The kids answered back.

“Hello, Mr. Pike. Welcome to Angel Eyes.”

Artie beamed, and Pike nodded.

“How many you have here?”

“Twenty-three here today. Another twenty at the South L.A. facility. Eighteen up in Van Nuys.”

Though Artie employed counselors who resided at the various houses, his kids weren’t allowed to live on-site except for short-term cases where they risked at-home physical abuse or assault from neighborhood gangs. The sites existed to give them a place to go, counselors they could talk to, tutors to help with their studies, and a peaceful harbor from the stormy waters of their lives. Artie Alvarez charged nothing for these services, and covered his costs by fund-raising and donations. Though the grounds were neat and orderly and the house was being painted, Pike noticed missing roof tiles, torn window screens, and other indications that Artie was running low on funds. When Pike mentioned it, Artie shrugged.

“It’s the economy. The state’s broke. Rich people aren’t feeling as rich as they used to, so they give less.”

He smiled at the kids as if he admired their courage to change.

“We’ll get by. Now c’mon in, and let’s talk this out.”

Pike followed Artie into the house. The living room was set up like an office and waiting room with two desks, two couches, and two chairs. A pretty young Latina who was probably Marisol was at the front desk, speaking on the phone while typing at a computer.

As they passed, Artie said, “Joe, Marisol, Marisol, Joe.”

Marisol raised a hand in greeting without interrupting her conversation. She was trying to convince a local restaurant to donate their leftover food to a shelter for abused children. Pike noticed a pearl of sweat running down the side of her face before she brushed it away. The house was not air-conditioned.

Artie led him to what was once the master bedroom, though it now served as Artie’s office. Every window was open and a couple of fans moved the air, but it was still hot. The cool ocean breezes rarely ventured this far from the sea.

Artie dropped into a secondhand chair behind a cast-off teacher’s desk.

“Sit. What can I do for you?”

“Venice Trece?”

“All right. They’ve owned the Westside for years. Which clique are we talking about?”

“Malevos Pacificos.”

“Pacific Gangsters. They’re at the end of the boulevard, right by the water.”

“I want to speak with the jefe.”

Each clique had its own boss, known as the jefe.

Artie arched his eyebrows and leaned back.

“Speak as in talk, or speak as in someone won’t be speaking again?”

“As in talk. If I wanted the other thing, I would not have involved you.”