The Renegades

5

Draper made himself a martini and carried it to his tiny Venice backyard and looked up through the bowing telephone lines at the cool, clear sky. The storm had passed and the stars looked polished. Music played from somewhere as it always did.

His shoes were quiet on the concrete as he crossed the old driveway and punched the code for the wooden gate. He walked thirty feet down the Amalfi Street sidewalk then into the parking lot of Prestige German Auto. He let himself into the small building, deactivated the alarm system, then walked through the short dark hallway past his office and into the garage. The familiar smells of gasoline and oil and steel and rubber all greeted him. He turned on the overhead fluorescents and saw the five bays, each with a German car either racked up or straddling a repair pit. He sipped the drink and turned off the lights.

Back in his office he reviewed the last few days of business on the computer. His manager, Heinz, had run a tight, fast ship. Draper liked Germans because they were dogged enough to grapple with the complex cars so proudly overengineered by their countrymen, and intelligent enough to prevail. They were honest with the customers- und here are ze old Bilsteins veetook off -and therefore honest with him. He paid them well. Prestige German had grossed almost twenty thousand dollars in the last week, which after payroll, overhead, and insurance would land thirty-five hundred dollars in Draper’s pocket.

He locked up and reset the alarm and called Alexia as he walked home.

“I’m back,” he said.

“Are you all right?”

“Everything is okay.”

“Now I’m happy. I’ve missed you. I only breathe properly when you’re here.”

“I’ll be home in an hour.”

“I’ll be waiting, Coleman. I’ve missed you very much. And Brittany misses you very much, too.”

He packed his clothes-mostly dirty-and stopped at the Mexican market for cut flowers, a bottle of the sweet Riesling that Alexia loved, and a sugary churro for the girl.

Half an hour later Draper pulled into the garage of his Azusa home. Alexia stood in the doorway to the house, backlit by the warm light from the kitchen. She was petite and perfectly proportioned and her black hair shone like that of a groomed racehorse.

Draper stood there with the roses in his hand, just looking at her. She wore a new white dress with red piping, and a red belt and heels, which were beautiful against her young brown skin. He hadn’t seen her in a week and his heart beat hard as she came down the steps into the garage and opened her arms to him. He hugged her and pressed his nose against her luminous, fragrant hair.

“I’ll help you with your luggage,” she said.

“It can wait.”

Alexia brushed his lips with hers then moved away from Draper, and together they looked through the open door into the house, where two-year-old Brittany waddled toward them. She was a pudgy miniature of her mother, sporting a pink satin dress and pink sneakers.

“She has a new dress for you, too.”

“I’m the luckiest man alive.”

Draper had first seen Alexia almost two years ago, exhausted and dirty and sick, carrying her baby daughter across a dusty lot up near Palmdale. She was cutting through the lot on a 109-degree day, Draper had noted, to save a few steps on her way to the bus stop. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. His mind had instantly filled with possibilities, many of which had since been made real.

“Are you okay, Cole?”

“Now I am.”

He handed Alexia the roses then lifted Brittany by the waist and shifted her to the crook of his arm and they all went into the house.

After dinner Draper’s cell phone rang and he checked the caller ID before answering. He walked into the spare bedroom and closed the door. It was Hood, asking more questions about Londell Dwayne and his dog and Terry Laws.

Draper told him what he knew, then returned to the neat little dining room.

He looked at Alexia. Brittany smiled and drooled and banged her pacifier on the table.

“What happened, Cole?”

“A man I work with was shot and killed last night. The shooter got away. That was someone official, with questions.”

She stood behind him and kneaded his shoulders and neck with her small strong hands. Coleman hung his head and wiped a small tear from his eye. He kept wondering what Terry had told Laurel. Nothing? Everything?

“I’m sorry, Cole. I am so sorry for you.”

“I’m all right now.”

“When will you have to go away again? No. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ask that. I know. I’m very sorry.”

Alexia’s small knowledge of him bordered the vast, willed expanse of her ignorance of him. To Draper it was better than trust.

“A little to the left. Yes. There.”