Page 167 of Hellbent

Evan said, “No need.”

Xavier folded his hands. The forearm tattoo he had recently started, that elaborate M for Mara Salvatrucha, had taken a new direction. Rather than spelling out the gang’s name, it now said Madre. The last four letters looked brand-new, hours old. They were interwoven with vines and flowers.

Xavier saw Evan looking and shifted self-consciously. “You said we can remake ourselves however we want. So I figured why not start here.”

Benito’s eyes welled up, and Evan was worried the old man might start to cry. Evan didn’t have time for that.

He looked over their shoulders and out the front window to the brim of the valley of the vast razed lot. Sounds of construction carried up the slope. At the edge of the lot, way down by the 10 Freeway, the fifth story of the emergent building thrust into view. It had been roughly framed out now, workers scrambling in the cross section of the visible top floors. Their union shifts would end in two hours, and then the lot would be deserted for the night.

“How can we repay you for what you’ve done?” Benito asked.

“There is one thing,” Evan said.

“Whatever you ask,” Xavier said, “I’ll do.”

Beside him his father tensed at the edge of the couch cushion.

“Find someone who needs me,” Evan said. “Like you did. It doesn’t matter how long it takes. Find someone who’s desperate, who’s got no way out, and give them my number: 1-855-2-NOWHERE.”

Both men nodded.

“You tell them about me. Tell them I’ll be there on the other end of the phone.”

Benito said, “The Nowhere Man.”

“That’s right.”

As Evan rose, Xavier found his feet quickly. “Sir,” he said, the word sounding ridiculous and old-fashioned in his mouth, “why do you do this?”

Evan looked at the floor. An image came to him, Joey standing in front of that house in the Phoenix heat, gun in hand, staring down a woman on a porch swing. And then handing the pistol back to him, unfired.

The words were surprisingly hard to say, but he fought them out: “Because everyone deserves a second chance.”

Xavier extended his hand, that Madre tattoo bleeding and raw and beautiful. “I’ll do it. I’ll find someone else.”

Evan shook his hand.

The front door banged in, Tommy shouldering through, gripping a Hardigg case in each hand.

Xavier and Benito looked at the stranger with alarm.

“Also,” Tommy said, “we’re gonna need to borrow your roof.”

* * *

At the base of the sloped lot, Evan and Joey stood between a tower crane and a hydraulic torque wrench, staring up at the five-story development. Beyond the tall concrete wall to their side, afternoon rush-hour traffic hummed by.

The workers had retired for the night. The six-acre blind spot provided an unlikely patch of privacy in the heart of Los Angeles. Upslope, the lot ended at a street, but the houses beyond, including Benito Orellana’s, were not visible.

The construction platform’s lift, an orange cage half the size of a shipping container, had been lowered for the work day’s end. Joey stepped forward, rocked it with her foot. It didn’t give. Then she leaned back and appraised the steel bones of the building-to-be.

“Which route?” Evan asked.

Joey squinted. Then she raised an arm, pointing. “There to there to there. See that I-beam? Third floor? Then across. Up that rise. There, there, and then up.”

Evan visualized the path. “How do you know?”

“Geometry.”