Page 67 of Right Up His Alley

“I put your sandwich in some Tupperware, so nothing leaks out on you, tesoro.”

Her Italian nickname for me is warm, and I try to respond with gratitude, but it comes out sounding more like nonchalance. “Thanks, Carlada. You’re the best.”

Finally, after about ten minutes spent gathering my things to leave, my phone buzzes.

Not feeling well. Stayed home today. Call you later.

I stare at the text, the words so brief they almost don’t feel like enough. Something’s off, and I can’t place why. My thumb hovers over the screen for a moment, unsure of how to reply. Until I look up toward a woman who always knows what someone else needs.

“Carlada,” I ask, “you got any remedies for sickness?”

“I can heat up some Ribollita.”

I nod. “Perfect. I don’t know what that is, but I’ll take it to go?”

“You got it, tesoro.”

I pull up to Ezra’s house. Thanks to the seat belt strategically wrapped around it, the container of warm Ribollita is safely secured on the passenger’s seat. My father would kill me if I spilled the food and messed up his Alfa Romeo Giulia. Another sleek, smug car in his precious collection.

I park and walk up to the door. With every step, unease settles in my stomach. This visit feels off, but I keep going anyway. I knock gently, then a little louder. When it opens, I’m not expecting his mom, especially not with red eyes and a tissue clutched in her hand.

“Hi,” I say, voice soft, feeling as if I’m interrupting something tragic. “Is Ezra—” I stop myself. “Are you alright, Mrs. Jiménez?”

She blinks, as if surprised I noticed her tears. “I’m fine,” she says faintly. “I don’t know where Ezra is. He stopped responding to me.”

A flicker of worry gets caught in my throat. I swallow, pushing down air I needed to use for my next breath. “Oh? He’s not home?”

She shakes her head, eyes welling again. “No. I… I messed up. I did something I shouldn’t have. So, I went to the alley to talk to him, to make it right, but it was closed. The lights were off. I saw his car in the lot, but he didn’t come to the door when I knocked. I didn’t want to bang any harder…como una loca. You don’t want to spook Mrs. Barnes. She’ll call the police on you. So I came home, hoping he came back here somehow…”

She trails off, and I glance down at the soup, still warm in my hands. The silence lingers, tentative. My eyes drift past her, toward the staircase and the nearby hallway, half hoping he’ll appear. But the house is still.

I step back. “Do you mind if I try to give him a call?”

She nods, but it’s clear she doesn’t have hope for me getting through to him either.

I turn toward the car, my mind already sifting through the short list of places Ezra might go when he doesn’t want to be found. Out of responsibility, the alley is where he’d most likely be, but for his own peace of mind, I can only think of one place he might have gone.

Ezra’s mom was right. The Closed sign is hanging on the front door of the alley, and the lights are off. No sign of anyone in the building. Ezra’s car is sitting in a spot further out from where he usually parks. Closer to Damien’s tattoo parlor.

After stepping out of the car, I slam the door with a little more force than necessary. The container of Ribollita sits untouched on the passenger seat as I leave it behind.

The tattoo parlor doesn’t look busy, but the dim lights are still on, and the door is unlocked. I push it open, hoping to find Ezra tattooing, cleaning up, anything. At least then I’d know he’s safe. But the shop is quiet. No movement.

“Hello?” I call out.

No response.

I step farther inside, past the flash art and the cluttered counter. “Ezra?” This time, my voice is a little louder.

Nothing.

“Damien? Someone? Is anyone here?”

Still nothing.

Then, suddenly, the curtains separating the shop from the back fling open. Ezra stumbles through the fabric. He’s shirtless and missing his pants, left in nothing but boxers and socks. His face is flushed, eyes unfocused. A half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s dangles loosely from his hand.

“Who’s yellin’ my name out here? Why is it so hot in—so hot in herrr,” he slurs, the words running together.