and scavenged
knowledge and the skills inherent in his small, delicate fingers, was that precise. She could be leaning right up against
that crazy Paco, and he wouldn’t hear a thing. Only his Anita.
He eased it out of his shirt and aimed it, using the little add-on telescopic unit to line it up, and then he transmitted.
He saw her twitch once, glance back in his direction, then look away. Her glasses rode her face. She was hearing the wafer,
he knew. Hearing the song he’d composed only for her.
He never knew if she liked them, but she must have liked something about them because she didn’t complain, didn’t send Paco
or any of the other ninlocos back to smash the sender. He always trembled slightly when he was transmitting for fear she might
do just that someday, or that he might otherwise accidentally offend her. But what was there to offend? He was careful not
to reach too far, too high in his lyrics, not to make demands or even requests. In the songs he sent, he did not exist. Only
her. They extolled her beauty, that was all. Her grace and her light. What girl could find such compliments displeasing, irrespective
of their source?
He followed at a respectful distance as the gang ducked under a particularly insistent clot of ambient advert neon. Tendrils
of light reached for them, clutching at their hearts and their pockets. They ignored it and strode through, theadvert colors illuminating their slick shirts and brazenly colored shorts and boots, reflecting metallically from the receiver
suspenders the guys wore.
Suddenly they halted, as if on command. Wormy frowned. Unified responses were alien to the gang. Surely they weren’t reacting
to an ad. He approached closer than usual, trying to see what had so caught their attention.
When chaos took over, he found himself swept up in the middle of it.
Sangres. A dozen or so of them, out for a night’s mischief stroll, looking to cause some midnight miseria. There was no time
for talk, for discussion, for reason. Clever homemade weapons magically appeared on both sides; the knives, the delicate little
vibratos the girls carried in their culottes, the blue-and-purple titanium-niobium jewelry honed to razor sharpness for double
duty.
Wormy found himself caught, swept up in the
terremoto,
unable to break clear. He hunted desperately for a way through, simultaneously trying to protect himself and his precious,
irreplaceable transmitter, his one link to his beloved Anita. Spotting a garbage bin, he managed to slip the transmitter under
its support rack, where it would be out of harm’s way.
Someone must have smashed him from behind, or maybe he was tripped and he just hit the pavement wrong. In any case, he went
down hard and out.
When the sleep went away, strange faces hovered like orbiting satellites above his own, haloed by bright lights. But they
were no angels. They wore blue cool caps with integral snap-down, light-amplifying nightshades, short-sleeved blue shirts,
and tropical blue slacks over running shoes. Federales.
One of them held an object in a Teflon glove. Half of it was clotted with something like stale honey. The pointed half.
“Why’d you do it, kid. Won’t you crazies ever learn?”
“Do what?” Wormy mumbled dazedly. He sat up slowly, gaping dumbly at the knife.
There were a couple of speedbikes and a cruiser nearby,and lights. Lots of lights, which did nothing to illumine the intimidating mutter of adults talking in low tones. The Teslas
were gone. So were the Sangres, except one. He lay on his back, one leg crossed comically across the other, arms splayed on
the pavement. Fleshy archipelagoes in a sea of his own blood.
“Come on,
niño,
let’s go.” Strong hands under his shoulders, lifting him up. As consciousness returned, he began to make connections.
“Hey, that’s not my knife,” he told them anxiously. “I don’t even own a knife, homber. I don’ kill nobody. You the ones who
knowledge and the skills inherent in his small, delicate fingers, was that precise. She could be leaning right up against
that crazy Paco, and he wouldn’t hear a thing. Only his Anita.
He eased it out of his shirt and aimed it, using the little add-on telescopic unit to line it up, and then he transmitted.
He saw her twitch once, glance back in his direction, then look away. Her glasses rode her face. She was hearing the wafer,
he knew. Hearing the song he’d composed only for her.
He never knew if she liked them, but she must have liked something about them because she didn’t complain, didn’t send Paco
or any of the other ninlocos back to smash the sender. He always trembled slightly when he was transmitting for fear she might
do just that someday, or that he might otherwise accidentally offend her. But what was there to offend? He was careful not
to reach too far, too high in his lyrics, not to make demands or even requests. In the songs he sent, he did not exist. Only
her. They extolled her beauty, that was all. Her grace and her light. What girl could find such compliments displeasing, irrespective
of their source?
He followed at a respectful distance as the gang ducked under a particularly insistent clot of ambient advert neon. Tendrils
of light reached for them, clutching at their hearts and their pockets. They ignored it and strode through, theadvert colors illuminating their slick shirts and brazenly colored shorts and boots, reflecting metallically from the receiver
suspenders the guys wore.
Suddenly they halted, as if on command. Wormy frowned. Unified responses were alien to the gang. Surely they weren’t reacting
to an ad. He approached closer than usual, trying to see what had so caught their attention.
When chaos took over, he found himself swept up in the middle of it.
Sangres. A dozen or so of them, out for a night’s mischief stroll, looking to cause some midnight miseria. There was no time
for talk, for discussion, for reason. Clever homemade weapons magically appeared on both sides; the knives, the delicate little
vibratos the girls carried in their culottes, the blue-and-purple titanium-niobium jewelry honed to razor sharpness for double
duty.
Wormy found himself caught, swept up in the
terremoto,
unable to break clear. He hunted desperately for a way through, simultaneously trying to protect himself and his precious,
irreplaceable transmitter, his one link to his beloved Anita. Spotting a garbage bin, he managed to slip the transmitter under
its support rack, where it would be out of harm’s way.
Someone must have smashed him from behind, or maybe he was tripped and he just hit the pavement wrong. In any case, he went
down hard and out.
When the sleep went away, strange faces hovered like orbiting satellites above his own, haloed by bright lights. But they
were no angels. They wore blue cool caps with integral snap-down, light-amplifying nightshades, short-sleeved blue shirts,
and tropical blue slacks over running shoes. Federales.
One of them held an object in a Teflon glove. Half of it was clotted with something like stale honey. The pointed half.
“Why’d you do it, kid. Won’t you crazies ever learn?”
“Do what?” Wormy mumbled dazedly. He sat up slowly, gaping dumbly at the knife.
There were a couple of speedbikes and a cruiser nearby,and lights. Lots of lights, which did nothing to illumine the intimidating mutter of adults talking in low tones. The Teslas
were gone. So were the Sangres, except one. He lay on his back, one leg crossed comically across the other, arms splayed on
the pavement. Fleshy archipelagoes in a sea of his own blood.
“Come on,
niño,
let’s go.” Strong hands under his shoulders, lifting him up. As consciousness returned, he began to make connections.
“Hey, that’s not my knife,” he told them anxiously. “I don’t even own a knife, homber. I don’ kill nobody. You the ones who
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