original owner. The people staying here aren’t supposed to be.”

“No kidding? They’re squatters? But they seemed so nice.”

“Is there anyone else staying here with them? Maybe another woman, a little overweight, dark?”

“Nope, there’s none of that going on here,” he said defensively. His mind clearly went to a darker place than I implied. It felt like the neighbor still felt protective of the young couple. I decided to ease off lest he stir something up before I could talk to them.

“Well, I’ll swing by later to see if they are home,” I said casually.

“Hey,” he called after me, “don’t go getting them into any trouble.” He wagged his finger at me. “They’re good kids, you know.”

“I know,” I waved back and returned to my car.

I drove around the block and parked further down the street where I could still have a good view of Sheila’s house but wasn’t in a direct sightline of the overly-protective neighbor. I didn’t want him to see me and bring the local police down for questioning.

MAN LEFT IN CAR

I was a case study for why you should never leave your dog in a parked car. Even with the windows rolled down, the temperature inside was well over one hundred. I had a half-filled water bottle from a previous purchase that was warm enough to make sun tea. I futilely angled the visor to keep some of the sun off of my face but I didn’t want to completely obstruct the view of the house and so I was forced to get the full brunt of the rays. An hour in, I hit a point of woozy bliss where the body is covered in a sheen of perspiration and the breaths are short and metered and hypnotic. With every passing car I angled my head to catch the slightest of breezes they cast which were as refreshing as a tall glass of ice water. After about the fifth one of these I kept my head in that position leaning against the door frame. That’s when I saw a set of eyes staring at me from across the street.