Pamela continued the internal argument she had been having since she left her office. This was foolish. She should have brought uniforms. She should have just had him brought in and not come here at all. That was procedure. That was all that was expected of her.

But she just didn't want this case to go back to jail.

Now every case had a sob story; six years as a parole officer and she was all but immune to them. Most of them were lies anyway and easy enough to check. The only reason she still listened to them was to get an idea just how big a lie a parolee was inclined to tell her.

But José's story had gotten to her. He had just started his freshman year at USC--studying engineering on an academic scholarship--when he was arrested. The police report said he was acting 'nervous and guilty' when they approached him here in the neighborhood where he had grown up. They claimed they had smelled marijuana, though José denied he had been using when he was arrested. Whatever the initial evidence justifying the search, it was undeniable that a search of his backpack produced a 5 lb. bag of Acapulco Gold.

To make matters worse, he had a flat-head screwdriver in his back pocket. He claimed he had been fixing his grandmother's washing machine, which was probably true enough. Unfortunately, screwdrivers were also the weapon of choice among the cholos. They made a functional enough stabbing weapon but, up until the court caught on, hadn't been considered as such in legal proceedings unless the tool had actually been found bloody or impaling someone.

The judge in José's case was quite willing to call it a concealed weapon, however. José claimed the judge was racist and that he was sentenced more for his Mayan features and Spanish accent than his crime. It was certainly possible. You didn't have to convince a crippled black woman that there was discrimination in this world. Pamela knew of several cases of white boys at USC found with larger amounts of more dangerous drugs who had gotten off with probation and community service.

José was the child of poor Salvadoranean immigrants and his public defender had gotten him a 2 year sentence of which he served six months in the state penitentiary. Needless to say, his scholarship wasn't waiting for him when he got out.

It certainly wasn't fair.

But life wasn't fair. Pamela certainly knew that. She could hear her father's voice reminding her: 'If you've managed to live this long and still think life is going to be fair, you haven't been paying attention.'

No, she had no reason to believe life was fair, she thought bitterly as she grabbed up her cane. If life was fair, she'd still be on the force. If life was fair, she would never have been partnered with a jumpy, careless rookie. If life was fair, he would have shot off his own fucking knee.

But her own personal tragedy was no reason to condemn José. The kid might really have a decent excuse for having missed their last meeting, for not answering her phone calls. He might deserve a second chance which he wouldn't get if she had him brought in by uniforms.

She hoped she wasn't doing this because she thought he was cute.

She had parked as near as she could to her destination. Hopefully this time she would be able to hear her car alarm in time to see who had given her the free paint job. She doubted it though. She checked the power lines--the sneakers hanging there indicated that the area was still controlled by Maria Salvatrucha. Well, at least their taggers were a bit more artistic than the Temple Street gang.

She locked up her car as well as she could and made her way to the last known residence of her delinquent parolee. It was one of the ubiquitous large old houses near downtown Los Angeles,

nestled between slightly newer apartment complexes. These houses were the last remnants of that brief occupation of the original city of Los Angeles by white folk. The dispossessed had returned and once again made it their home. She knocked on the door.

It was answered by a young Hispanic woman with long curly dark hair wearing a ridiculously tight and short red dress. She was smiling broadly, looking at Pamela without really focusing on her. Not a good sign.

"Is José Aguila here?" asked the parole officer, hoping the woman spoke English--her Spanish sucked.

The woman smiled even more broadly.

"Chepe? Yeah, he's upstairs. Do you wanna do him too?"

Pamela didn't know what to say to that.

"I need to speak to him. I'm his parole officer." she said icily.

"Oooooh!" said the woman with unexpected cheer. "Chepe said you might come by. Come on up. I know he'll be glad to see you."

Not bloody likely, thought Pamela as she followed the woman in red up the creaking wooden stairs, trying not to blush as the latina's short tight dress revealed her lack of undergarments. Pamela strongly suspected drug use on the premises--that alone a violation of Aguila's parole. Damn. Maybe she had misread him and he had been playing her all along. Or maybe he'd just given up; he had seemed awfully depressed at their last meeting. Almost suicidal.

The woman knocked on the door and shouted out.

"Hey Chepe!!! That parole lady is here! You wanna talk to her?"

There was some high pitched giggling, followed by a hushing sound and some muffled speech. At last the door opened and two women wearing less than her guide stepped out. They glanced shyly at Pamela, trying to suppress giggles, then went off down the hallway. The woman in red joined them, saying something in Spanish. Half way down the hall, they turned to look at Pamela then scampered off in a torrent of uncontrollable laughter. Definitely drugs involved.

