CHAPTER
1
Eno trudged up the road. Big fancy property like this, maybe a chance to hit a lick.
His last stretch at County had ended eighty-two days ago, then he was back on the street looking for bank. Trying a few things that didn’t work out so having to dothis.
Bright Dawn Cleaning and Maintenance.
He’d filled out a half-page questionnaire:Have you ever been convicted of a felony?
Hell, yeah.
He’d checkedNo. Later he found out from dudes at the Cyril you weren’t even allowed to ask anymore. He’da lied anyway, it was good to stay in practice.
Looking for shit to steal was Eno’s thing when he was at rich-people houses doing landscaping or roofing. His specialty was small stuff no one would notice till he was long gone. Street sale or pawn at one of the places that didn’t ask questions.
He thought of himself as careful butnotcareful was not noticing an old Mexican maid at a house in Hancock Park after he spotted a little gold box on a table from outside a sliding glass door. The door unlocked, shiny thing just sitting shoutingCome and Get Me!!
Maid’s looking from around a corner.Being sneaky, whose fault was that?
That had earned Eno three months at County while waiting for trial. All charges dismissed because the maid went back to Mexico. Plus they never found the box because Eno had ditched it in some bushes before the cops showed up.
Lack of evidence, his PD announced. Proud of herself, like she did something.
Maybe he should go back and look for the box in the bushes. Nah, be careful.
So now he was pushing a big plastic wheelie can up a long private road early on a Sunday morning. The can full of gloves and bleach and soaps and rags and Windex, a broom and a shovel attached to the side.
Another party house to clean up. Worst job he’d ever had, getting up at five a.m. to start at six, being driven all over the city in a service van, Laquitha at the wheel, glaring at him and the other cleaners liketheywere the garbage.
Like they were special-needs kids on a special-needs school bus; Eno knew aboutthat.
He’d worked two houses this month, not a single lick. No surprise, he guessed; the places were mostly empty except for rented furniture.
The disgusting shit people left behind, even with the gloves it grossed Eno out.
He’d do it just until something better came along. If nothing fell into place soon, maybe he’d take the next step: mask and hoodie up, get weaponated, do thegimme-your-money-motherfucker!!!
Targeting drunk downtown club yuppie scum weaving around like worms. Lots of clubs walking distance from his room at the Cyril. What a shitboxthatwas, not much better than a cell.
At least Section 8 was paying for it.
As he pushed the wheelie, he tried to concentrate, always a challenge.
Yeah, easy enough to take the next step and just go for the gold. Unless you got blowback from a drunken yuppie. Eno had never been a fighter and at forty-three he had no muscles left.
Motherfucker fought back, Eno would have no choice.
Bang.
Maybetoobig a step.
Meanwhile he’d do this. Pushing uphill, his mind wandering. Nothing at the top except other people’s shit.
He stopped for breath, arms and chest and legs aching. A few more steps and the drive curved around and he finally saw the house.
Whoa! Biggest one so far. More like one of them castles, with two of those things that stick out on castles on either end, whatever they called ’em. The whole thinglookedlike it was made of gray castle-stones. Then Eno saw it was just regular stucco with lines in it. Fake-out, but still, like a castle.
