Isaiah rented a one-room apartment near the hospital. The tan shag carpet had holes in it and there was a sewage smell in the bathroom. He visited Flaco twice a day. When he wasn’t there he went to the library and looked for books to read aloud and learned how to juggle and do magic tricks. Flaco enjoyed them.
Isaiah got his meals at the hospital cafeteria or got plastic-wrapped sandwiches from Vons and ate them on the curb like a bum. He still had a lot of time on his hands. He took lessons in Krav Maga because the gym was near the hospital. Krav Maga was a martial arts system developed by the Israeli military. The guiding principle: Defend and attack in the same move. He got pretty good but had no interest in belts or tournaments.
Flaco started rehab. Motor therapy, cognitive therapy, aphasia therapy, speech therapy. Slowly, he made progress.
Marcus’s voice was never far away. He sounded so real and close it was like he was there, with Isaiah in the hospital room, sitting on the curb while he ate his sandwiches; standing over him while he was trying to fall asleep.
If you think reading Harry Potter to that boy gets you off the hook, you are sadly mistaken. Flaco is only the start of it. The war caused death and destruction and made innocent people worry for their lives and their children’s lives and made them feel ashamed of where they lived. You were supposed to raise people up, ease their suffering, bring them justice, do some good out there—Oh, I’m sorry, are you crying again? Well, I hope it’s not for yourself because I don’t feel sorry for you and neither should you. What? What was that? You can’t pay back everybody for everything that’s happened? Is that your excuse? You can’t pay back everybody so you’re gonna pay back nobody?
Isaiah stopped spending the burglary money and set aside what was left for Flaco. He didn’t know what else he could do. Broke now, he got a job at the Hurston Animal Shelter. He liked the animals and he liked Harry but the city cut the budget and Harry had to let him go.
Isaiah worked as a night janitor at Hopkins Machining and Welding. He learned how to use the machines by watching videos and practiced on them at night. Mr. Hopkins caught him working on a canopy for a client’s vintage Spitfire airplane. He was impressed but couldn’t hire Isaiah because it was a union shop.
Hopkins referred Isaiah to Garrison Robles, a gunsmith who made custom firearms and ammo. Garrison was looking for a machinist who would work cheap in exchange for learning the trade. Isaiah had reservations about taking the job. Since the shootings he was gun-shy and Dr. Lopez and her one damn bullet had made him almost phobic.
Isaiah was eleven years old and afraid of spiders. He refused to take a bath because a daddy longlegs was in the tub.
“That little thing?” Marcus had said. “It can’t hurt you.”
“I don’t care,” Isaiah said. “I’m not going in there.”
“I was scared of snakes. Couldn’t even look at a picture of one. So I studied up on them, learned what made them tick, got them down to their nuts and bolts. Made them a thing instead of a boogieman.”
“Are you still afraid of them?”
“Oh yeah, I’m terrified—but I know what I’m dealing with.”
Isaiah learned a lot about guns and ammo working for Garrison. He was still afraid of them but he knew what he was dealing with.
Other jobs came and went. He worked as a barista at the Coffee Cup, making espressos, lattes, and mocha frappuccinos. He learned about coffee and its smells. Separating the aroma into notes of charcoal, chocolate, red fruits, caramel, and a dozen others. He began paying attention to smells in general. Walking into a room, meeting someone, opening a package. He worked for a law practice as a process server. He liked finding people who didn’t want to be found and he liked reading the documents he was serving. Divorces, summonses, lawsuits, subpoenas, cease-and-desist orders. A mini-course in the law. He worked at a sporting goods store. It had a rock-climbing wall and he got into it, the guy there taking him on climbs to Eagle Peak, Stoney Point, Joshua Tree.
His best job was at TK’s Wrecking Yard. Twelve desolate acres near the Dominguez Channel. TK was a skinny old man who smelled like motor oil and sweat, enough room in his overalls for two more TKs, his cap so filthy you could barely make out the STP.
“What’s your name, son?” TK said, wiping his hands with a rag that was dirtier than his hands.
“Isaiah Quintabe,” Isaiah said.
“You ever work on cars before, Isaiah Quintabe?”
“No sir, but I know my tools and I learn fast.”