Pamela turned back to the doorway and her errant charge. The lighting in the room was subdued. It was clearly a bedroom--a large, disheveled bed in the center of the room left little doubt as to what the women and Aguila were doing. The young parolee approached her from out of the dim room wearing a silk robe. He was definitely on something but Pamela couldn't guess what. His eyes were red. Not blood-shot, red. The 'whites' of his eyes were a deep scarlet, his red-black pupils so wide that his brown irises were barely visible. It repulsed her, but she found she had difficulty not staring. It was just so freakish!

"Hello, Ms. Thomas," said the ex-con. "I'm so glad you could visit. Can I get you a drink?"

"A drink..." said Pamela, not quite understanding the question. A drink would be nice. She shook her head. Had to focus, not let his weird eyes distract her.

"This isn't a social call, Mr. Aguila." she said, trying to show that she meant business. "You completely blew off our weekly appointment Tuesday and haven't returned any of my phone calls. You know that our meetings are one of the conditions of your parole. One phone call from me and you're back in prison to complete your sentence. What do you have to say for yourself!"

She made the mistake of staring into his eyes again. She was accustomed to looking parolees right in the eye, staring them down, looking for signs of guilt or dishonesty. It usually worked like a charm, but the strange redness was putting her off her game.

"I'm so sorry, Ms. Thomas." he explained in a soothing tone, "Some weird things have happened this week and I got a little distracted. But you're here now so everything is all right. We can have our parole meeting here."

"Have our parole meeting here..."

That made sense. They could have the meeting here. Everything was all right.

"Why don't you come in and sit down?" suggested her parolee.

"Come in..."

She tore her gaze away from the scarlet depths and looked into the dim room. She imagined José Aguila lying naked on that bed, his lithe body glistening with sweat, his long, dark hair flowing free, his hard member calling to her. A wave of heat rushed from her crotch to her cheeks, and she shook her head and tried to focus on her job. It wasn't easy. In her attempts to smell traces of marijuana, she instead found the distinctive smell of sex.

What was wrong with her? He was a case, for hell's sake!

"I really don't think that would be appropriate. Can't we sit down in the living room?"

Aguila stared into her eyes again. God they were strange. They were all she could think about.

"We could go to the living room, but it can be very noisy in there. It's quiet in here and private. And very, very nice. It's such a nice room. We should meet in here. It's nice and safe."

"Nice and safe..."

It was a very nice room. And she did feel much safer here now. It should be all right to just have a quick meeting with him in the bedroom. She walked in and closed the door behind her. They needed privacy.

He indicated an upholstered chair where she could sit, while he sat on the bed. His robe opened slightly and she could see his strong thighs. She quickly looked away and found herself staring once again into his strange red eyes. She tried to focus on business.

"So, Mr. Aguila, I think we both know that you've been using drugs again. Do you want to explain how it happened?"

That was good. Get him on the defensive.

"Of course I'll explain Ms. Thomas. I'll explain everything. But please, call me Chepe. All my friends call me Chepe and I want to be your friend. You want us to be friends, right? The best way for me to be reintegrated into society is for us to be very good friends."

"Very good friends..."

So nice to be friends. Pamela wanted to be friendly.

"And since were friends," continued Chepe in his soft voice "I should call you Pamela. You want me to call you Pamela, don't you?"

"Yes... Pamela..."

That was her name, right? It was pretty, the way he put the emphasis on the second syllable. Pamela.

She started. She was having such a hard time focusing on this interview. Maybe a less direct approach. Talk about the drugs later.

"So, Chepe, are you still working at the gas station?" she asked.

She was supposed to check on his employment status every week. If she could get back into the routine, maybe she could regain her focus.

"No, Pamela, I quit that job. It didn't really let me reach my potential. After all, I was a college boy before the state decided I need another sort of education. I'm pretty damned smart. I've recently found I have certain other... talents. So now I'm working as sort of a... consultant.

"You see, in prison, I got to know certain higher-ups in various local industries. Once I discovered my... talent, I went to one of them and offered my services. When certain people have a hard time understanding certain things, he brings them to me and I explain it to them. I've become very good at explaining things. It all becomes so clear after I've explained it."

"Oh..." said Pamela. "Well, you really should have told me that you changed jobs. I'll need to speak to your new employer, of course. Make sure that he knows about the conditions of your parole and that he can contact me if you slip up."

"Oh, I don't think he'd do that. He practically worships me. After the interview, he told me I could set my own hours and name my own salary. Basically, he thinks that I should have anything I want, Absolutely anything I want."

"Anything you want..."

Pamela stared into those freakish red eyes.

She started. Damn, it had happened again. How long had she been staring? Well at least she had established that he was working. She still suspected drug use though.

"Chepe, you seem to be acting strangely and your eyes look unnatural to say the least. You're using again, aren't you."

There, it was out in the open. No more distractions.

