The iconic picture of Hercules Guterriez is a Los Angeles Times front-pager from 1968, that long hot year of chicano militancy and street riots and school boycotts. He’s captured in mid-snarl, an unnaturally tall Mexican-American with one fist wrapped around a microphone, the other raised in the air. His handsome face is chiseled with fury. He wears a brown beret with the insignia La Causa — The Cause. A man as big as his name.

The Hercules who opens the door is an older version in stylish golfing attire. Lank dark hair spilling out of a UCLA visor. Cardigan vest over a cream golf shirt. Navy blue pants with creases so sharp they could probably cut paper. He looks gassed from a round of 30-handicap golf, or maybe he’s been hitting that bottle of Herradura Ligero tequila. But his eyes still burn like it’s 1968.

“Mr. Roberts,” he greets me, like he’s got a stick up his ass. A formal kind of guy.

“Professor,” I reply, putting muscle into the handshake. Hercules will break your hand if you let him.

He never bothers to invite me in. Footsteps recede into the shadowy house and I’m left staring at an open doorway. I step into the gloom and close the wooden slab of door behind me.

Other grad students thought I was crazy for trying to get tight with Hercules. It’ll never work, they warned me. He’s a reverse racist. Fucking with you will become his favorite pastime. You won’t survive his one-dimensional Marxist victimology. I thought they were the crazy ones. He’s a professor emeritus and has a $24,000 fellowship named after him. You suck up to people like Hercules, not run from them.

Four years later I come over for lunch on a regular basis. The kind of relationship that would be the envy of my colleagues, if they ever knew about it. But I keep it to myself. My discretion is one of the reasons I’m here.

The house is an odd collision between Spanish Colonial decor and the trappings of Latin rock fandom. The foyer is separated from the rest of the house by an adobe divider topped with cacti. We detour around the prickly shapes, following the hallway as it branches deeper into the house. A bass guitar and amp lie forgotten on the rustic red tile. One half of the living room is a shrine to the Virgin of Guadalupe, the other half is a shrine to Los Lobos. The library has more CDs and vinyl than books.

“Where are Eugenia and the kids?” I ask his shuffling back.

“Visiting her parents.” Hercules waves a hand dismissively. Good riddance.

He’s on his third marriage. Eugenia is two decades younger, the biggest age difference yet. Rumors abound that she’s a volcano disguised as a trophy wife, but Hercules probably started those rumors himself. Part of his self-mythologizing. I find her level-headed and pleasant, with looks that are more soccer mom than trophy wife.

The kitchen is the most indulgent room in the house, a vast playground of commercial-grade appliances, old and new cooking utensils hung from shiny racks, a plasma TV set into a wall. He likes his women to be happy when they’re cooking for him. But nothing is happening in the kitchen today — no bustle, no delicious smells, no ingredients spread across the tile countertops. That means we’re eating takeout.

Hercules settles into the breakfast nook, a circular booth wrapped around a glass-topped wagon wheel. A paper bag of burritos sits in the middle, flanked by a couple sweating bottles of Dos Equis and some salsa picante. “Help yourself,” he rumbles, and fishes out a burrito wrapped in aluminum foil. “They’re all breakfast-style. Fried egg and chorizo.”

I bite into one. Delicious. Even without the scalding hot sauce, which is mandatory in front of Hercules. Got to look macho. I tilt the bottle over the burrito and sigh.

The Bruins football game is on the TV. A nail-biter with Arizona State. Bowl hopes riding on every toss and run. “Chingalo!” — fuck it — he mutters when UCLA fumbles to end a long drive. The plasma screen slowly fades to black.

“You campaigned hard this election,” I say, referring to the recent voting for city council.

Hercules shrugs. “It’s a good excuse to see old compadres and make new ones.”

“They’ll probably wheel your corpse to labor union rallies and Hispanic fundraisers 50 years from now.”

My flattering joke is worth a smile. Then he takes an enormous swig of beer, draining half the bottle. “What did the students think of Professor Garsten’s talk?”

It didn’t take long to realize what Hercules really wanted from a graduate student like me — information. Who was saying what about whom. Honest-to-god intel, not the smoke people blow up his ass when he asks pointed questions. So I became his spy, for lack of a more flattering term. Feeding dirt to him. Even working the grapevine, if that’s what he wants.

“A couple people liked the talk, but most didn’t. His statistical orientation is kinda boring in a talk format. Plus you can’t do first-rate demography if you’re stuck with third-rate data.” Then I lean forward a little, implying sympathy for Garsten. “He’s a good academic, though. I hope I have his publishing record when I’m up for tenure.”

“That’s why Paul Firks at Wisconsin asked me to have him out for a talk. He’s trying to build an airtight tenure case for him. Pad his CV with more talks and conference appearances.”

That makes sense. Giving a talk at UCLA would look good on anybody’s curriculum vitae. I take another bite of my burrito, which now tastes like fatty magma thanks to the salsa picante. “Sounds like Del might be dropping out.”

“Soon?” Hercules’ bushy eyebrows are climbing his brow.

“He might not come back after Christmas break.”

His fist slams the table, making the bottles rattle. A stab in the back to Hercules, who takes the progress of Hispanic grad students to heart. Any and all Hispanic grad students. Del — Delmonico — is actually in the U.S. History master’s program. Hercules isn’t even on his thesis committee.

We spend another half-hour trading gossip like that, until Hercules polishes off his beer and spreads his gnarled hands on the table. “Nick, I have something very important to tell you.”

No shit. It must be important if he’s calling me Nick instead of Mr. Roberts. “I already know, Professor. You’re giving the fellowship to Maria.” The Hercules Gutierrez Fellowship in Latin American Studies. A big fat $24,000. “I’m getting the grant.” A mere $12,000.

A muscle is twitching in his cheek. “Frankie told you, didn’t he?”

“No, but he confirmed it.” A lie, but I like to keep Hercules guessing.

“That’s the decision,” he admits, his thunder stolen.

“I could file a grievance and complain to the dean’s office and all that shit. Reverse racism is a hot topic nowadays, god knows.” Firing a warning shot. Letting Hercules know how I feel. “But there’s an easy make-good here. Just give me the rest of Javier’s funding. $7,000 or whatever. That would bring me to almost $19K.”

His eyes are fiery slit trenches. At first I think it’s because I crossed the line with my warning shot. Then I think it’s because he realizes Frankie — his archrival in the program — has been helping me plot this strategy. And finally I don’t think anymore, I know. I know with a horrible nauseous certainty that I’ve miscalculated everything. He isn’t just awarding the fellowship to Maria, he’s also giving her the rest of Javier’s funding!.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Hercules says, loading menace into every syllable. Back off, white boy. Just take your grant and be thankful for it.

“I really appreciate it, Professor.” I contort my face into a grateful smile.

His craggy profile is fixed on the TV again, which is flickering back to life. The score makes him wince. Arizona State has turned a close game against UCLA into a blowout. Alamo Bowl here we come. “Before you leave, can you put some boxes up in the garage rafters for me? They’re stacked by my car. Be sure you don’t scratch it!”

A tempting thought. A very tempting thought. But I have to settle for fantasizing revenge. Some battles you can only lose, not win. I show myself out to the garage, where no oil has ever been changed, no lawnmower parked. Hercules is a couple tax brackets above doing those things himself. The boxes are indeed stacked by his BMW. Picking up the first one, my arms almost rip out of their sockets. Great. More academic books he’s never read, just shelved. Somehow I muscle the boxes up a stepladder one by one, stashing them in between skis and carpet remnants. This is what I get for sucking up to him — an aching back, and Mexico on $12,000 a year.