“Sounds like you had a death wish.”
Roman’s mouth twisted in a bitter, self-mocking smile. “Maybe, or maybe I thought I could be faster than a speeding bullet and leap tall buildings in a single bound.” He did learn how to make it across narrow alleys to lower roofs on the other side. He’d had plenty of practice street running as a kid, escaping foster families and outrunning police and social workers. He knew how to hit the ground, roll, and use the momentum to keep going. He used obstacles to propel himself. San Francisco’s city streets had been his playground.
How many times had he heard a siren whoop and seen red lights glowing on building walls, a searchlight scanning the heights for him? The night White Boy died, Bobby Ray Dean had run until he felt like his heart would explode.
He told Brian more about White Boy, a year younger, who wanted to be like Bobby Ray Dean, who loved the adrenaline rush of taking risks, painting high places, using parkour to outrun the police or rival gang members. Elbows on his knees, Roman rubbed his face. “There wasn’t even an obituary for him.” His voice was rough.
Brian leaned forward, his eyes full of compassion. “What was White Boy’s real name?”
Roman raised his head slowly. “I don’t know.” He couldn’t see Brian’s face through his tears.
“But you didn’t quit after that?”
“I did more. I blasted the hood with it. It was the only time I felt alive and in control.”
Bobby Ray continued to tag for the gang, but spent more time on other pieces, his own ideas, his own voice. He painted a red-faced devil around the front door of an apartment house. The entrance swallowed people going in and vomited them out. He painted a chef roasting rats over the garbage cans in the alley of a famous steak house. He turned an air-conditioner grille into a grinning monster. “My gang tags got buffed within a few days. My other pieces lasted longer.”
The crushing irony was that the night White Boy plummeted to his death, the Bird flew. BRD wasn’t just Bobby Ray Dean’s initials anymore. He became the Bird. The half-finished piece he’d painted that night was in a heaven spot. It would have cost the city big money to have it buffed, so it stayed.
“Where are Reaper and Lardo now?”
“Dead. Killed at a party. Couple of older guys came in looking for Reaper’s brother and figured one was as good as the other.” Roman rubbed the back of his neck. “I was supposed to be at Reaper’s that night, but I was doing some stupid project for my history teacher. Playing the game, trying to get through high school.”
Had he refused all opportunities for a higher education out of penance? “I went a little crazy that night and blasted Turk Street with red paint. Cops caught me and I ended up in juvie.”
“Anyone try to bail you out?”
“Are you kidding?” Roman gave a dark laugh. “The foster couple I’d been living with was glad to be rid of me. The court decided I needed a change of scenery and sent me up to Masterson Ranch. Talk about culture shock.” He shook his head. “They boarded horses and had a hundred head of cattle as well as half a dozen boys. I wasn’t cooperative. I did everything I could to get kicked out.”
“That’s where you met Jasper Hawley.”
“Yeah. He looks mellow, but he’s persistent.”
“He got to you.”
“He’s a hard man to shake. He’s still keeping tabs on me. Calls me one of his ‘lost boys.’”
Brian smiled. “I thought he was your father when I met him.”
“Really? How’s that? We don’t look anything alike.”
“He loves you like a son.”
Roman didn’t want to think about that. He hadn’t wanted to love anyone until he met Grace. People died. People left. “He always seems to call or show up when I’m in crisis mode. I don’t know how he does that.” Considering the disappointment in Jasper’s tone during their last conversation, he figured Jasper had finally given up on him. He hadn’t expected it to hurt so much.
“God nudges people.” Brian opened a cabinet. “Most people just don’t pay attention.” He measured coffee and put the basket in the coffeemaker, filled a carafe, and poured it into the reservoir.
“I’ve told you more than I’ve told anyone.” Including Grace.
“I’ll hold it in trust.” Brian considered him for a moment. “God has had His hand on you for a long time, my friend.”
“We’ll have to agree to disagree on that one.”
“Maybe you need to go back and look at everything with new eyes. From where I’m sitting, God saved your life several times, not just that one time in Santa Clarita.” His expression was intense, as though he were trying to drill through steel. “Jesus came to set you free, Roman, not remind you constantly of where you missed the mark. We’re saved by grace . . .”
His fleshly mind went to Grace, God’s instrument to keep him alive and give him one more chance to get things right. And he’d insulted her with a naive offer of what he considered a relationship. No wonder she ran.
He’d let her go, and now here he was thinking about her again. He refocused on what Brian was saying and knew what he meant. God’s grace covered it all.
Brian laughed softly. “I can always tell when you’re tuning me out.”
“I hear you. I’ll think about it.” Maybe he should go back to the Tenderloin. He had unfinished business there.
Brian rubbed his hands together. “Could I talk the Bird into doing some flying for me? Graffiti is the kind of art that appeals to my parishioners.”
Roman remembered the police officer in the tunnel. “I’m not blasting walls anymore. Gave my word.”
“I’m not suggesting anything illegal, Roman. It’d be in the open, no black hoodies necessary.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Something conspicuous on the wall facing the street. I want people to know there’s a church in the industrial park. Of course, I need to get permission from our landlord, but he’s a cool guy and a Christian. I think he’d go for it.”
Ideas flashed like a slideshow in Roman’s mind. Every time he read the Bible, he remembered paintings he’d seen in cathedrals and museums across Europe, others only in his head. He felt a spark and sensed the Holy Spirit bringing it to flame.
What do you say, Bobby Ray Dean? Want to do a little art for Me?
Roman laughed. Graffiti for God? What an outrageous idea! He itched to have a pencil in his hand.
Brian grinned. “Looks like you’re already thinking about it.”
GRACE SAT AT THE KITCHEN TABLE, her laptop open, editing a business brochure. She peered out the window. It had been an hour since her aunt had taken Samuel out in the stroller. She’d never known Aunt Elizabeth to take a neighborhood walk, let alone ask to have responsibility for a baby.
The front door opened. “We’re back!” Aunt Elizabeth called from the foyer. “I didn’t give Samuel to the gypsies.” She appeared in the kitchen doorway, cheeks flushed, smiling, Samuel perched happily on her hip. “Half a dozen neighbors wanted to know what I was doing with a baby. I told them I found him in the supermarket and couldn’t resist tossing him in the basket.” She chuckled. “I never knew I had so many nosy neighbors, but then again, I haven’t taken a walk around the block in years.” She looked over Grace’s shoulder at the computer screen. “What’re you working on?”
“Editing a brochure for a new business venture.”
“How did you get the work?”
“Harvey Bernstein has sent a few jobs my way.” Her aunt had never met her boss at the public relations firm.
“Looks good. Then what will you do?”
“I have three other projects lined up, and Jasper Hawley has connections with several high schools in the Sacramento area. He’s recommended me as an online tutor. I had my first inquiry this morning. I’ll meet Kayden and his father on Skype during Samuel’s nap time.”