“East end, back behind one of the picnic areas. It's supposed to be chained off, but you know how that goes. Take Los Feliz like you're going to the zoo; instead of continuing on to the freeway, turn off. The blues'll be there along with a ranger car. Do it Code 2.”
“Sure, but why us?”
“Why you?” The sergeant laughed. “Look around. See anyone else but you and Kenny? Blame the city council.”
She hung up.
“What?” said Stu. His Carroll & Company foulard was tightly knotted and his hair was perfectly combed. But tired, definitely tired. Petra told him.
He stood and buttoned his jacket. “Let's go.”
No gripe. Stu never complained.
3
I pack up my Place Two stuff in three layers of dry cleaner's plastic and begin walking up the hill behind the rocks, into the trees. I trip and fall a lot because I'm afraid to use the penlight until I get deep inside, but I don't care- just get me out of here.
The zoo's miles away; it will take a long time.
I walk like a machine that can't be hurt, thinking what he did to her. No good. I have to put it out of my mind.
Back in Watson, after trouble with Moron or any kind of difficult day, I used lists to keep my mind busy. Sometimes it worked.
Here goes: presidents, in order of election- Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, Quincy Adams, Jackson, Martin Van Buren… the shortest president.
Oh shit, here I go again, down on my knees. I get up. Keep going.
Back in Watson, I had a book on the presidents, published by the Library of Congress, with heavy paper and excellent photographs and the official presidential seal on the cover. I got it in fourth grade for winning the President Bee, read it about five hundred times, trying to put myself back in time, imagine what it was like to be George Washington, running a brand-new country, or Thomas Jefferson, an amazing genius, inventing things, writing with five pens at one time.