The Next Right Thing (32 page)

Both Sewell and I looked at him. This wasn’t what either of us expected to hear.

“I told you that I lied about being from New Jersey, right? That wasn’t the only lie. My dad actually is the head of a large criminal organization. I just felt like I should tell you this in order to finish my fifth step.”

“Okay, Troy. You’ve told me.”

“You still don’t believe me.”

“My God,” Sewell said. “Is this a comedy routine?”

Troy walked up beside Sewell and inspected his broken nose. “Try to remember that I’m the only other person in this room who wants you to live.” He turned back toward me. “Anyway, my mom’s last name is Padilla. My father’s Ukrainian. His last name is Isanov.”

Sewell recognized the name, too. His back straightened decisively against the fireplace.

“Of Isanov Brothers Construction?” I said.

“My uncles and my dad.”

In the Pacific Northwest, the Isanovs were as big as it got. Road construction, real estate, waste management, racetracks. The feds had wanted to take them apart for decades. I looked into Troy’s eyes for the second time since he’d entered the room.

“So, listen,” Troy continued. “I did what you said. I made amends to my dad, and he dropped everything to hang out with me. We took his plane down today after Emma called. He’s here now.”

“In Laguna?” I asked.

“In the carport.”

Anthony Isanov was a well-dressed man in his fifties. He wore, believe it or not, the same blue Armani sport coat I owned myself. His soft blue shirt and stone-colored slacks were well tailored. Troy later told me he was a triathlete, and he had that sort of coiled strength. Also the most perfectly tended salt-and-pepper hair I’d ever seen, combed back over his head and seemingly trimmed ten minutes ago. He looked like one of those demographic-elevating, middle-aged J. Crew models.

Isanov pulled Troy close as he followed his son into the condo. “My God,” he said. “This is him.”

Like his son, Troy’s father didn’t seem particularly bothered by the gun idling in my right hand, but I stuffed it into my pants anyway. The Isanovs joined Sewell and me beside the fireplace.

“I won’t say how grateful I am”—Isanov shook my hand fiercely—“because I’ll lose it again.”

Troy stood beside his father, and Sewell didn’t move an inch.

“Mr. Isanov, this is John Sewell,” I said.

Isanov turned to offer his hand. “Anthony Isanov. Happy to meet you, sir.”

It wasn’t possible for Sewell to be any stiffer, but Isanov’s presence gave him at least another inch of broomstick up his ass.

“Whatever you need”—Isanov pointed at me—“I’ll make it happen.”

Such a gangster thing to say, but I believed him. He thought I’d returned his son to him, and maybe I had.

“I’d like to show Dad your houses later on,” Troy said. “Randy builds beautiful houses.”

“You told me that, buddy. I’m looking forward to it,” Isanov said.

The pressure inside Troy must have been huge. His eyes bounced from his father to me. And then back to his father. And then back to me.

Isanov filled the awkward silence. “You used to dream about building houses when you were still, ah, on the police force?”

“No, sir. That was too big a dream to admit. I doubt it even crossed my mind.”

“After you stopped drinking,” Isanov said, “you started to dream?”

“I started to dream when I had no other choice.”

Isanov laughed. “Sometimes the bastards have a boot on your neck and you can’t do anything but enjoy the view.”

Sewell looked like he had to pee. Badly.

“A friend of mine who recently passed told me that sometimes you have to take success and happiness like a punch in the face,” I said. “You have to be a man about it.”

Isanov laughed again. “Troy told me about him, too.”

Troy beamed. If we’d been in my shop, I would have asked him to make coffee. Given him something to do.

Instead, I said, “Can I buy you a cup of coffee, Mr. Isanov? Has Troy told you about Jean Claude’s? It’s not Seattle, but it’s an institution.”

“That’d be great, Randy.” He smiled his big smile. When it became clear that I wasn’t moving on yet, Isanov said, “And then, maybe later, you’ll let me buy you a meal. I’m staying at the Ritz-Carlton. We can eat there and then bring some cigars to the beach. Troy says you like cigars?”

Looking into his eyes, I said, “How about I catch up with you in a half hour?”

Maybe I imagined that the same pleasant denial which allowed the two of them to ignore the gun would extend to excusing me for a few minutes while I shot John Sewell. That I was completely insane at the moment was indisputable.

Isanov held my arm and gently drew me away from the fireplace, far enough so he wouldn’t be heard, but I never took my eyes off Sewell.

“Can I be blunt with you, Randy?” he asked.

“Blunt is good,” I said.

“Troy wants you to calm the fuck down,” Isanov said, “and he brought me here to help you accomplish that.”

“No disrespect, Mr. Isanov, but my being calm is none of your business.”

“Bullshit, there’s no disrespect. You use that gun, you disrespect everything you’ve achieved with my son.”

Looking over at Troy, I had to give it to his father: this wasn’t my finest day as a sponsor.

“You’re a moron and my son is moron,” Isanov continued. “But that’s God’s blessing on you. Maybe you’re an artist, like Troy says. But don’t make a mistake, Randy. The world is full of people like me, who live in the hell of
not
being morons. Please give me that gun.”