The young man looked down in his lap. Ashamed? Good, she was back in control. She'd stare him down and make him tell the truth. He looked up and returned her gaze. She could handle this. It was only some weird effect of the drugs that made his eyes look so strange. If she just focused, stared him down and made him confess, then she could get out of here, file her report, and be done with it. But she knew it was imperative that she return his gaze. If she appeared weak, he would lie to her like a dog. Six years as a parole officer had taught her how to deal with people who had things to hide.

"O.K., I admit that my cousin Memo gave me a joint last week. I didn't want to take it; That shit got me in enough trouble. But you know, we got to talking about it and what a crock of shit this whole thing was.

"And me and Memo kept talking about it and I was getting so mad I thought I'd go find the first cop I could and beat the shit out of him. So I took the joint, since I thought that I could at least chill enough not to get myself killed. But when I came down, I remembered that I had to meet with you in a couple days, and you'd make me piss in a cup and I'd be back in that hole. So I went and asked Eddie if he knew how to fuck with a drug test. He does all kinds of shit, but he still keeps his job at the post office so I figured he must know something. Eddie gave me this little red pill--said it came from the middle east somewhere were they kill you if you're caught using, so it had to be really powerful stuff. I took it since I figured I didn't have much to lose. But it affected me weird. I passed out about twenty minutes after I took it and when I woke up my head was buzzing and my eyes were all funky.

"But you can see that, can't you, Pamela. You just can't help but stare at them. You don't want to look away, don't want to think about anything else, Pamela. Just stare at them and relax."

"Stare and relax..."

So relaxed. Somewhere in the middle of his explanation, Pamela had stopped listening to the words, stopped focusing on looking like a stern authority figure and just let herself be engulfed by those deep red pools. Chepe's voice droned on, but she took little notice of what he was saying now.

"Pamela?" he said, his voice once again capturing her attention. "Now, don't get upset, Pamela, but my cousin left his stash right here in my bedroom. Now, I know that you don't want me to smoke it, right?"

"Right," agreed the parole officer, "You shouldn't use drugs."

"And it's your job to make sure I don't, right?"

"Right... my job..."

"But it's a temptation for me to have the weed here so you should take it from me, right?"

"Right... Take the weed from you"

"Right, Pamela. You should take the marijuana from me and smoke it. You should smoke it all right now so that I won't have it anymore. That way I won't be tempted, right?

"Right..." said Pamela, feeling a bit confused. "Smoke it all right now..."

The parole officer shook her head. That didn't sound right.

"You have to get rid of the marijuana, Pamela," explained Aguila. "It's your job. If you don't smoke it I will, so you have to smoke it. You need to smoke it."

"I need to smoke it..." agreed Pamela. She guessed that sounded right. After all, it was her job.

"Oh, thank you, Pamela. You are such a good parole officer. You help me stay off drugs by smoking them for me. You should hurry before I give in and smoke it myself."

"Yes..." said Pamela. "Hurry..."

Chepe brought out a bong from his closet and a large bag of green matter. He packed the bud into the bowl and lit it. He slipped the mouthpiece between her lips and she toked deeply and held it, staring fascinated into the deep red eyes that were now so close to her own.

"That's goooood, Pamela," José breathed as she exhaled, "Very good. Take another toke, Pamela. You're doing a great job."

With Chepe's guidance, Pamela continued to smoke his stash. It was important that she smoke all of it. She couldn't leave it as a temptation for her charge. This was part of her job. A very important part of her job. She would keep this young man out of jail yet!

Chepe added another bud to the bong.

At first she toked at a furious rate. She needed to smoke all of it before Chepe's will power gave out. In she sucked, watching the weed glow red--red like Chepe's eyes. She blew the smoke out quickly and sucked it in again as deeply as her lungs could manage. She needed to keep it going, that red glow. It was her job. She was dedicated.

She nearly forgot that she wasn't alone until Chepe spoke again.

"Slow down, Pamela, slow down," he said.

Her eyes went from the intermittent red glow of the bud to the constant red glow of her charge's eyes. Slow down. The sense of urgency left her. She breathed the smoke in slowly, held it, released it in a slow, soft kiss, staring into the red glow of Chepe's eyes.

"That's good, Pamela, good. Take your time. It's your job but you can still enjoy it."

"Still enjoy it..." Pamela repeated.

Yes. No reason why she couldn't enjoy her work. She toked again, feeling the lightness that enveloped her body. Enjoy it...

"How do you feel, Pamela?" he asked.

How did she feel? Pamela felt woooonderful! It was the first time in years that her amputated leg hadn't hurt. She had such a great job, keeping drugs off the street so that they could be used for medicinal needs like hers. That and she was helping her gorgeous parolee keep the terms of his parole. Life was great, she observed as she took another hit.

"I feel gooooooood!" she said as she exhaled, punctuating the sentence with a little giggle.

"That's good, Pamela. It's good to feel good. Nice to feel nice." he instructed.