Read Online Blood & Tacos #2 by Josh Stallings, Ray Banks, Andrew Nette, Frank Larnerd, Jimmy Callaway - Free Book Online
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out my earrings and laid them on
the desk. I took a moment to fluff up my mohawk and pulled the gun from my belt.
"What’s wrong with it?" Hector asked, nodding at the game
cabinet I had in the corner next to my weights.
"Burn in."
"What’s that?"
"Sometimes, if the brightness is set to high, a monitor gets discolored
so that you can still see the game even after it’s turned off. Take a
look."
Hector approached the arcade machine and gently traced the ghostly maze with
a finger.
"How do you fix it?"
"You don’t."
I opened the desk’s top drawer and shook out the bullets into it. Then,
I pulled some hollow points from a rectangular box I had hidden behind some
socks. One at a time, I squeezed the bullets in the gun’s cylinders. After
that, I grabbed my jean jacket and slipped the gun into the inside pocket.
"What are you gonna do?" Hector asked.
I snatched my nunchucks off the bedpost and put them in my back pocket. "I’m
gonna give Sello his gun back."
Hector followed me across 99th Street and up two blocks to the bus stop.
While we waited, the kid asked, "What time is it?"
"Eight thirty," I said. "Why? You got some place you need
to be?"
Hector shrugged. "It’s my dad. He gets super pissed when I’m
late."
"You should have thought about that before you decided to rob me. You
can go home. After I talk to Sello."
Ten minutes later we were rolling over the Staten Island Expressway. Hector
sat beside me, his refection shimmering in the bus window as he looked out to
Gravesend Bay. His image looked ghostly and grim.
I slipped my headphones under my jaw and popped a Misfits cassette into my
Walkman. Closing my eyes, I let the music wash over me.
Before Milo came back from ‘Nam and took me in, I lived with the Junkman.
It wasn’t a real house, it was a foster house, two double-wides welded
together next to a maze of ruined cars. The whole place was surrounded by tall
chain-link fences topped with razor wire. It kept people out, and us in.
The Junkman had rules for everything: how to eat, when to use the bathroom,
when to sleep. He didn’t allow us to look at him, or speak without being
spoken to. If you broke the rules, you sat in the chair.
Stevie was one of the kids I shared a bunk with. He was quiet with hound dog
eyes, but really tough. Of all the kids the Junkman kept, Stevie was the only
one who never cried. He was the one who taught me how to turn off the pain.
On the night I ran away, it was Stevie who called me "Cruel."
Hector and I switched buses on New York Avenue, catching the last bus to Clifton.
"What time is it?" Hector asked as the bus barreled through the
evening traffic.
"Maybe nine thirty."
"Man, I got to get home."
We got off the bus at Hylan and walked past the darkened store fronts. The
kid didn’t talk. After a few blocks, Hector pointed at a brown six-story
apartment complex.
"221. Right up the stairs."
"Wait here."
"I can’t," Hector said. "I got to get home."
I moved the revolver out of the jacket and into my belt. "Alright. But
if you’re lying, I’ll come find you."
"I promise. I ain’t lying."
I nodded and watched him disappear down an alley.
Cutting through the parking lot, I noticed a Corvette with a custom New York
plate.
It read: BREAD.
Inside the building, the floor was littered with trash. Wrappers, dirty diapers,
and spoiled take-out covered every inch. Graffiti marred the walls with wisdom
like: "Jamaykan queens can’t tame me" and "If you can’t
fuck a 10, fuck five 2's."
I followed the narrow stairwell to the second floor and listened outside of
apartment 221. Living with the Junkman had taught me how to walk without making
a sound.
Inside, I could hear Pat Benatar howling over laughing voices. I reached up
for the bare light bulb that lit the hallway. My fingertips sizzled, but I ignored
the pain and unscrewed it. Without the light, it was dark except for the dim
the desk. I took a moment to fluff up my mohawk and pulled the gun from my belt.
"What’s wrong with it?" Hector asked, nodding at the game
cabinet I had in the corner next to my weights.
"Burn in."
"What’s that?"
"Sometimes, if the brightness is set to high, a monitor gets discolored
so that you can still see the game even after it’s turned off. Take a
look."
Hector approached the arcade machine and gently traced the ghostly maze with
a finger.
"How do you fix it?"
"You don’t."
I opened the desk’s top drawer and shook out the bullets into it. Then,
I pulled some hollow points from a rectangular box I had hidden behind some
socks. One at a time, I squeezed the bullets in the gun’s cylinders. After
that, I grabbed my jean jacket and slipped the gun into the inside pocket.
"What are you gonna do?" Hector asked.
I snatched my nunchucks off the bedpost and put them in my back pocket. "I’m
gonna give Sello his gun back."
Hector followed me across 99th Street and up two blocks to the bus stop.
While we waited, the kid asked, "What time is it?"
"Eight thirty," I said. "Why? You got some place you need
to be?"
Hector shrugged. "It’s my dad. He gets super pissed when I’m
late."
"You should have thought about that before you decided to rob me. You
can go home. After I talk to Sello."
Ten minutes later we were rolling over the Staten Island Expressway. Hector
sat beside me, his refection shimmering in the bus window as he looked out to
Gravesend Bay. His image looked ghostly and grim.
I slipped my headphones under my jaw and popped a Misfits cassette into my
Walkman. Closing my eyes, I let the music wash over me.
Before Milo came back from ‘Nam and took me in, I lived with the Junkman.
It wasn’t a real house, it was a foster house, two double-wides welded
together next to a maze of ruined cars. The whole place was surrounded by tall
chain-link fences topped with razor wire. It kept people out, and us in.
The Junkman had rules for everything: how to eat, when to use the bathroom,
when to sleep. He didn’t allow us to look at him, or speak without being
spoken to. If you broke the rules, you sat in the chair.
Stevie was one of the kids I shared a bunk with. He was quiet with hound dog
eyes, but really tough. Of all the kids the Junkman kept, Stevie was the only
one who never cried. He was the one who taught me how to turn off the pain.
On the night I ran away, it was Stevie who called me "Cruel."
Hector and I switched buses on New York Avenue, catching the last bus to Clifton.
"What time is it?" Hector asked as the bus barreled through the
evening traffic.
"Maybe nine thirty."
"Man, I got to get home."
We got off the bus at Hylan and walked past the darkened store fronts. The
kid didn’t talk. After a few blocks, Hector pointed at a brown six-story
apartment complex.
"221. Right up the stairs."
"Wait here."
"I can’t," Hector said. "I got to get home."
I moved the revolver out of the jacket and into my belt. "Alright. But
if you’re lying, I’ll come find you."
"I promise. I ain’t lying."
I nodded and watched him disappear down an alley.
Cutting through the parking lot, I noticed a Corvette with a custom New York
plate.
It read: BREAD.
Inside the building, the floor was littered with trash. Wrappers, dirty diapers,
and spoiled take-out covered every inch. Graffiti marred the walls with wisdom
like: "Jamaykan queens can’t tame me" and "If you can’t
fuck a 10, fuck five 2's."
I followed the narrow stairwell to the second floor and listened outside of
apartment 221. Living with the Junkman had taught me how to walk without making
a sound.
Inside, I could hear Pat Benatar howling over laughing voices. I reached up
for the bare light bulb that lit the hallway. My fingertips sizzled, but I ignored
the pain and unscrewed it. Without the light, it was dark except for the dim
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