Read Online Rescue From Planet Pleasure by Mario Acevedo - Free Book Online Page B

across the street. Behind me, the signs on the closest lamppost said: Van Nuys Boulevard, and Westbound Ramp for the Golden State Highway.
    Pacoima, California.
    California was where I had first met Coyote, in a parking garage not far from here. For an instant, it felt like the years between then and now had gone poof . An astonished glance at my watch told me that only minutes had passed since I last checked the time.
    Coyote dropped his sunglasses into a chest pocket of his denim jacket. His tapetum lucidum glowed a supernatural red. I was about to offer a spare set of contacts to hide his vampire eyes when his irises miraculously dulled to a very human dark brown. His ball cap was still turned backwards and he rotated the cap by the bill to shade his face. “You hungry, vato ?”
    “Did you move us through the psychic plane?”
    “Explanations later. Right now, let’s eat. Vamanos. ” He pimp-strolled up the sidewalk past the jumbled mosaic of commercial signs and storefronts that lined Van Nuys.
    I took a hesitant step forward, still not convinced that the world around me was real. A low-rider blasting the percussive beats of reggaeton cruised by. The air reeked of car exhaust and warm asphalt. If I was imagining this, it was a pretty damn good dream. I eased into my stride and caught up with Coyote.
    We passed a Catholic Church surrounded by an acre of parking lot. Then hoofed past mom-and-pop restaurants, nail salons, cell phone stores, fast food joints—the usual mishmash of American suburban sprawl.
    At Laurel Canyon, we hustled across the street toward a carneceria -liquor store. A turquoise-colored awning shaded the front door, and an electronic buzzer announced our entrance. The air carried the heavy, humid smell of raw meat. Coyote headed through an aisle with shelves of canned beans and chili on the left and cases of beer on the right. A row of glass cases packed with ice and slabs of beef and pork lined the back wall. I stopped to replace my sunglasses with contacts.
    A heavy-set man with a Pancho Villa mustache stood behind a case. He did a double take at our approach and hustled around the case toward us, his thick mitts wiping stains on a butcher’s apron. “ Oye , Coyote. Long time, compa. ”
    When was Coyote last here?
    “Yeah, I’ve been busy,” he said.
    The butcher lifted an eyebrow.
    “ Tu sabes ,” Coyote explained, “going here, going there. Gathering material for my novel.”
    Laughter rumbled in my gut, and I strained so hard to keep from guffawing that my belly hurt.
    Coyote shot me an especially dirty stink-eye. He then introduced me to the butcher—Gustavo.
    “Here for lunch, Coyote?” he asked.
    Coyote smiled. “ Símon. ”
    Gustavo backed up a step and plucked a receipt tacked to a corkboard. “First, you gotta settle up your tab. Nineteen fifty.”
    Coyote pointed to me. Having resigned myself to the fact that I’d become his personal ATM, I reached for my wallet. He asked, “How about two cups of boar’s blood and six pork tamales?”
    “The total then is thirty one bolas ,” Gustavo replied.
    I counted out the bills. Gustavo took the money and disappeared through a swinging door into a back room. He returned with fresh tamales in a Ziploc bag and two Styrofoam cups with plastic lids.
    Coyote took the receipt and mumbled something about “for tax purposes.”
    Gustavo bid us goodbye and tended to the customers queuing behind us. On the way out I bought a six-pack of ice-cold Carta Blanca.
    I found a table around back between the service entrance and the Dumpster. After upending a couple of plastic crates to use as chairs, I brushed cigarette butts off the table. Couldn’t say much about the ambience but we had privacy. Coyote pulled the tamales out of the Ziploc and stacked them on top. I shared the opener on my scout knife so we could crack open our beers.
    “Isn’t Gustavo suspicious that you’re a vampire? Who else would order blood?”
    “Nah. He just thinks