Read Online Zero Saints by Gabino Iglesias - Free Book Online

into what they are, facts start sliding back, moving into a space full of images from películas and skeletons from bad dreams and imagined monstruos and stuff that someone told you. That makes the fear lessen. Then you start thinking about the Russian cruising around in a car like a hungry predator looking for prey. You think about his gun spitting out justice and someone’s head hitting the pavement with a loud thud and blood running down into the gutter. Between that thought and the knowledge that la Santísima Muerte is watching your back, you give folks their drugs, stuff the money they hand over into your pocket before transferring it to the little box behind the bar, pop a few oxies, and walk to your car without looking back every two seconds while you wish for the call that will let you know que la muerte ha hecho su trabajo.

 
     
     
    7
    The End of Days
    Heroin – weed – blow
    The last working horse of the Blues
    Never let them see you scared

 
     
     
    Yeah, that night I went to work. I was scared. I had no gun. I wanted to stay home, locked away and safe, but that’s not the way to do things. You can’t let them see you scared. Bad people are like dogs. They can smell your fear. That’s when they pounce on you y te obligan a repartir chingazos o morir como una rata.
    I stood at my spot at the door of The Jackalope and actually wished a few caras palidas with popped collars would start some shit just so I could throw them out.
    A white kid wearing a ball cap and sunglasses came up to me and asked me for for a quarter in a nervous voice. I had some Blue Dream, a few dime bags of White Rhino, and a few old bags of a shitty shipment of Death Star that apparently was as strong as oregano. Only idiots wear sunglasses and caps at night, so I told the kid forty for two quarters and handed him the Death Star. No tenia ni idea de lo que estaba comprando.
    Folks came in and out like any other night, but I was paying special attaention to every face. I was on the lookout for inked features.
    My second client of the night was a regular. Horse was a black man who played the blues at The Rollins Bar. He came over, gave me a quick hug/handshake and got his stuff. Then, like always, he leaned against the wall next to me and started talking about everything and nothing all at once.
    “Man, they have some rigid mufuckas in there tonight,” he said, pointing down the sidewalk at The Rollins Bar. “Why the fuck you gonna go to a blues bar if you’re more worried about talking on your phone than listening to some tunes? People stupid. People always been stupid, but this shit is getting ridiculous. Don’t know how much longer I’m gonna be able to do my thing, man, you know what I mean? I’m old, man. You can’t keep the last working horse of the blues going in these mufucking conditions. I done played with Lightnin’ Hopkins back in the day. I played harp with SRV for a few gigs before he hit it big, man. These ain’t no conditions for a living legend, you know what I mean? Fucking playing for rigid ass mufuckas.”
    Horse shook his head, thanked me, and left. I’m no blues historian, but he regularly told stories of playing with blues legends in San Antonio back in the 30s and 40s. O es un vampiro negro o un hijueputa mentiroso.
    About an hour after Horse disappeared back into the night, I spotted Pilar making her way down 6 th Street toward me. No one knew her last name, age or country of origin. All we knew about her was that she did a lot of heroin and constantly spoke about the final judgement in a bizarre, diluted accent that could be from Puerto Rico, Cuba or the Dominican Republic. Rumors, por otro lado, were abundant. Some said she had a PhD in something and worked as a professor for many years before losing a baby and turning to smack for comfort. Others said she was a ghost trapped on 6 th Street, un espíritu con algún propósito aún por cumplir.
    A block away, her words were reaching my ears above