Recently, our neighbor Albert was found dead at Echo Park Lake. Unexpected as Albert wasn't elderly. He was a Vietnam vet, who did computer repair. He always wore a button-down shirt, usually short-sleeved. For many years he was a volunteer at the polls, and I have never voted in Echo Park without having a conversation with Albert. He knew my cat, who had been the ward of a young, irresponsible artist who abandoned her. For a while Monkey lived free -- or was homeless -- and had to fend for herself. She was a good gopher and bird catcher, a charismatic creature and mother, a Manx, and the minute she got a chance to move back into a house with people she seized it. Albert used to ask about her. He'd ask, "Is Monkey still alive?" Or, when I told him that she was probably laying on her back on the couch with her feet in the air, he said, "She survived!" A sense of real admiration in his voice. Then I'd vote for candidates of whom he probably disapproved.

Albert also was a landlord. One of his tenants -- a friend of mine -- used to be in the band The Angry Samoans. Albert lived in the back house with his wife, except for when she moved down the street, oaccasionally, to live with her sister -- but even when she was staying with her sister, Albert drove his wife to work every morning at 5 a.m. Even when things were messy, they were orderly. And he kept his property beyond tidy. It was distressing the way he cut his trees. They simply were barely allowed to show any green. Even the lemon tree had to be kept back, looking like a stick. I have always wondered if it was fear of anything wild and free or if greenery reminded him of jungles. Or maybe it was a cultural thing: he came from people who liked it clean and dry, no shade. The puzzling thing is that he didn't simply cut the trees down.

A couple of years ago, I heard a rumor, possibly untrue, that Albert had been a heroin addict, maybe a dealer. I heard it from people who have lived in the neighborhood a long time, the fathers/uncles of some of the dealers (and worse) around here. Suddenly, the pruning made more sense.

On his last day, a Tuesday, Albert spent the morning working on painting trim around his tenants' house, which recently got a new roof. He didn't finish. At some point, he took his bicycle and rode to Echo Park Lake, with its trees and greenery and the view of downtown. I've heard only neighborhood talk, and it's unclear what happened to him there. One friend said he had a bad liver, and the Bacardi they found with Albert killed him. The following morning, at six a.m., the police came to Albert's house. They brought his bicycle and started banging on doors.