On the next trip we singled out an old Hungarian lady’s house in Brentwood Park. It was the only house on the block that had no fence or gate, and its lawn sprouted unruly tufts of grass that bent like cowlicks. Apparently, one of my brother’s gang buddies delivered drugs for Vincente Pharmacy and brought her her Prozac. She was sixtyish but dressed years younger; her tight dresses and silk robes looked grotesque on her shriveling, suntanned body. She was famous for making passes at delivery boys and house-sitters. Tomas knew she had gone away for the weekend to her Palm Springs condo with her current house-sitter. I thought my brother would go for something like the china or silverware, but he headed for her bedroom. He checked her bathroom and, not finding what he wanted, stood in her bedroom scoping it out. He noticed her vanity—a piece of furniture I had not heard of before—and hurried over to it. On the mahogany surface she had set out a mess of things, including jewelry boxes. But Tomas reached for the perfume bottles and started smelling them and holding them up to the light, as if by looking at the amber liquid he could know which was the most expensive among them, or what would most please our mother. He seemed to know what he was doing, and that seemed strange to me then.

Search the drawers.

What am I looking for?

Find the pearls.

What?

You heard me. Look for the pearls. Or anything with gold on it. Forget the silver stuff. It wouldn’t look good on her brown skin.