Take One Candle Light a Room by Susan Straight

Author:Susan Straight [Straight, Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-37953-5
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2010-10-11T16:00:00+00:00

Sundown Liquor was closed, the posters fading in the August sun, edges of the girls blurring. At the 7-Eleven, a few small-eyed people stalked grumpily outside with their coffee. Sisia would be sleeping until past noon, and so would all the little dealers.

At the Arco nearest the freeway to Vegas, the Sikh owner was in the parking lot, sweeping trash into a dustpan. A smear of dust was a pale gold cloud on his black turban. I drove slowly around the corner to the back area, in case the Navigator was parked there while someone slept. “They need gas, too. But this is crazy. If we find them, what do we do?”

My father said, “See when we see him.”

The owner was in the doorway now. I filled up the tank and then I went over to where he stood, his broom propped beside his leg like a rifle. He studied my face—he was darker than me. “Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning. Did you happen to see three young guys in a Lincoln Navigator?” I said. “Really early. Filling up, maybe getting some food?”

He glanced past me, trying to see who was in the passenger seat of the Corsica. “Mexican boys?” he said softly, frowning at my face.

“Black,” I said. “African American. Three guys—one with short hair, and two bald.”

He pulled his chin back sharply as if he were a turtle retreating into a shell. “No,” he said. “I did not see them.”

“Thanks,” I said. There went the eyes. He’d remember if he had.

I drove across the street to the Starbucks. “They don’t even know the other boy is dead,” I told my father. “I’m going to get a paper.”

I picked up an LA Times. The photo was on the second page, like hundreds of photos from years of foolish killings. A photographer could publish a book about the irony of their vivid beauty and composition. The shrine, already huddled on the spot where Mando had died. Four candles, glowing dimly—Virgins and angels. Two bouquets, and a framed picture. His face solemn, his black hair glossy and perfect.

Victor had sounded delirious last night. Did he think he was going to die? Expect it, like Alfonso and Jazen already expected it, as if the shrines and sobbing girls were the only possible ending for them? The only end they could imagine, the only one they’d want. Not struggling to pay a mortgage or keep a woman happy or raise kids or even decide what movie to see, like all these people in line at Starbucks.

Cell phones rang like an odd burbling choir. Meetings and appointments.

Shit. I called Rick and spoke low into the phone.

“Rick. It’s me. I have a family emergency here, and I can’t get back to LA in time for breakfast. I want to hear about the bookstore. And the Dalmatian coast. Some great little villages—I’ll do some research as soon as I get a minute.”

I called Tony. “Hey, it’s me. I have to talk to you, and I can’t come to breakfast.

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