Birds of Paradise

There is no work for Logan, not today, not in this L.A. neighborhood where he's been wandering for hours. Since the riots began he's steered clear of the Boulevard, wary of the Guardsmen stationed outside CVS, of the rivers of broken glass and blocks of boarded-up storefronts splashed with angry graffiti. Only two streets away, though, all is as usual. Leafy and quiet. The hedges here are known to him, with their i m p e c c a b l e verticals and horizontals like tabletops, occasional branches sticking out and waving like arms. Some nice dogs live in the yards behind the green walls, snouts pushed through the gaps, smelling Logan's stink and liking it, he believes; others are red-throated, with furious teeth. Their barking mosaics track him along the sidewalk.

Whenever he comes to a break in the shrubbery, an open gate or the rarer open front yard, he squints at the sun, girding himself for a march to the door. He firmly presses the bell. Late afternoons, used to be the people who live in these houses were still at the studio, the courthouse, the hospital, the university. But not anymore. Now everyone is at home and owners sometimes answer the door. Logan prefers to deal with housekeepers. They stare at him through peepholes, appraising his muddy overcoat and chinos and torn purple tee, the Echo trimmer slung over his shoulder like a shotgun. Sometimes they put their mouths to the peephole and speak: Salga de aqui. Go away.

Logan leans against the trunk of a palm tree. He watches a young Black man in a red polo shirt run in the street, head down, trainers slapping against the asphalt. Shortly thereafter comes a second running Black man. This man is older, handsome, in dark-blue denim. In one hand he clutches a ringing cell phone.

Knights errant, Logan thinks. He might join them but for the lack of a standard. Crows caw down from telephone wires and Logan laughs, the sound of his own voice startling him.

The second Black man, sprinting past, swings his head and says, "Fucker, what?"

"Where's the tournament?" Logan says.

But the man is rounding the corner, and gone.

________

Nearby, a boy runs around inside a house many times the size of the apartment where he and his mother and father live. Pilar isn't supposed to bring him to work, but Teo woke up with a cold, and Papi had to go to the site and couldn't watch him. On the long bus ride west, Teo tried to climb out of his seat and into his mother's lap, but her arms were wrapped tightly around a shopping bag. The bag is filled with spray bottles and rags, scouring powder and lemon oil, these items her own because the lady won't buy the brands that she likes. Two of Teo's green plastic soldiers are in the bag too—something for him to play with later. He picked out the ones with their hair colored-in with markers, black and red, so he can tell which side is which.

Teo's never seen such a big house, such a big living room, with so much furniture and a ceiling so high. Their entire building could fit inside. At home they have a glass-topped table and a red-and-brown-flowered couch that smells of Old Spice and beer. Teo's brother Berto used to sleep there. Papi does too, sometimes. Berto's in the army now, off playing with guns on the other side of the world. He sends letters that Pilar keeps in a box on her dresser. Teo likes to get up on a chair and take out the letters and look at them. He likes the stamps on the envelopes.

He runs all around while Pilar sorts through channels on the lady's enormous TV. She selects a program, grabs Teo and sits him down on the marble floor and tells him...