J Rain: The Mummy Case

Jesus said, “What does that mean?”

Sanchez shook his head. “Ignore him. Go on, son.”

“The rock hit me in the mouth, knocked out my front tooth. Split my lips open-lips that were made for kissing.”

Sanchez shook his head. “I created a monster.”

“So I charged the one who threw it. Kid named Doyle. Jumped on top of him and started wailing on him. After that, things are just a big blur of fists and feet and blood.”

“They knocked him out,” said Sanchez. “His girl, whichever one she was, called 911. He was still unconscious when the police came. So were two of the kids.”

I looked in the rearview mirror.

“Two?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t really remember what happened.”

Jesus was sitting in the middle of the bench seat, looking out the right window. He was unconsciously poking his tongue through the gap in his incisors.

Sanchez told me to stop in front of a smallish house with no porch light on. There was a chainlink fence around the house.

“Who’s this?” I asked.

“Brian. It was his girl who started this mess.”

“How old is he?”

“Thirteen.”

“How old are you?”

“I turn twelve next month.”

“So you’re eleven?”

“I’m old for my age.”

“Boy are you ever. Need any help?”

He shook his head, but now he was looking eagerly toward the small dark house. I looked, too. Not much was going on. There was some faint light coming from the back of the house.

Sanchez said, “I cased the house last week. The kid came home alone around this time.”

“Cased?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Don’t you have murderers to find?”

“Don’t start with me.”

“Brian hangs out with his friends at this time,” said Jesus. “They have a gang. Pick on kids in school, harass teachers. They get suspended all the time, smoke cigarettes, sometimes even dope.”

“Here he comes,” said Sanchez.

I looked down the street. A kid was coming towards us on a bike. Big kid. Much bigger than Jesus. And he was smoking. I could see the glowing tip of a cigarette. He passed under a streetlamp and I had a good look at his face. Wide cheekbones. Big head. The kid looked like a bully. Self-satisfied, content, mean.

He pulled up next to the chain link fence across the street.

The car door banged open behind me.

Jesus was out, running.

The boy flicked his cigarette away, stepped off the bike, and reached for the latch on the chain link fence. And turned his head just as a small dark figure tackled him hard to the ground.

I instinctively went for my door, but Sanchez put his hand on my shoulder. “No. Jesus wants to do this on his own.” Sanchez was frowning. He didn’t like this either.

“The other kid has him by about twenty pounds.” And since these were just kids, twenty pounds was a significant advantage.

“Jesus fights big.”

There was just enough leftover light from a nearby streetlight to see what was going on. Jesus had tackled the kid onto a grassy parkway. Now they were rolling.

Dropped over a curb and into the gutter. As this was southern California, the gutter was dry.

The other kid, the bigger kid, landed on top.

Uh oh.

But Jesus promptly reached up, grabbed a handful of the kid’s hair, and yanked him off to the side. The kid screamed.

I almost cheered.

Jesus, I discovered, did not fight fairly. And in street fighting-and when you are younger and smaller, that was the only way to go.

They were rolling again, out into the street.

There were no cars coming, luckily.

“Kid better not get dirty,” said Sanchez, shaking his head. “We’re supposed to be out getting ice cream.”

“Jesus might have other things on his mind.”

“It’s Hay-zeus, dammit.”

“Same thing.”

“No, it’s not,” said Sanchez. “For one thing, it’s a completely different language. And considering you date a world renowned anthropologist, you show a surprising lack of cultural and religious sensitivity.”

“The word you want is ethnocentric.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Thinking one’s culture is superior to others,” I said. “Most people in most cultures suffer from it. I, however, do not suffer from it.”

“And I happen to disagree,” said Sanchez. “You are one hell of an ethnocentric motherfucker.”

Shouts and the sound of smacking flesh reached our open windows. It was hard to tell who was doing the smacking.

“Your kid winning?” I asked.

“I can’t tell, but it’s a good bet. I told him not to kick his ass too bad. I didn’t want his knuckles scuffed. His mother would have my head if she knew what we were doing. We’re supposed to be getting ice cream.”

One kid staggered to his feet, while the other lay in the middle of the street in the fetal position. Luckily, no cars were coming.

The kid on his feet was smallish. Dark hair. Good looking.

Son of a bitch, I thought. He did it.

Jesus surveyed the street, ignoring the moaning kid, spotted the bike. He staggered over to it, then dragged it over to a trash can by its front tire, sparks flying from where one of the peddles contacted the asphalt. He picked the bike up, and deposited it inside the trashcan, and closed the lid.

“Very thorough,” I said.

Jesus staggered over, pulled open the door and collapsed inside. I could smell his sweat and something else. Maybe blood, maybe bike grease. Outside, a couple of porchlights turned on, including the one we were parked in front of.

“Let’s go,” said Sanchez.

“Anyone feel like ice cream?” I asked.

Cindy and I were in her condo on a perfect Sunday afternoon watching football. During the fall, I don’t work weekends or Monday nights. Cindy knows this about me and mostly puts up with it.

Outside, through the blinds, the sun was shining. We were wasting another perfect day. Big deal. Most days in Orange County were perfect. Besides, football is worth wasting a few perfect days over.

“So explain what that yellow line means again? Do the players see it?”

“No,” I said. I didn’t mind explaining football to Cindy. I took pride in the fact that football seemed an overly complex game for the uninitiated. “The players can’t see it. The yellow line is for the benefit of the fans.”

“And you are quite a fan.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Probably because I played the game. I know how difficult football is.”

“I thought you said it was easy.”

“No. I said football came easy to me. Playing my position, fullback, came naturally to me. However, everything else was hard. The grueling practices in one hundred-degree heat with twenty pounds of pads. Playing when hurt. Picking yourself up off the ground after you’ve had your bell rung.”

“And pretending it didn’t hurt,” said Cindy.

“Yep.”

“You rung a few bells in your time.”

“That’s how I made my living.”

“Except you weren’t paid.”

“Alas, no.”

“So why is there a yellow line?”

“It denotes the first down.”

She snapped her fingers. I could almost see the light on behind her eyes. “You’ve told me that before.”

“Yes.”

“But you never sound impatient.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I happen to like you.”

Cindy’s condo was cozy and immaculate. She had painted her north kitchen wall red. It looked orange to me, but I have it on good authority-Cindy’s-that it was indeed red. The small kitchen had a ceramic red rooster on the fridge, and lots of country knickknacks. The rest of the house was laced with curtains. Cindy loved curtains. She even had curtains behind curtains. The walls were adorned with many of my own abstract paintings. She was my #1 fan.