“Hello.”

“Marisol?”

“Yes. May I help you?”

“This is Joe Pike. Can I speak with Artie?”

The line was so quiet Pike wondered if she put him on hold.

Pike said, “Hello?”

“Go to hell.”

She hung up without saying more, and Pike knew by her anger, something ugly had happened to Art.

The freshly painted stucco house was as subdued as Marisol’s voice when Pike arrived. The crowd of kids Pike had seen on his last visit was gone, and the yard was deserted except for a shirtless male counselor on the roof, replacing a tile shingle in the late-morning sun.

The front door was open for air, so Pike did not knock. He stepped inside, and found the living room empty.

“Anyone here?”

Pike heard a voice in the rear, then Marisol appeared in the hall, her arms crossed tightly over her breasts, her eyes angry black gunsights.

“Get out of here.”

“Where’s Art?”

“You brought them here. Go.”

Pike called into the house.

“Art?”

A low mumble he recognized as Art’s voice came from the back rooms, but Marisol spoke over him.

“We don’t want you here. Go away.”

Pike pushed past her and found Father Art in a small bedroom across from his office, one of the tiny rooms a kid used when they had no place else to go. Already hot, but the windows were up and a small electric fan stirred the air. Art was propped on a single bed with couch cushions for support. His left eye was swollen to a slit, and both were purpled and black. Contusions like the Verdugo Mountains crossed his forehead. His nose was twice its normal size and bent to the right, pointing at his split upper lip and a discolored mouse on his cheek. A loose white T-shirt made him look thin.

Pike said, “Azzara.”

Not a question. A statement.

Marisol came up behind him, and punched him in the back.

“He don’t want to see you. Get out of here.”

She punched him again.

“You listenin’ to me, motherfucker?”

Art lifted his hand and spoke through the split.

“Marisol. Not like that.”

Pike ignored her, staring at Art’s good eye.

“Let’s get you to a hospital.”

“Won’t happen, brother. No hospital.”

Pike moved closer, Art’s good eye following him.

“Because of me?”

Behind him, Marisol answered again.

“What you think? They blamed him for whatever shit you did at that body shop. They brought it back on Art. He never should’ve helped you.”

Pike lifted Art’s shirt. His chest and abdomen were blotchy with purple and green bruises from haymakers and kicks. They had beaten Art so hard the kicks and punches flowed out of Art into Pike until Art pulled his shirt back to cover the marks.

“This is what I teach these kids. You see how violence spreads? You let me down, man.”

“Are your ribs broken?”

“I’m fine.”

“Let me take you to a doctor.”

“It’s over. Forget it.”

Pike glanced at Marisol.

“You should have called me.”

“I was, but he wouldn’t let me, not you, the police, nobody.”

Art’s hand came up again.

“It was done. Now I have to rebuild the trust that was lost.”

Marisol said something in Spanish Pike did not understand, but it was harsh and angry, and Pike knew it was directed at Art.

“Where can I find him, Artie? Tell me where he lives.”

“So you will kill him? No.”

Pike took out the picture of Azzara and Mendoza in the car behind Wilson and Dru.

“So I can save these people or find their bodies. Azzara lied to me. He told me he would stop Mendoza. He told me he didn’t know what happened to them, but here he is with them and Mendoza. Miguel is going to tell me where they are, Art. He knows.”

“No, no more. If I can’t make it here, who is going to help these kids? Who will reach out? Go away, Joe—get out.”

Pike studied Arturo Alvarez, and knew there was no more to say. Artie was old-school hard despite the college degrees. In his world, toughness wasn’t judged by how well you could give a beating, but by how well you took a beating.

“Let me get you to the hospital.”

Art turned toward the window.

Pike glanced at Marisol, then walked away. She followed behind him like an angry guard dog, but Pike stopped in the living room and lowered his voice.

“Does he have a fever?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“Check. If he has a fever or starts running hot, call me.”

“You’re a doctor now?”

“See if there’s blood in his urine.”

“He’s been pissing blood for two days. I see it when I help him to the bathroom.”

“Bright red or pink?”

She glanced toward Art’s room, worried.

“Pink, I think. It was red, but now not so much. Is that good?”

“Better than red, but not good. Whatever they broke is healing, but he’s still in the weeds.”

She crossed her arms again, and her eyes hardened.

“I wish I had been here. I found him the next morning, when it was too late.”

“They would have hurt you, too.”

The black eyes met his.

“You think? Maybe I would have shot them to death.”

The eyes moved back to the hall, but lost none of their heat.

“I would have called the police, but he wouldn’t let me. Not even the ambulance. Stupid fool, worried about their trust.”

“Talk to him, Marisol.”

“About what?”

“I want Miguel.”

“What do you think, they send Christmas cards? Art doesn’t know where he lives. Maybe where he grew up, but Miguel left us years ago. He is an executive now. He’s better than us.”

Pike sensed something beyond the disdain in her voice, and noticed a discoloration at the corner of her eye. He looked more closely, and saw the skin on her neck mottled from a trip to the laser, not unlike the fading he had seen on Miguel Azzara.

Pike heard the counselor on the roof. Chipping the tile.

“Were you Malevos?”

She stood taller, a neighborhood girl who grew up in the gangs.

“A different set, but Trece. Myself and my brother. He was killed.”

Maybe I would have taken a gun and shot them to death.

“Do you know Miguel?”

She glanced away, back down the hall toward Artie.

“Once. Not anymore.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“Once.”

“I need to find him. For my friends, and for Art.”

She nodded, but it took her a while to speak.

“Maybe. I know girls who know him. They’ve been to his fancy new house.”

She glanced away, and Pike wondered if one of those girls was her.

Marisol made a call, and a few minutes later Pike had an address. He stopped at the door as he was leaving.

“Watch his temperature. If his temperature climbs, I’ll bring a doctor whether he wants one or not.”

“He doesn’t want to pay. He won’t say that, but I know. His money pays for Angel Eyes, and there is never enough. He’s always behind.”

“Don’t worry about the money. I’ll pay.”

“He won’t let you.”

“He doesn’t have to know.”

She crossed her arms again, but it was not as angry as before. Pike listened to the counselor on the roof, chipping the tile, trying to make the roof stronger.