I tried to look around without being conspicuous.
Black men, white men, brown men, yellow men.
Young men with surfer-blond hair and testosterone posture, callow enough for acne but ancient around the eyes. Old men with toothless, caved-in faces and hyperactive tongues.
Gape-jawed catatonics. Ragged, muttering apparitions not much different from any
Westside panhandler. Some of the men, like Hatterson, looked relatively normal.
Every one of them had destroyed human life.
We passed them, enduring a psychotic gauntlet, receiving a full course of stares.
Hatterson paid no notice as he dance-stepped us through.
One of the young ones smirked and took a step forward. Patchy hair and chin beard, swastika tattoo on his forearm. White welted scars on both wrists. He swayed and smiled, sang something tuneless, and moved on. A Hispanic man with a braid dangling
below his belt drank from a paper cup and coughed as we neared, splashing pink liquid. Someone passed wind. Someone laughed. Hatterson sped up a bit. So many brown doors, marked only by numbers. Most bore small, latched rectangles. Peephole covers.
Halfway down the hall, two black men with matted hair- careless dreadlocks-faced each other from opposite sides. From a distance their stance mimicked a conversation, but as we got closer I saw that their faces weren’t moving and their eyes were distant and dead.
The man on the right had his hand in his fly and I could see rapid movement beneath the khaki. Hatterson noticed it too, and gave a prissy look. A few feet away, an avuncular type- seventyish, white-haired as Emil Starkweather, wearing rimless eyeglasses and a white cardigan sweater over his beige shirt-leaned against the wall reading The Christian Science Monitor.
Someone cried out. Someone laughed.
The air was frigid, a good deal colder than down in Swig’s office. We passed an obese, gray-haired man sitting on a bench, soft arms as thick as my thighs, face flushed and misshapen, like an overripe melon. He sprang up and suddenly his face was in mine, blowing hot, sour breath.
“If you’re lost, that’s the way out.” He pointed to one of the brown doors.
Before I could respond, a young woman appeared and took him by the elbow.
He said, “If you’re lost-”
The woman said, “It’s okay, Ralph, no one’s lost.”
“If you’re lost-”
“That’s enough, Ralph.” Sharp voice now. Ralph hung his head.
The woman wore a green-striped badge that said H. OTT, PT-I.
Claire’s group-therapy tech. She wore a long-sleeved cham-bray shirt, rolled to the elbows and tucked into snug jeans that showed off a tight shape. Not a large woman-five-six and small-boned. She looked maybe twenty-five, too young to wield authority. Her dishwater hair was gathered in a tight knot, exposing a long face, slightly heavy in the jaw, with strong, symmetrical features. She had wide-set blue eyes, the clear, rosy complexion of a farm girl. Ralph had six inches and at least a hundred and fifty pounds on her. He remained in her grasp, looking remorseful.
“Okay, now,” she told him, “why don’t you go rest.” She rotated him. Her body moved smoothly. Taut curves, small bust, long smooth neck. I could see her playing volleyball on the beach. What did the men in khaki see?
Ralph tried again: “If you’re lost, that’s the way…” His voice caught on the last word.
Heidi Ott said, “No one’s lost.” Louder, firmer.
A tear fell from Ralph’s eye. Heidi Ott gave him a gentle push and he shuffled off.
A few of the other men had watched, but most seemed oblivious.
“Sorry,” she said to us. “He thinks he’s a tour guide.” The blue eyes settled on
Hatterson. “Keeping busy, Phil?”
Hatterson drew himself up. “I’m giving them a tour, Miss Ott. This is Detective
Sturgis from the LAPD, and this is a doctor-sorry, I forgot your name, sir.”
“Delaware.”
Heidi Ott said, “Pleased to meet you.”
Hatterson said, “The thing about Ralph is, he used to cruise the freeways, pick up people having car trouble. He’d offer to help them and then he’d-”
“Phil,” said Heidi Ott. “You know we respect each other’s privacy.”
Hatterson let out a small, tight bark. Pursed his lips. Annoyed, not regretful.