no. The only way I could have kept her
from going would have been to tie her to a chair, and in my condition, I’m in
no shape for wrestling matches.”
Kale spat out a succinct
expletive and stalked away.
* * *
Sunny got out of her red Ford
Escort and walked down the street to El Gallo Rojo, where Carlos and his cousin
were meeting her. Even though the sun hadn’t set, she felt a little spooky and
out of her element in this part of town. She knew that drugs were dealt in this
area, and the gaudy woman in the tight fuchsia dress who leaned against the
pawnshop wall wasn’t waiting for a bus.
Neither were the four young
thugs who lounged around the entrance of El Gallo Rojo. Except for slight
variations in size and facial features, they could have been clones, with their
slicked-back hair and black muscle shirts. Their jeans hung low on their hips,
and their upper arms sported gross-looking tattoos of spiders. One of them
casually cleaned his fingernails with a knife that looked bigger and sharper
than the one her mother used to dismember chickens.
Tiny fingers of trepidation crawled
up her spine as their dark, somber eyes followed her approach. Maybe this
meeting was a stupid idea. Maybe she would be wise to turn tail, jump in her
car, and forget the whole thing.
No! she told herself. She was no
lily-livered sissy. She wanted the story. Swallowing the acrid taste of fear,
she squared her shoulders, lengthened her stride, and pretended that she had
all the confidence in the world.
Prickly beads of perspiration
popped out on her top lip as she walked the gauntlet formed by the foursome,
her purse clutched to her like a breastplate. Just as she was about to enter,
the one with a scraggly black mustache and a bad case of acne blocked the
doorway. She could sense his cohorts circling her from behind.
The one braced across the
entrance gave her a heavy-lidded perusal and said, “You the lady here to meet
Carlos?”
She gave him a tiny smile—or a
stretching of her numb lips that she hoped looked like a smile— designed to be
cordial without being encouraging. “Yes, I am.”
“You the one that does the
weather on TV?”
She nodded.
“I’ve seen you.” He looked her
up and down. “Nice.” He moved aside and gestured with his head. “Carlos is
inside.”
Once through the doorway, she
paused for a few moments to allow her eyes to adjust to the dimness of the hazy
room. The smells of Mexican cooking, which ordinarily set her mouth to
watering, seemed slightly nauseating now, combined as they were with odors of
spilled beer and other smoky substances she didn’t dare speculate on.
A radio was tuned to a Spanish
station, and the loud salsa music masked the hum of conversation. Occasionally
the click of pool balls or a bark of laughter broke through.
The place certainly could use
refurbishing, she thought as she looked around the room, with its dingy walls
and scarred floor. Scanning the patrons, she discovered she was the only female
in the place except for a middle-aged waitress and one other woman, obviously a
sister in trade to the one by the pawnshop, leaning against the bar. Sunny felt
as out of place as she ever had in her life.
She noticed several other young
men whose black T-shirts and indolent expressions matched those of the crew
outside. Two lolled at the bar; five gathered around pool tables in the far
corner; another sat at one of a half dozen rickety tables with Carlos.
Carlos! She wanted to fall on
him and kiss his friendly, familiar face.
He’d spotted her at about the
same time she’d located him, and he rose and waved her over. As she approached,
Carlos kicked the foot of the young man at the table, who then pushed himself
to his feet halfheartedly.
“Sunny,” Carlos said, “this is
my cousin Rico. He’s agreed to talk to you about the street gangs in Corpus.
Much to my aunt Rosa’s dismay, he’s a honcho in the Tarantulas. He should be
studying for college instead
from going would have been to tie her to a chair, and in my condition, I’m in
no shape for wrestling matches.”
Kale spat out a succinct
expletive and stalked away.
* * *
Sunny got out of her red Ford
Escort and walked down the street to El Gallo Rojo, where Carlos and his cousin
were meeting her. Even though the sun hadn’t set, she felt a little spooky and
out of her element in this part of town. She knew that drugs were dealt in this
area, and the gaudy woman in the tight fuchsia dress who leaned against the
pawnshop wall wasn’t waiting for a bus.
Neither were the four young
thugs who lounged around the entrance of El Gallo Rojo. Except for slight
variations in size and facial features, they could have been clones, with their
slicked-back hair and black muscle shirts. Their jeans hung low on their hips,
and their upper arms sported gross-looking tattoos of spiders. One of them
casually cleaned his fingernails with a knife that looked bigger and sharper
than the one her mother used to dismember chickens.
Tiny fingers of trepidation crawled
up her spine as their dark, somber eyes followed her approach. Maybe this
meeting was a stupid idea. Maybe she would be wise to turn tail, jump in her
car, and forget the whole thing.
No! she told herself. She was no
lily-livered sissy. She wanted the story. Swallowing the acrid taste of fear,
she squared her shoulders, lengthened her stride, and pretended that she had
all the confidence in the world.
Prickly beads of perspiration
popped out on her top lip as she walked the gauntlet formed by the foursome,
her purse clutched to her like a breastplate. Just as she was about to enter,
the one with a scraggly black mustache and a bad case of acne blocked the
doorway. She could sense his cohorts circling her from behind.
The one braced across the
entrance gave her a heavy-lidded perusal and said, “You the lady here to meet
Carlos?”
She gave him a tiny smile—or a
stretching of her numb lips that she hoped looked like a smile— designed to be
cordial without being encouraging. “Yes, I am.”
“You the one that does the
weather on TV?”
She nodded.
“I’ve seen you.” He looked her
up and down. “Nice.” He moved aside and gestured with his head. “Carlos is
inside.”
Once through the doorway, she
paused for a few moments to allow her eyes to adjust to the dimness of the hazy
room. The smells of Mexican cooking, which ordinarily set her mouth to
watering, seemed slightly nauseating now, combined as they were with odors of
spilled beer and other smoky substances she didn’t dare speculate on.
A radio was tuned to a Spanish
station, and the loud salsa music masked the hum of conversation. Occasionally
the click of pool balls or a bark of laughter broke through.
The place certainly could use
refurbishing, she thought as she looked around the room, with its dingy walls
and scarred floor. Scanning the patrons, she discovered she was the only female
in the place except for a middle-aged waitress and one other woman, obviously a
sister in trade to the one by the pawnshop, leaning against the bar. Sunny felt
as out of place as she ever had in her life.
She noticed several other young
men whose black T-shirts and indolent expressions matched those of the crew
outside. Two lolled at the bar; five gathered around pool tables in the far
corner; another sat at one of a half dozen rickety tables with Carlos.
Carlos! She wanted to fall on
him and kiss his friendly, familiar face.
He’d spotted her at about the
same time she’d located him, and he rose and waved her over. As she approached,
Carlos kicked the foot of the young man at the table, who then pushed himself
to his feet halfheartedly.
“Sunny,” Carlos said, “this is
my cousin Rico. He’s agreed to talk to you about the street gangs in Corpus.
Much to my aunt Rosa’s dismay, he’s a honcho in the Tarantulas. He should be
studying for college instead
Similar Books
