Talking.
Waiting.
Maria was different from the last girl.
That girl was hurt and wide open
when he found her
hiding behind her tears on Abbott Kinney.
But Maria was more guarded.
He could sense her quietly looking
for the tender spot,
the place where she could reach in
and tear the heart
out of the world.
He walked with Maria,
across a town that hates walking.
He spoke carefully,
assembling the words that always worked,
describing a new way of life,
one that gives the powerless power
and lets them leave the past behind.
The simple desires.
As they walked by strip malls and gun shops,
low-cost dentists and gentlemen’s clubs,
and the cough of traffic whirled around them,
petal by petal, he peeled away the locked bud
of her anger. She said nothing
but her eyes flashed and her moods boiled
then passed, hints of storms that never broke.
She mumbled, “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
But her eyes suggested she wanted something to be there.
He said, “You know, whoever hurt you
dies every time they look in the mirror.
That is how they pay.”
She crossed her arms.
“And one day, Maria, you will die too,
but there’s no reason for you to die
every day.”
He needed a girl, plain and simple.
Nothing else will hold a pack together.
But he wasn’t sure what he was unleashing
into the wilds with this one.
It all burned so deep for her.
At dusk, sitting on a bus stop bench,
he said, “Tell me when you’re ready to change.”
She watched the sun drown in
a cauldron of clouds.
For the first time, she took his hand
and, leaning over,
whispered in his ear,
“I’m ready now.”
That is the new girl.
Lark has let her define the discipline.
He prefers the Ukan way,
a path they say
traces back to the Native Americans
of the north. The Ukan rule is simple,
abstain, and ride the tension.
But he can’t be there to guide the new pack,
he can’t write all the rules,
he can only provide a rough map.
She prefers leading by enticement,
rewarding the dog who serves the pack best.
It gives her the power and she likes calling the shots.
Curling up with Marco, sweating nights with Bunny,
making them work for her, to Lark’s ends,
making the pack work her way to Lark’s destination,
sealing her flesh
to the chosen one of the moment.
It’s not a path Lark knows.
But, as he watches Bunny juggling four eggs
on the front lawn,
Lark thinks to himself there are no rules anymore
there’s only the ever constant
law of evolution
become what is or you will be
what is not.
And while you’re at it
keep on living true to
the lines of the old children’s story,
that still echo in your memory.
Go dog go.
He checks his watch,
it’s time to head back to Bonnie’s.
And he drives away
Bunny is still juggling.
XI
This day for Anthony
begins just fine as he
kisses her sleeping, naked back then
shower coffee radio news drive.
It’s his turn to be in early
and he’s the first one to hit the cages,
humming with a fine attitude.
He turns on the lights
only to find something
he sure doesn’t see every day:
a naked man
lying amid the dogs.
Anthony observes him resting there,
beat to hell and fast asleep.
He looks so peaceful.
Anthony dials 911, they say
is the guy breathing?
His breathing is fine. So 911 says
it was a busy night
chill out, take a number, we’ll be there.
Anthony gets a first aid kit.
Smelling salts wake the stranger
whose eyes flit around the room.
The man starts to get up but the motion
of the earth pulls him down, he takes a queasy stumble.
“Relax, the paramedics are on their way.”
With that, the man is up hard
and it takes a bolt of strength from Anthony
to hold him down.
“Sit there, buddy, I have some questions.”
The stocky little man pushes back, straining,
even craning his neck
trying to bite at the dogcatcher.
Anthony shoves him down
almost yelling now,
“You’d better fucking cut that out.”
The man goes slack.
“How did you get in here?”
The little man sighs. “I dunno. I drank a lot
must have been the butt of
some kind of dumb-ass prank.”
“Okay well, tell it to the cops,”
the thought of which sets the man’s eyes darting
like lost minnows in a fierce current,
he’s vibrating desperation,
but Anthony holds him tight.
“What’s your name, buddy?”
The little guy makes one more jolt for freedom,
twisting loose and starting to run
before Anthony performs a simple leg sweep
taking the guy down again.
Anthony leans over, puts his knee into the stranger’s back,
and—grabbing a handful of hair—
he pushes the man’s face
against the cold concrete floor.
“Look, I should probably mention,
I’m trained in martial arts,
so there’s not much point in even trying to run.
