EIGHTEENThe house was no larger than a shipping box, hastily erected back in the late 1940’s to house the returning soldiers from World War II. The stucco siding peeled like a bad sunburn and the window frames showed years of rot from the scorching desert sun. Weeds stretched their fingers through the cracks in the walkway that led to the front door. Trick looked around at the front yard. Creosote plants had reproduced with no birth control until the yard looked like a gnarled jungle. A dying cactus lay among the creosote, its brown and wrinkled corpse gasping for a drop of water.
“If the guy’s still mooching off mama, the least he could do is work the yard,” said Trick. “Disgusting.”
They walked up to the front door and Big Jim knocked, scraping a knuckle on the peeling paint. He licked
