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Authors: Thomas Sanchez
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never be so fortunate to see such a seductive pose again in his adult life. She looked like a farm girl swinging a rabbit by its ears. “Cuuuuuum onnnnnn kidoooooooh, give yourself a treat! Buck a dance, buck a drink, hard to beat!” Younger pushed into the gang of women bartering and laughing with sailors weaving among them like punch-drunk fighters. The red-wigged woman caught up to Younger, grabbing his coat and pressing her lips to his ear. “Wait a sec, civvie! If you come inside with me, I promise you, kiddo, if you can’t get a boner, I’ll let you cop a feel of my cookie. I’m hotter than a Spanish fly trapped in Betty Grable’s pink panties! C’mon, civvie, my cookie’s getting mushy! Treat yourself to a treat!” Younger shook the clinging woman off and continued up the street, trying to stay clear of drunks stumbling out from clubs and squads of Shore Patrolmen walking four abreast, thick black billyclubs swinging at their hips. Hard white shells of Shore Patrolmen’s helmets, with a black
SP
stamped on the fronts, reflected the frantic neon swirl of color around them. Younger knew someone was following him; he almost felt the breath on the back of his neck beneath his hat.He spun quickly around. A short man nearly stumbled into him, then jerked back with a leer on his face, self-consciously patting the shiny wings of his heavily pomaded hair, the part down the middle of his scalp slashed straight as a white line down the center of a blacktop highway.
“What the hell do you want?” Younger shouted in the man’s grinning face.
The man looked over both shoulders and suspiciously behind him, then slipped a hand coyly inside his coat pocket, drawing out a pack of cards. “Beautiful Mexican cookie. You like to purchase Tijuana circus? Special to you today.” Before Younger could turn away, the man spread the deck in his hand like a rare fan and turned it over, exposing fleshy bits and pieces of a naked Mexican woman caught in different poses across the cards as she amorously ministered to her reluctant partner, a slack-eyed, big-eared donkey.
A sailor hung his pimply face over the man’s shoulder. “Hot dog! Look at that big black enchilada on that animal, must be four feet from belly to floor! How much, senior—for the whole deck, I mean?”
The short man spread the deck wider for the sailor. Younger turned and walked away, the sailor shouting after him, “Hey, civvie! I didn’t mean to break up the deal between you and the senior here! C’mon back, you can buy them! There’s more spic cookie where this came from!”
Younger walked, faster, then started running to catch up with the shouting crowd at the corner. Beneath the white glare of his helmet a Shore Patrolman swung the length of his club menacingly, barking at the crowd to stay back on the curb. In the middle of the street spinning lights on top of a Shore Patrol jeep splashed its red color all over the old Packard three patrolmen had stopped, banging their clubs on the metal roof. Younger made out two Zoots trapped inside the paint-peeled car, refusing to crank down the windows, slouched deep on the front seat, their faces obscured by wide brims of purple hats. One of the patrolmen smashed the driver’s window open, to the applauseof the crowd on the curb, and pulled a frightened Zoot from the car, slamming him up along the back fender, jamming a billyclub behind his Zoot’s neck and knocking off the purple hat. The Zoot’s hair was long and tied up in a black braid; the patrolman grabbed it in his fist, tugging like he was reeling in a reluctant fish, snapping the Zoot’s neck back against the club.
“¡
No nos vencerán! ¡Chale!
” The Zoot’s terrified screams filled the street as he futilely tried kicking backward at the grinning patrolman who was choking him with the club.
Younger knew what the Zoot was screaming. “You can’t defeat us! No way!”
A siren cut through the Zoot’s screams, a black-and-white police car
SP
stamped on the fronts, reflected the frantic neon swirl of color around them. Younger knew someone was following him; he almost felt the breath on the back of his neck beneath his hat.He spun quickly around. A short man nearly stumbled into him, then jerked back with a leer on his face, self-consciously patting the shiny wings of his heavily pomaded hair, the part down the middle of his scalp slashed straight as a white line down the center of a blacktop highway.
“What the hell do you want?” Younger shouted in the man’s grinning face.
The man looked over both shoulders and suspiciously behind him, then slipped a hand coyly inside his coat pocket, drawing out a pack of cards. “Beautiful Mexican cookie. You like to purchase Tijuana circus? Special to you today.” Before Younger could turn away, the man spread the deck in his hand like a rare fan and turned it over, exposing fleshy bits and pieces of a naked Mexican woman caught in different poses across the cards as she amorously ministered to her reluctant partner, a slack-eyed, big-eared donkey.
A sailor hung his pimply face over the man’s shoulder. “Hot dog! Look at that big black enchilada on that animal, must be four feet from belly to floor! How much, senior—for the whole deck, I mean?”
The short man spread the deck wider for the sailor. Younger turned and walked away, the sailor shouting after him, “Hey, civvie! I didn’t mean to break up the deal between you and the senior here! C’mon back, you can buy them! There’s more spic cookie where this came from!”
Younger walked, faster, then started running to catch up with the shouting crowd at the corner. Beneath the white glare of his helmet a Shore Patrolman swung the length of his club menacingly, barking at the crowd to stay back on the curb. In the middle of the street spinning lights on top of a Shore Patrol jeep splashed its red color all over the old Packard three patrolmen had stopped, banging their clubs on the metal roof. Younger made out two Zoots trapped inside the paint-peeled car, refusing to crank down the windows, slouched deep on the front seat, their faces obscured by wide brims of purple hats. One of the patrolmen smashed the driver’s window open, to the applauseof the crowd on the curb, and pulled a frightened Zoot from the car, slamming him up along the back fender, jamming a billyclub behind his Zoot’s neck and knocking off the purple hat. The Zoot’s hair was long and tied up in a black braid; the patrolman grabbed it in his fist, tugging like he was reeling in a reluctant fish, snapping the Zoot’s neck back against the club.
“¡
No nos vencerán! ¡Chale!
” The Zoot’s terrified screams filled the street as he futilely tried kicking backward at the grinning patrolman who was choking him with the club.
Younger knew what the Zoot was screaming. “You can’t defeat us! No way!”
A siren cut through the Zoot’s screams, a black-and-white police car
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