Read Online the Two Minute Rule (2006) by Crais Robert - Free Book Online
Authors: Crais Robert
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"L'Chee" Moreno said, "You gotta be the dumbest gringo ever shit between two feet."
"Tell me you love me, bro."
"Here's what I'm tellin' you, Holman: Why didn't you run? I been waiting ten years to ask that, dumbfuckinAnglo."
"Didn't have to wait ten years, Chee. You coulda come seen me in Lompoc."
"That's why they caught you, thinkin' like that, dumbfuckinHolman! Me, I would'a jetted outta that bank straight to Zacatecas like a chili pepper was up my ass. C'mere. Give a brother some love."
Chee came around the counter there at his body shop in East L.A. He wrapped Holman in a tight hug, it being ten years since they had seen each other--since the day Chee had waited outside the bank for Holman as the police and FBI arrived; whereupon--by mutual agreement--Chee had driven away.
Holman first met Chee when they were serving stints at the California Youth Authority, both fourteen years old; Holman for a string of shoplifting and burglary arrests, Chee on his second auto theft conviction. Chee, small but fearless, was being pounded by three bloods on the main yard when Holman, large for his size even then with the thick neck and shoulders, whaled in and beat the bloods down. Chee couldn't do enough for him after that, and neither could Chee's family. Chee was a fifth-generation White Fence homeboy, nephew to the infamous Chihuahua Brothers from Pacoima, two miniature Guatemalans who macheted their way to the top of the L.A. stolen car market in the seventies. In the day, Holman had fed Porsches and 'vettes to Chee when he was sober enough to steal them, which wasn't so very often toward the end, and Chee had even driven on a few of the bank jobs; done it, Holman knew, only for the in-your-face outlaw rush of living crazy with his good buddy Holman.
Now, Chee stepped back, and Holman saw that his eyes were serious. Holman really did mean something to him; meant something deep for all those past times.
"Goddamn, it's good to see you, bro. Goddamn. You crazy or what? It's a violation for you even to be standing here."
"I'm federal release, homes. It's not like a state parole. They don't say who I can roll with."
Chee looked doubtful.
"No shit?"
"Up."
Chee was clearly mystified and impressed at the vagaries of the federal system.
"C'mon back here, we'll get away from this noise."
Chee led Holman behind the counter into a small office. These same offices had once been the center of a chop shop Chee managed for his uncles, breaking down stolen cars into their component parts. Now, older, wiser, and with his uncles long dead, Chee ran a mostly legitimate body shop employing his sons and nephews. Holman made a show of looking around the body shop office.
"Looks different."
"Is different, homes. My daughter works here three days a week. She don't wanna see titty pictures on the walls. You want a beer?"
"I'm sober."
"No shit? Well, good, man, that's real good. Goddamned, we're gettin' old."
Chee laughed as he dropped into his chair. When Chee laughed, his leathery skin accordioned with acne craters and tattoos from his gang days. He was still White Fence, a certified veterano, but out of the street life. Chee's weathered face grew sad, staring at nothing until he finally looked at Holman.
"You need some money? I'll front you, homes. You don't even have to pay me back. I mean it."
"I want a homeboy named Warren Alberto Juarez."
Chee swiveled in his chair to pull a thick phone book from the clutter. He flipped a few pages, circled a name, then pushed the book across his desk.
"Here you go. Knock yourself out."
Holman glanced at the page. Warren A. Juarez. An address in Cypress Park. A phone number. When Holman looked up, Chee was staring like Holman was stupid.
"Homes, that why you came down here, cash in on the reward? You think he's hidin' in a closet down here? Ese, please."
"You know where he went?"
"Why you think I'd know something like that?"
"You're Little Chee. You always knew things."
"Those days are
"Tell me you love me, bro."
"Here's what I'm tellin' you, Holman: Why didn't you run? I been waiting ten years to ask that, dumbfuckinAnglo."
"Didn't have to wait ten years, Chee. You coulda come seen me in Lompoc."
"That's why they caught you, thinkin' like that, dumbfuckinHolman! Me, I would'a jetted outta that bank straight to Zacatecas like a chili pepper was up my ass. C'mere. Give a brother some love."
Chee came around the counter there at his body shop in East L.A. He wrapped Holman in a tight hug, it being ten years since they had seen each other--since the day Chee had waited outside the bank for Holman as the police and FBI arrived; whereupon--by mutual agreement--Chee had driven away.
Holman first met Chee when they were serving stints at the California Youth Authority, both fourteen years old; Holman for a string of shoplifting and burglary arrests, Chee on his second auto theft conviction. Chee, small but fearless, was being pounded by three bloods on the main yard when Holman, large for his size even then with the thick neck and shoulders, whaled in and beat the bloods down. Chee couldn't do enough for him after that, and neither could Chee's family. Chee was a fifth-generation White Fence homeboy, nephew to the infamous Chihuahua Brothers from Pacoima, two miniature Guatemalans who macheted their way to the top of the L.A. stolen car market in the seventies. In the day, Holman had fed Porsches and 'vettes to Chee when he was sober enough to steal them, which wasn't so very often toward the end, and Chee had even driven on a few of the bank jobs; done it, Holman knew, only for the in-your-face outlaw rush of living crazy with his good buddy Holman.
Now, Chee stepped back, and Holman saw that his eyes were serious. Holman really did mean something to him; meant something deep for all those past times.
"Goddamn, it's good to see you, bro. Goddamn. You crazy or what? It's a violation for you even to be standing here."
"I'm federal release, homes. It's not like a state parole. They don't say who I can roll with."
Chee looked doubtful.
"No shit?"
"Up."
Chee was clearly mystified and impressed at the vagaries of the federal system.
"C'mon back here, we'll get away from this noise."
Chee led Holman behind the counter into a small office. These same offices had once been the center of a chop shop Chee managed for his uncles, breaking down stolen cars into their component parts. Now, older, wiser, and with his uncles long dead, Chee ran a mostly legitimate body shop employing his sons and nephews. Holman made a show of looking around the body shop office.
"Looks different."
"Is different, homes. My daughter works here three days a week. She don't wanna see titty pictures on the walls. You want a beer?"
"I'm sober."
"No shit? Well, good, man, that's real good. Goddamned, we're gettin' old."
Chee laughed as he dropped into his chair. When Chee laughed, his leathery skin accordioned with acne craters and tattoos from his gang days. He was still White Fence, a certified veterano, but out of the street life. Chee's weathered face grew sad, staring at nothing until he finally looked at Holman.
"You need some money? I'll front you, homes. You don't even have to pay me back. I mean it."
"I want a homeboy named Warren Alberto Juarez."
Chee swiveled in his chair to pull a thick phone book from the clutter. He flipped a few pages, circled a name, then pushed the book across his desk.
"Here you go. Knock yourself out."
Holman glanced at the page. Warren A. Juarez. An address in Cypress Park. A phone number. When Holman looked up, Chee was staring like Holman was stupid.
"Homes, that why you came down here, cash in on the reward? You think he's hidin' in a closet down here? Ese, please."
"You know where he went?"
"Why you think I'd know something like that?"
"You're Little Chee. You always knew things."
"Those days are
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