He looked at his palm, gave an embarrassed smile, and said, “Dirty.” His voice was soft and hoarse. I put my hand down. He smiled again and saluted me.

“Dr. Delaware.”

“Roddy. Pleased to meetchu.” Boyle Heights accent. As he lowered his fingers, I noticed tattooed letters across the knuckles. L-O-V-E. Homemade job. On the other hand was the inevitable H-A-T-E. In the fold between his thumb and forefinger was a crude blue crucifix. Next to that, a tiny red-eyed spider climbed a tiny web above the legend NR.

He put his hands in his pockets.

“How's your day?” Evelyn asked him. She looked as if she wanted to touch him.

“Okay.” He sniffed.

“Hungry?”

“Yeah, I could eat.” The tattooed hands emerged and rubbed together. “Gotta wash up.”

“Sure, patron.”

He went into the house.

“Well,” she told me, “I'd better get into the kitchen. Guess it's too late for you to talk to them, but you can come back tomorrow.”

“Great.”

We walked inside. Chondra and Tiffani were on the sofa in the rear den, watching cartoons on TV. A cat was being cheerfully decapitated. Tiffani held the remote control.

“Bye, girls.”

Glazed eyes.

“Say bye to the doctor.”

The girls looked up. Small waves and smiles.

“I'm leaving now,” I said. “I'll be coming out here tomorrow—maybe we can get a chance to talk.”

“See you,” said Tiffani. She nudged her sister. Chondra said, “Bye.”

Evelyn was gone. I found her out in the kitchen, pulling something out of the freezer. Rodriguez was stretched back in the velveteen recliner, eyes closed, a beer in his hand.

“See you tomorrow,” I said.

“One sec.” Evelyn came over. The package in her hand was a diet frozen entree. Enchilada Fiesta. “Better be the day after—I forgot there's some things I got to do.”

“Okay. Same time?”

“Sure.” She looked at the frozen package and shook her head.

“How 'bout New York steak?” she called out to her husband.

“Yeah,” he said, without opening his eyes.

“He likes his steak,” she said quietly. “For a fella his size, he's a real meat eater.”

She followed me all the way out to the front lawn. Looked at the TV dinner in her hand. “No one likes this one. Maybe I'll have it.”

I hit bad traffic on the western end of the 210, and by the time I pulled into the carport, it was after seven. When I got in the house, the dog greeted me, but he had his head down and looked subdued. I smelled the reason first, then saw it, on the service porch floor near the door.

“Oh,” I said.

He drooped lower.

“My mistake for locking you in.” I rubbed his neck, and he gave me a grateful lick, then trotted over to the fridge.

“Let's not push things, bucko.”