Anger had winched his voice higher. No more fatherly protectiveness. He leaned closer. "Everyone helping him, he's spitting in everyone's face--not really spitting, you know what I mean."

Milo said, "Attitude."

"Oh, boy, he's got attitude." Mendoza swigged coffee, narrowly missed sloshing liquid onto his white shirt. He inspected the placket. Flicked off a speck of dust. "Lucky, I only got one more clean in my locker." Another glance at his watch. "I got to go, they need me."

I said, "How long did Martin stay in Texas the second time?"

"Same thing, three days, that time Gisella put him on the bus 'cause I told her no more airplane."

"There's no chance he returned to Gisella's?"

"Gisella never lies."

Milo said, "Could we have her phone number, please?"

"You don't believe me."

"Of course we do, sir. But just in case Martin shows up sometime in the future."

"You think he could?" said Mendoza.

"Kids do all sorts of things."

"That would be good. His mother could stop throwing up."

Milo copied as he recited.

I said, "You're sure Martin doesn't have any friends he could find refuge with?"

"That's part of the problem, he didn't like the kids there. Too rich, too snobby, too white--even the Latino kids and the black kids were white according to him. I say you're the one being a snob. Judge people by what they do not by who their parents are. He laughs, like you'd understand. I say you're a star athlete, good-looking guy, you're smart, what's not to like? He gets really mad with the attitude, starts screaming."

"About what?"

"About everything nice I said. I'm a star athlete? He shakes his bad shoulder. This is an athlete? He pinches his cheek, stretches the skin out. This is good-looking? Martin's dark, not like me, his mother's side, sometimes her brother--the basketball player--gets taken for a Brazilian. I say calm down. He keeps going. You think this is good-looking at a place like that? I'm a fucking outcast. Excuse the language, that's how he said it."

"He was pretty upset."

"He's waving his arms, gonna hurt that rotator cuff. He walks out but this time he comes back. With the D term paper. Rips it up, starts eating it." Still incredulous. "Chewing the paper, swallowing, I'm screaming now, what are you doing, fool, you'll get sick. He says since you stuck me in that place, I been eating shit, what's a little paper for dessert? Then he leaves the house, I don't see him until I get home from work the next day."

"Where'd he go?"

"He never says where he goes."

"He didn't want to be tutored but he showed up."

"He's a good boy," said Emilio Mendoza.

"How did he like it?"