could not help thinking that the right fender now resembled the left one more closely than it had before, but he did not think this a good moment to mention it to Diego.
And now Diego discovered a parking ticket under the windshield wiper. He snatched it up and gaped at it in disbelief. It cited him for parking in front of a fire hydrant. He shivered as if suddenly very cold. He whimpered lowly. He crumpled the ticket in his hand and raised the fist to heaven and shook it as though he would demand an explanation from God Himself.
“What kind of son of a bitch—” he began, then started choking on his bile and outrage and fell to a harsh and prolonged fit of coughing that raised the veins starkly on his forehead. He slowly recovered, hacking and spitting, wiping the webs of mucus from his nose, the tears from his eyes. “What kind of son of a bitch … ” he said breathlessly, brandishing the ticket at his friends, “would give a man a goddamn ticket … in the middle of the goddamn NIGHT !” He turned his face up to the sky. “Oooooh God,” he moaned, “what bastards! What injustice! What injustice this stinking world is full of!”
The town was coming to life all around them. Several cars and trucks rolled past, their occupants staring out at them—some with amusement, some with indifference, some with disdain. Diego glared balefully at the hydrant, at the car, at Julio and Francisco, then whirled and went to the driver’s side and got in and slammed the door shut with such force that the driver’s side window shattered and showered him with broken glass.
He let a furious howl and pounded on the steering wheel with his fist. His curses rang in the streets.
The engine cranked laboriously as Diego worked the ignition key, then it began to sputter, then abruptly roared into action and poured black smoke from its exhaust pipe. He wrestled with the shift lever in a series of horrific metallic shrieks until the transmission at last surrendered to first gear. The engine still racing furiously, Diego released the clutch pedal and the Plymouth shot into the street with tires screaming and veered wildly for a moment before he had it under control. He fought the transmission through the rest of the grinding gearshifts as he drove away in a clatter and a cloud of oily smoke, heading home to a wife and seven children who would shriek and squall the whole while he got ready to go to work, sleepless and empty of pocket.
Julio and Francisco watched him until he rounded a corner and was gone.
“We should have asked him for a ride to the market,” Francisco said.
Julio yawned hugely and shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not this time.”
As they were walking to the Farmers Market Francisco said, “At least the son of a bitch left the keys in the car for him.”
“That’s right,” Julio said. “Diego should be thankful, shouldn’t he?”
Francisco looked at him and started to laugh—and then winced with the pain of his battered face.
VII
The matter was quite clear to them all: Alfonso de la Madrid was to blame for the robbery. He had been the one who wanted to pick up the hitchhiker and then the hitchhiker had robbed them. The matter was clear enough. Diego had made it known that he did not want to see Alfonso ever again—and if he did see him, he would run over him with his car and then drive back and forth over him until there was nothing left but a stain in the road. Francisco, too, would get narrow in the eyes at the mention of Alfonso’s name. None of them had spoken to Alfonso in the several days since the robbery and Alfonso was keeping his guarded distance from them all. He had not even shown his face in the Rosa Verde.
Sitting in the shade of the mimosa, Julio watched Alfonso buy his lunch and then hurry away to find a place to eat it, well removed from Julio’s sight. The fool knew damn well it was all his fault.
And yet…. Furiously chewing the last of his sandwich, Julio knew that his
And now Diego discovered a parking ticket under the windshield wiper. He snatched it up and gaped at it in disbelief. It cited him for parking in front of a fire hydrant. He shivered as if suddenly very cold. He whimpered lowly. He crumpled the ticket in his hand and raised the fist to heaven and shook it as though he would demand an explanation from God Himself.
“What kind of son of a bitch—” he began, then started choking on his bile and outrage and fell to a harsh and prolonged fit of coughing that raised the veins starkly on his forehead. He slowly recovered, hacking and spitting, wiping the webs of mucus from his nose, the tears from his eyes. “What kind of son of a bitch … ” he said breathlessly, brandishing the ticket at his friends, “would give a man a goddamn ticket … in the middle of the goddamn NIGHT !” He turned his face up to the sky. “Oooooh God,” he moaned, “what bastards! What injustice! What injustice this stinking world is full of!”
The town was coming to life all around them. Several cars and trucks rolled past, their occupants staring out at them—some with amusement, some with indifference, some with disdain. Diego glared balefully at the hydrant, at the car, at Julio and Francisco, then whirled and went to the driver’s side and got in and slammed the door shut with such force that the driver’s side window shattered and showered him with broken glass.
He let a furious howl and pounded on the steering wheel with his fist. His curses rang in the streets.
The engine cranked laboriously as Diego worked the ignition key, then it began to sputter, then abruptly roared into action and poured black smoke from its exhaust pipe. He wrestled with the shift lever in a series of horrific metallic shrieks until the transmission at last surrendered to first gear. The engine still racing furiously, Diego released the clutch pedal and the Plymouth shot into the street with tires screaming and veered wildly for a moment before he had it under control. He fought the transmission through the rest of the grinding gearshifts as he drove away in a clatter and a cloud of oily smoke, heading home to a wife and seven children who would shriek and squall the whole while he got ready to go to work, sleepless and empty of pocket.
Julio and Francisco watched him until he rounded a corner and was gone.
“We should have asked him for a ride to the market,” Francisco said.
Julio yawned hugely and shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not this time.”
As they were walking to the Farmers Market Francisco said, “At least the son of a bitch left the keys in the car for him.”
“That’s right,” Julio said. “Diego should be thankful, shouldn’t he?”
Francisco looked at him and started to laugh—and then winced with the pain of his battered face.
VII
The matter was quite clear to them all: Alfonso de la Madrid was to blame for the robbery. He had been the one who wanted to pick up the hitchhiker and then the hitchhiker had robbed them. The matter was clear enough. Diego had made it known that he did not want to see Alfonso ever again—and if he did see him, he would run over him with his car and then drive back and forth over him until there was nothing left but a stain in the road. Francisco, too, would get narrow in the eyes at the mention of Alfonso’s name. None of them had spoken to Alfonso in the several days since the robbery and Alfonso was keeping his guarded distance from them all. He had not even shown his face in the Rosa Verde.
Sitting in the shade of the mimosa, Julio watched Alfonso buy his lunch and then hurry away to find a place to eat it, well removed from Julio’s sight. The fool knew damn well it was all his fault.
And yet…. Furiously chewing the last of his sandwich, Julio knew that his
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