I gave him the gun. The truth will set you free, but first it will really piss you off.

“Now,” he said, “let’s talk about this ugly business you’re involved in. First let me tell you that if you get my son mixed up in something like this again, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”

“Whatever I do, Troy’s going to make this life hard for you. It’s his special skill. I know you think you’re up for it, but trust me, you’re not up for it.”

“Do you understand?”
Isanov repeated.

“Yes, I understand,” I said. “Do you understand?”

“Better than you know,” Isanov said. “Please take my son outside so I can fix this for you.”

Troy and I walked around the side of the building, which was high above PCH. The ocean was blue like the blue on a map and oddly static—like if you threw yourself against it, you would bounce right off.

“What’s he doing in there right now?” I asked.

“His thing. Which is good for you, because I don’t think he’s going to be doing his thing too much longer. We had a long talk today.”

“Did I just put a judge in Anthony Isanov’s back pocket?”

Troy laughed. “You really want me to answer that? All you need to know is that it’s out of your hands now.”

“I would be happily on my way to prison,” I said, “if you hadn’t forced me to do your goddamn fifth step.”

“That’s a beautiful thought. Me, I wouldn’t have to make something out of my life.”

Troy’s father joined us on that pretty hill above PCH. “Judge Sewell won’t bother you anymore.”

“Thanks.”

“Can you give Troy a ride to my hotel?” Isanov said. “I’ve got a few details to iron out before we have dinner.”

I looked around the building to see if Sewell was still there, but his car was gone. Isanov got back into his rented Navigator, and he drove away, too.

AT SOME POINT NEAR THE END
of my career as a Santa Ana police officer, I started to think that ironwork on doors and windows was beautiful, in the way that fire escapes in New York City are beautiful. The bars on Balthazar Bustamante’s house were better than most: wild teardrops that looked like paisley. Sitting in my truck across the street, I wondered if I should have talked to Manny first so he could dissuade me. Maybe a quick café con leche at the
supermercado
to think it through. Now that I was there, though, my truck didn’t seem to want to move, so I continued to admire the ironwork.

I had been on my way to Fullerton for Paloma’s quinceañera after her Mass at St. Joseph’s when my truck seemed to drive itself, like the arrow on some huge Ouija board, toward a small fortified home near Chapman Avenue.

The last known address for the guy who cost me my job and kicked my ass into A.A.

It had been four weeks since I took Troy’s fifth step, two weeks since Troy’s father had treated us to the best meal with cigars after that I’d ever experienced. And now I sat there watching a little old man I didn’t recognize sitting in a lawn chair on the concrete porch. When I turned off my engine, he looked at me for a minute, then leisurely stepped inside. A minute later, a younger man came outside whom I did recognize. Eight years ago, Balthazar Bustamante had been a white-T-shirt-bandanna-under-the-baseball-cap scumbag. Today he was wearing a vintage polo shirt and green cargo shorts, and his hair was clippered at the shortest setting to camouflage his baldness. He rubbed the soul patch on his chin as he crossed the well-kept lawn. I couldn’t remember Bustamante’s street name. It was his full legal name that had been typed across my entire life.

“¿Qué onda?”
I got out of my truck.
“¿Cómo estás?”

“Bien,”
Bustamante said. “Pretty fuckin’
bien
.”

Who knows what I expected, but this wasn’t it. Bustamante smiled at me. “Now you speak Spanish?” he said.

“My new job requires it,” I said. “Could have used it on my old job, too, I guess.”

“I heard about your new job,” Bustamante said. “You should give me a percentage. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be a cop.”

“This is true.”

“Did you come here to apologize for almost killing me? For giving me headaches every day for two years? For costing my dad a shitload of money that he still doesn’t have?”

“Not exactly an apology.”

“Is this some kind of reality-TV show where the lowlife
cracker gringo asshole finds redemption and understanding by confronting his racist past?”

“No,” I said. “Not that, either.”

Bustamante laughed. “I’m taking a course at Cal State Fullerton: postmodern popular culture. I’m thinking there’s a video camera in that van over there where some producer coached you to apologize but then get pissed off and start a fight because that’s good television.”

“You’re in college?”

“Don’t congratulate yourself,” Bustamante said. “Maybe I’m trading crack for English papers and running volleyball players as whores.”

“How much crack can you get for an essay these days?”

“You don’t know shit about me.” He pointed at my face. “You could live in my house and eat my food and suck my dick for ten years before you’d know less than shit.”

He held my eyes for no longer than ten seconds, but it was the same bump in testosterone that almost killed us both eight years ago. This time I would have let him hit me. Eventually, Bustamante stared down at his feet. I followed his eyes, and maybe we were wondering the same thing: was he really wearing Birkenstocks?

“Why you here? You find fucking Jesus or something?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “It’s more like—”

“Because I did,” Bustamante said. “My old man finally got me to go to church when I was still in the cast. The Holy Spirit hit me so goddamn hard, I thought I was having a stroke.”