Just answer my question.
What’s your name?”
The little man lies there,
wincing, bitter,
and tonguing a loose tooth.
“Ray,” he says. “My name is Ray.”
XII
Back in the bunker, curled up next to Frio,
Jorge thinks about the last two days.
His tail slaps steadily against the floor
beating out the rhythm
of what went down.
They told him it was supposed to be cut-and-dried,
a milk run for him and Frio.
First the Econoline loaded up.
Ray drove, hunched over like
a man with nothing good on his mind.
Sasha rode shotgun, her black hair pulled back,
her mood as dark as ever.
The rest of the crew jammed into the rear seats.
Jorge thought the van was like a dark pistol
and they were the bullets inside.
The other dogs had told Jorge about these runs.
They’d hit forcefully. Clean out the speed labs. Cause some pain.
The only ones in the pack who knew why they did this
were Sasha and Baron and Ray.
Sometimes, it was said, survivors were left,
badly maimed
but with just enough of a mouth
to tell.
Jorge had said good-bye to his mom
the night before.
Calling on the pay phone,
he said he’d shipped out,
“Good money in Iraq, Mom.
Relax, relax, don’t cry…
Frio and me, we hooked up solid.”
But she cried on and on until
Ray reached past Jorge
and clicked the phone dead just like
the executioner flicking the switch.
The receiver was passed to Frio.
He dialed. His mother cried too.
Walking away from the phone
Jorge sucked it up. “Fuck it,” he thought.
“I’m a superhero now.”
The van was on the road for a while,
coming up from the docks.
The sinking sun shone through
the windshield,
bathing them
in a sea of raw gold.
A row up from Jorge,
sitting ramrod straight, with a newborn confidence,
Frio wore the sunset like a shimmering warrior
all painted for battle.
They passed one familiar exit after another
and Jorge thought
of the hours of his life spent on these freeways
zooming with a smile on his face
off to theme parks and cousins’ houses,
barbecues and french fries and other ice cream destinations.
It felt like all that had happened
somewhere else to someone else,
someone as far away now
as the vanishing sun.
They exited the freeway and pulled
into a neighborhood
just east of Huntington Park.
Ray slung the van up a drive and shut off the engine.
He pointed to Frio and Penn and said,
“After you change, hit the back of the house,
and be ready to rush.”
Two others were chosen to watch the side.
Sasha and Jorge were to go with Ray,
while the one named Otto was left guarding the car.
Ray and Otto waited while the rest stripped out of their clothes,
T-shirts and jeans stashed beneath the van’s seats
as the change began. Midway through his own change,
Jorge was hit with that scent again,
the one that was growing familiar,
the odor of smoldering wood and wet mold.
They’d told him it only bothered him
’cause he was young, a pup still.
Of all the dogs, he finished his change last,
yowled quietly,
stretched his legs
in the narrow space between the seats.
The whole van was a pent-up kennel, ready to burst.
Finally when things felt quiet enough,
Ray hopped out and opened the back.
Everyone darted to their spots,
adrenaline high and footfalls silent.
The house was cheap stucco.
Ray went up the steps and rang the bell,
Sasha and Jorge at attention by his knees.
Everyone had seen the diagrams, this was clockwork.
“Follow my lead,” Sasha had told Jorge the night before,
pointing to chalk marks sketched out on the wall
that loosely resembled football plays.
So now there they were, the big game, and even when
the house’s one light went out,
Jorge wasn’t worried.
The door opened just
a crack. “Yeah?” the crack whispered
like a puff of smoke.
“Lucifer sent me,” said Ray.
“You know Lucifer?” The voice was almost a hum.
“Yeah, lemme in,” said Ray, rocking himself
ready for action. He was like that, one of those pop-pop firecrackers
you throw against the pavement.
Sasha sat back, suddenly relaxed
and cool in the moment, so cool
that Jorge relaxed too and sat down on the porch,
casually following her lead.
Perched there, ears forward, they followed the exchange.
Ray’s voice was tense, buzzing with nervousness, “Come on man.”
“You wanna come in?” the crack asked.
“Yeah, that’s what I said, fuck!” shouted Ray.
Then he kneed the door, hard, so it burst open
revealing nothing but the pitch-blackness inside.
This was the moment they were supposed to rush forward
but Jorge was watching Sasha,
and she hadn’t moved.
