don’t like hassles. But we ain’t afraid of them.”
“Cool it, Jo-Jo.”
Wager buried his mouth in the glass of beer. The two younger men watched him. He set the glass squarely back on its ring of water. “What’s the matter?”
“Well”—Jo-Jo sniffed and scrubbed under his nose with a grimy knuckle—“me and the Juice here, we been wondering who your customers are. You’ve handled a lot of stuff, Juice tells me. But I get around and I ain’t heard your name on the street anywhere.”
Wager held his flesh still against the prickly sensation that began to climb up the back of his neck. It wasn’t fear; it was anger. This pimply-faced son of a bitch was trying to come on like Billy Jack. “I’ve got my route and it’s growing.” He smiled, and added very quietly, “You looking to take away some of my action, brother?”
“Whoooeee! Juice, this dude’s hyped! Look, Pancho, this ain’t the first time you been up here. It’s a small town, you know? A stranger starts hanging around, the word gets out. Maybe you ain’t a narc. If you ain’t, the question is why the hell’ve you been hanging around up here?”
Leaning back in his chair, Wager tried to relax. If anything was coming, it wouldn’t be here in the bar. It would be later in a dark corner of the empty lot where his truck was sitting, or halfway down the canyon where the steep rock walls pushed the highway to the edge of the tumbling creek, or at a distant cabin where he’d be invited for a “party.” It could happen. But more likely they would just drop him as if he wore a sign around his neck: “ DON’T TOUCH—NARC .” He would like it better if they tried something. A lot better. It would be a solid pleasure if Jo-Jo tried something. But even that was out: he remembered Rietman’s warning, “They got a thing against heavies.” So Wager stretched and looked relaxed and tried to bury his angry accent in a smile. “Because I don’t like street dealing. Life’s too short, man. Did you ever hear of Mr. Taco?”
“Yeah,” said Jo-Jo. “Maybe I heard the name around.”
“That’s me. I’ve been working only a couple months and already that name’s all over the street. How long do you think it would take for the fuzz to ring my bell if I used my own name?”
“No shit,” said Bruce. “You’re Mr. Taco, the big enchilada?”
Wager grinned wider. “The smiling sopapilla—that’s me.” He brought the chair legs down and leaned across the table, staring hard into Bruce the Juice’s eyes, knowing that if he didn’t get past this point, there was no way to go but home. “I’ve finally got some coin, and I’ve made a few contacts. Now I want to get off the street to where the real money is.”
CHAPTER 6
“Y EAH, G ABE, DINERO’S what it’s all about.” Richard Allen Farnsworth, twenty-eight, dark brown hair pulled tightly back into a stubby pigtail, face made up of two shiny brown eyes, a curving nose whose nostrils lifted slightly at the sides, and a spray of kinky black beard that ran from just under his eyes all the way down his neck. Right now, teeth showed in a smile that clutched the curved stem of a large pipe. A drowsy child, Peter, nodded gently on his rocking knee. “If it was just me and Ramona and Pedrocito, here, I’d quit tomorrow.” The pipe bobbed with a short laugh. “In fact, I almost quit when that son of a bitch Chandler did a number on me.” Farnsworth wagged his head, a sprig or two of curly hair tugging loose to wag with him.
“What happened?” Wager, heavy from eating too much and spongy from drinking more beer and wine than he was used to, eased first one way and then another on the creaking chair, trying to lift the weight of his own flesh from the wad of food in his stomach. The food, the wine, the sharp-sweet odor of marijuana lingering from Ramona’s after-dinner lid made the room bob and wag like Farnsworth’s hair and pipe and child; he wanted to reach out and quiet all
“Cool it, Jo-Jo.”
Wager buried his mouth in the glass of beer. The two younger men watched him. He set the glass squarely back on its ring of water. “What’s the matter?”
“Well”—Jo-Jo sniffed and scrubbed under his nose with a grimy knuckle—“me and the Juice here, we been wondering who your customers are. You’ve handled a lot of stuff, Juice tells me. But I get around and I ain’t heard your name on the street anywhere.”
Wager held his flesh still against the prickly sensation that began to climb up the back of his neck. It wasn’t fear; it was anger. This pimply-faced son of a bitch was trying to come on like Billy Jack. “I’ve got my route and it’s growing.” He smiled, and added very quietly, “You looking to take away some of my action, brother?”
“Whoooeee! Juice, this dude’s hyped! Look, Pancho, this ain’t the first time you been up here. It’s a small town, you know? A stranger starts hanging around, the word gets out. Maybe you ain’t a narc. If you ain’t, the question is why the hell’ve you been hanging around up here?”
Leaning back in his chair, Wager tried to relax. If anything was coming, it wouldn’t be here in the bar. It would be later in a dark corner of the empty lot where his truck was sitting, or halfway down the canyon where the steep rock walls pushed the highway to the edge of the tumbling creek, or at a distant cabin where he’d be invited for a “party.” It could happen. But more likely they would just drop him as if he wore a sign around his neck: “ DON’T TOUCH—NARC .” He would like it better if they tried something. A lot better. It would be a solid pleasure if Jo-Jo tried something. But even that was out: he remembered Rietman’s warning, “They got a thing against heavies.” So Wager stretched and looked relaxed and tried to bury his angry accent in a smile. “Because I don’t like street dealing. Life’s too short, man. Did you ever hear of Mr. Taco?”
“Yeah,” said Jo-Jo. “Maybe I heard the name around.”
“That’s me. I’ve been working only a couple months and already that name’s all over the street. How long do you think it would take for the fuzz to ring my bell if I used my own name?”
“No shit,” said Bruce. “You’re Mr. Taco, the big enchilada?”
Wager grinned wider. “The smiling sopapilla—that’s me.” He brought the chair legs down and leaned across the table, staring hard into Bruce the Juice’s eyes, knowing that if he didn’t get past this point, there was no way to go but home. “I’ve finally got some coin, and I’ve made a few contacts. Now I want to get off the street to where the real money is.”
CHAPTER 6
“Y EAH, G ABE, DINERO’S what it’s all about.” Richard Allen Farnsworth, twenty-eight, dark brown hair pulled tightly back into a stubby pigtail, face made up of two shiny brown eyes, a curving nose whose nostrils lifted slightly at the sides, and a spray of kinky black beard that ran from just under his eyes all the way down his neck. Right now, teeth showed in a smile that clutched the curved stem of a large pipe. A drowsy child, Peter, nodded gently on his rocking knee. “If it was just me and Ramona and Pedrocito, here, I’d quit tomorrow.” The pipe bobbed with a short laugh. “In fact, I almost quit when that son of a bitch Chandler did a number on me.” Farnsworth wagged his head, a sprig or two of curly hair tugging loose to wag with him.
“What happened?” Wager, heavy from eating too much and spongy from drinking more beer and wine than he was used to, eased first one way and then another on the creaking chair, trying to lift the weight of his own flesh from the wad of food in his stomach. The food, the wine, the sharp-sweet odor of marijuana lingering from Ramona’s after-dinner lid made the room bob and wag like Farnsworth’s hair and pipe and child; he wanted to reach out and quiet all
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