Read Online Sammy Keyes and the Search for Snake Eyes by Wendelin Van Draanen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Wendelin Van Draanen
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start brewing.”
Marissa's eyes have been getting wider and wider, and I can tell, softball is finally
not
the only thing on her mind. “So this is really the middle of gang territory?”
“That's right.”
“Are you
serious
?”
“As a heart attack.”
“What's the thirteen all about?” I ask him, because I'm starting to make out more on the wall. Some places it's a spiky 13, some places it's a Roman numeral XIII, and in one place it's a combination—X3. “Does it mean bad luck?”
He laughs. “No. It stands for the thirteenth letter of the alphabet.”
“M?” Marissa asks.
“Which stands for … ?” He looks from Marissa to me and back again, waiting for us to fill in the blank. Finally, we both shrug, so he says, “Mexican. South West is a Mexican gang.” He points at a different spot on the wall. “R means rules. So X3R means Mexicans rule.”
“Wow. How'd you know that?”
He shrugs. “You learn to read the walls.” He points to another one—13 P/V. “Can you figure that one out?”
I study it a minute, then shake my head.
“Know any Spanish?”
I shrug. “Not much.”
“Por vida?”
“For life?”
“That's right.”
“So that means Mexican for life?”
He nods. “How about
vato loco
?”
“Crazy dude?”
He smiles. “Right. So that one right there,” he says, pointing to a fancy B.B.V.L., “was probably put up by someone with the moniker B.B. who's trying to get a rep as being gutsy.” He points to a spiky, overlapping CZR sprayed on a diagonal with RIFA written under it. “That's some homie saying he rules.
Rifa
—or usually just R—means rules.”
“Wow.” I said. “It's always looked like hieroglyphics—or just a mess—to me before.”
“What about H?” Marissa asks. “What's that stand for?”
Officer Borsch frowns. “Heroin. So don't get too fascinated. There's a lot here about drugs and threats that you don't want to be able to read.”
Marissa looks around over both shoulders. “But …I mean … we're not like, in any
danger
here, are we? They don't have, you know, drive-bys and knifings and …and stuff like that … do they? It's more like they just hang out and, you know,
van
dalize, right?”
He makes a little sucking sound. Like he's vacuuming pastrami from between his teeth or something. “I take it you don't read the
Santa Martina Times
? Or watch the news? It doesn't reach up to your oasis on East Jasmine, but wake up, kid. It's a growing problem—one you and your, uh, sister want to stay away from.”
Now, a) I didn't like the “uh” in Officer Borsch'ssentence
again
, and b) he's starting to act pretty hostile toward Marissa, so I just want to cut it short and get a move on. And this whole conversation
is
making Marissa do a bit of the McKenze dance, squirming from side to side, biting a nail, but does she say, Yes, sir, and now I'm getting
out
of here? No. She says, “You mean, people have actually gotten
killed
around here?”
“More than once,” he says, then adds, “South West has no beef with you per se, but it still would be wise to avoid this area. They might flash a sign that you don't get, might mistake something you do or say as a challenge, might even think you're from North West.”
“What would we be doing
here
if we were from North West?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “Casing. Carrying. Serving as decoy…” Marissa squints at him.
“Us?”
“You.” “But —” “I can't frisk you, now can I? And no, you're not too young. We've got all sorts of kids in juvee that are younger than you.”
“But —”
“Look, just be smart and stay out of this area. Good chance nothing'll happen, but why risk it?” He sucks at his tooth some more, then says, “This is not make-believe, girls, or me trying to scare you. It's reality, so deal with it accordingly.” He looks at me, saying, “By the way, I visited Ray Ramirez's mother out on Las Flores. She claims her son's being a perfect angel, and Ray himself says
Marissa's eyes have been getting wider and wider, and I can tell, softball is finally
not
the only thing on her mind. “So this is really the middle of gang territory?”
“That's right.”
“Are you
serious
?”
“As a heart attack.”
“What's the thirteen all about?” I ask him, because I'm starting to make out more on the wall. Some places it's a spiky 13, some places it's a Roman numeral XIII, and in one place it's a combination—X3. “Does it mean bad luck?”
He laughs. “No. It stands for the thirteenth letter of the alphabet.”
“M?” Marissa asks.
“Which stands for … ?” He looks from Marissa to me and back again, waiting for us to fill in the blank. Finally, we both shrug, so he says, “Mexican. South West is a Mexican gang.” He points at a different spot on the wall. “R means rules. So X3R means Mexicans rule.”
“Wow. How'd you know that?”
He shrugs. “You learn to read the walls.” He points to another one—13 P/V. “Can you figure that one out?”
I study it a minute, then shake my head.
“Know any Spanish?”
I shrug. “Not much.”
“Por vida?”
“For life?”
“That's right.”
“So that means Mexican for life?”
He nods. “How about
vato loco
?”
“Crazy dude?”
He smiles. “Right. So that one right there,” he says, pointing to a fancy B.B.V.L., “was probably put up by someone with the moniker B.B. who's trying to get a rep as being gutsy.” He points to a spiky, overlapping CZR sprayed on a diagonal with RIFA written under it. “That's some homie saying he rules.
Rifa
—or usually just R—means rules.”
“Wow.” I said. “It's always looked like hieroglyphics—or just a mess—to me before.”
“What about H?” Marissa asks. “What's that stand for?”
Officer Borsch frowns. “Heroin. So don't get too fascinated. There's a lot here about drugs and threats that you don't want to be able to read.”
Marissa looks around over both shoulders. “But …I mean … we're not like, in any
danger
here, are we? They don't have, you know, drive-bys and knifings and …and stuff like that … do they? It's more like they just hang out and, you know,
van
dalize, right?”
He makes a little sucking sound. Like he's vacuuming pastrami from between his teeth or something. “I take it you don't read the
Santa Martina Times
? Or watch the news? It doesn't reach up to your oasis on East Jasmine, but wake up, kid. It's a growing problem—one you and your, uh, sister want to stay away from.”
Now, a) I didn't like the “uh” in Officer Borsch'ssentence
again
, and b) he's starting to act pretty hostile toward Marissa, so I just want to cut it short and get a move on. And this whole conversation
is
making Marissa do a bit of the McKenze dance, squirming from side to side, biting a nail, but does she say, Yes, sir, and now I'm getting
out
of here? No. She says, “You mean, people have actually gotten
killed
around here?”
“More than once,” he says, then adds, “South West has no beef with you per se, but it still would be wise to avoid this area. They might flash a sign that you don't get, might mistake something you do or say as a challenge, might even think you're from North West.”
“What would we be doing
here
if we were from North West?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “Casing. Carrying. Serving as decoy…” Marissa squints at him.
“Us?”
“You.” “But —” “I can't frisk you, now can I? And no, you're not too young. We've got all sorts of kids in juvee that are younger than you.”
“But —”
“Look, just be smart and stay out of this area. Good chance nothing'll happen, but why risk it?” He sucks at his tooth some more, then says, “This is not make-believe, girls, or me trying to scare you. It's reality, so deal with it accordingly.” He looks at me, saying, “By the way, I visited Ray Ramirez's mother out on Las Flores. She claims her son's being a perfect angel, and Ray himself says
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