Ray was expecting Sasha to jump in too, that was the plan,
and as he looked down at her in confusion,
the voice inside said,
“So come on in.”
Four hands reached out from the house,
grabbed Ray by his shirtsleeves
and sucked him into the dark, slamming the door behind.
All the while Sasha sat there motionless.
Ray’s shouts and cries and yelps
bled through the cracks in the stucco,
Sasha turned and trotted back to the van.
Jorge followed her lead.
They sat in the van with Otto,
looking into the dark house.
The other dogs soon
trotted back from their stations,
all of them
except Penn.
They waited.
Jorge sniffed at the cool air through the open window.
He couldn’t hear Ray moaning anymore.
But even at that distance,
he could smell Ray’s pain.
Rules are rules and plans are plans.
So at the prearranged time, with Penn still missing,
and Ray still in the house,
Otto put the van into drive
and off they drove.
Jorge lay in the back bench wondering
why Sasha didn’t make a move.
Why did she let them take Ray like that?
Mysteries were never his thing
the end of Scooby-Doo was always a surprise.
So whatever, they came here as six men and a woman
they left as one man driving three dogs and a bitch.
Who is Jorge to say why?
He licked his balls and waited for orders.
Back at the warehouse, not a word was said,
Sasha didn’t even make the change
just slipped in through the door.
Jorge hit the bunk for a nap.
Exhaling like only a dog can do.
He had about ten minutes curled up before
all the lights popped on bright
pans were banged, yelling, a dog nipped his tendon.
They were all rousted to the main hall,
an old storage space that reminded Jorge of
a cargo hold on some TV spaceship.
Half the crowd was dog,
the other half men,
all looking up
at Sasha who now stood next to Baron.
Jorge waited for Sasha to speak and explain,
but it was Baron who stepped forward.
“Listen. Listen!” yelled Baron. “You want to listen!”
Jorge had never heard him speak
and was struck by the gravity in his tone.
“Listen. Ray is gone. I’m here to tell you this.
Ray is gone and he’s not coming back.”
There was little reaction in the room.
They all sat and waited for the future to arrive, as it tends to.
“I am taking over this pack. Right now.
If anyone chooses to challenge, as is his right
by the rules of the clan
you have three days. Announce your challenge
and I will fight you fair, one on one. But attack me
as I m
ove through these halls
and my old clan will take you.”
Baron paused to let this threat sink in.
“If I am still leader
after those three days, if you let me stand,
we will talk and we will plan
our path, our strategy,
our way against our uncertain enemies and our
certain victory.
And, yes, do not doubt me, do not doubt this,
our victory will be a sure one.
More sure and more certain than the seasons of the year.”
He paused again and put his arm gently around Sasha.
The rest of what he said was lost on Jorge
for at that moment Jorge was watching
Penn, the man they had left
at the dark house who now
stood just behind Baron, eyeing the crowd.
And then Jorge knew,
Sasha. Penn. Baron.
They had hatched and
they had schemed and
most importantly of all,
they had won.
Meeting adjourned. Back to the bunk.
Everyone slept fine.
Some coup d’états
are kinda like that.
Exhale, unwind, and sleep Jorge
’cause here comes the dream
of the bunny rabbit.
XIII
Peabody is at his desk.
Thoughts of a honeyed blonde in San Pedro
and an angry one-armed man in a shack
keep tugging at his mind.
He looks at the picture of his wife and boy,
thinks of how good it feels every day to come home
and have that wave of love
cascade over him,
how that goodness lifts him up.
But the blonde slips into his thoughts again
like some sugar sap dripping from a tree far above.
He hasn’t returned to San Pedro since he got out of the hospital.
He’s thinking maybe life’s too short
for a case that wasn’t a case at all
just some strange dogs and a lisping whisper
over a distant phone line.
He reaches to pull the picture of his wife closer.
“Hey, I found Ruiz,” he thinks. “That’s all I wanted to do.”
He remembers Ruiz banging and yelling out the door.
Who was out there?
Where was he?
In any case, he doesn’t need any more questions.
He’s got a pin in his leg
and, mulling over Ruiz’s arm,
or the lack thereof,
Peabody finds himself thinking
that maybe he got off easy.
“Hey, Peabody!” Moxie calls across the room