Read Online Finnegan's Week by Joseph Wambaugh - Free Book Online

“Sixty-dollar shoes oughtta bring us ten bucks a pair, even down here.”
    But Abel shook his head and said, “Three dollar, Buey. He pay three dollar, no more.”
    â€œHow do ya know?”
    â€œI know,” Abel said, showing his large white teeth in a grin. “I know.”
    â€œWait a minute,” Shelby said. “Jist a minute here! You sure we happened to be in the right part a the warehouse where these shoes was?”
    Abel laughed and said, “Buey, joo no got, how you say? Eemagine?”
    â€œImagination, asshole.”
    â€œSee, I know many Mexican truck driver. Thees guy I know, he go to North Island all the time. He tell me what he see. I phone my friend een Tijuana. He say, okay, navy boot. Weeth steel toe. Good boot. Three dollar a pair. Cash. Many as we get!”
    â€œYou little whorehouse louse! You planned it!”
    â€œEverybody steal from navy, Buey. Maybe after boss sell company, you, me, we find good truck job. Work hard, haul down to Tijuana. But we go back north weeth our truck. No problem at San Ysidro gate weeth empty truck. Today, no. Goddamn poison drum.”
    â€œWonder if the boss’ll fire us for letting his rig get ripped off? Not that it matters since we’re gettin canned anyways.”
    â€œAin’t our fault. Somebody stole truck when we eat lunch.”
    â€œSince you thought a everything, how’d the dirty rotten thief steal our locked truck?”
    â€œThey break een, hot-wire.”
    â€œSo you’re gonna bust out the window when we ditch the truck?”
    â€œUh huh.”
    â€œAnd I’m gonna pop the ignition and wire it to make it look kosher?”
    â€œYou been to jail for steal car, Buey. You do job,” Abel giggled. “Got to look good for when insurance company take truck back to boss.”
    â€œYou’re a ballsy little dude!” Shelby said. “I gotta give ya that. Hunnerd thirty pounds soakin wet, but all balls.”
    â€œI know my country,” Abel said. “We got to sell, ’ meno. Everything sell een Tijuana. Nobody worry about bees-ness license, no nothing. Nobody geev welfare check down here, Buey. You don’ work, you don’ sell, you don’ survive .”
    â€œYeah, these Mexicans got a lot to learn about handouts,” Shelby said. “There’s more moochers on one corner a downtown San Diego than in this whole town, I bet.”
    Colonia Libertad , one of Tijuana’s numerous colonias or neighborhoods, was one of the poorest. Some streets were badly paved with asphalt, some were crudely cobbled, some were just hardpan that turned into slick water troughs when it rained. Shelby started worrying about their axle.
    â€œMan, they got potholes that could swallow up Roseanne Barr,” he said. “And why’re these streets flooded? Water must be scarce this time a year, right?”
    â€œWho know?” Abel shrugged. “Maybe somebody break water line. Somebody always break water line, ’lectric line, gas line.”
    The ox looked up and saw a cat’s cradle of telephone and electrical lines dangling from poles, from roofs of clapboard shacks, even from trees! They seemed to be looped over anything, finally disappearing into flat-roofed dwellings that dotted the entire hillside. He saw children leaping onto propane tanks abutting those pathetic homes, the tanks being imaginary horses.
    Shelby said, “A good stream a piss’d knock down the whole neighborhood.”
    The colors, particularly the colors of the commercial structures, many of which were built with corrugated aluminum, also made him nervous. The colors they used to infuse a little gaiety into the drab barrios—yellow, red, green, even purple—got him down , having the opposite of their intended effect.
    Many of the houses had witches and skeletons dangling over doors and windows. Already they were preparing for El Día de los Muertos , the Day of