minimum wage, good likelihood of the night shift in that house. Car on blocks, two jet-skis with cracked hulls, grass hadn’t been mown in a year now hiding the lawn mower rusting by the front door, propane tanks used for target practice: unemployed, welfare cheats, spend more on drugs in a year than food.
This was exactly the kind of fate Slick was trying to avoid with his bank job. He wanted to marry Emma. And not to propose with a promise but with a ring. An honest-to-goodness diamond ring. Bring on the biggest, brightest blood diamond your slave labor can dig out of the ground. Then he didn’t want to take her home to a trailer park. His car would never be left to rust out, promising, “Next year, next year we’ll be on our feet again.” His kid wasn’t going to grow up on one meal a day.
He still had a chance. He wouldn’t give up as easy as El Cid’s cousin either. Someone was going to have to run him right the fuck over to get him out of the way of his dream.
He sure as hell hoped whoever Rudy was that he wasn’t that guy.
“Pull up here, yo.”
Slick parked the car in front of a patch of brown grass. El Cid rolled down his window. “Turn that shit up.” Slick turned the knob on the stereo. Thick bass, hand claps, rhythmic lyrics and a sample of an Indian sounding drum boomed across the lawn of a one story ranch house with faded blue paint. Two BMX bikes leaned on a chain link fence that ran across the front yard. There were bars on the windows, a security camera at the door, flood lights on poles that could have lit a soccer pitch at night. No shadows was the idea. No place to hide. May as well have a flashing neon sign that read: drug dealer. Slick had no idea what the beef was between Rudy and El Cid, but these sorts of confrontations never went well.
“Yo, Rudy! I got your boy here! Come on out and say what you got to say to my face!”
Strong words called out from the back seat of a Honda with peeling tinted windows. Slick could see in the rearview El Cid ducking down, trying to stay out of sight and away from the window. Act as tough as you want but if you’re scared, you’re scared and the whole world will know it. It’s animal. It’s in us to recognize.
The house stayed quiet.
“Yo, Rudy! Get the fuck out here!”
It was like the house and El Cid were in a staring contest. The music was hurting Slick’s ears.
The front door opened. A man stepped out holding a sawed off shotgun down around his waist. He was shirtless with tattoos across his chest, words mostly, in five-inch-tall gothic script. IN IT FOR LIFE ran across his ballooning belly, under his navel. NEVER DIE under his neck.
“Rudy, I presume?” asked Slick.
El Cid didn’t answer. Might not have heard him. Slick saw curtains move in the house, wondered how many guns were pointed at them.
“Turn that shit down! People got motherfucking jobs around here, man!” Rudy spoke in a booming Mexican accent. The swagger of Ricardo Montalban and the grammar of Tupac Shakur.
Slick turned down the volume on the second rate rap. Silence was always better than two-bit MCs. The pitch of El Cid’s voice rose. “Turn it back up, yo!”
“He said turn it down. His gun is bigger.”
“That you Cid?” said Rudy.
“Yo, Rudy, man, why you tryin’ to take me out?”
“Why do you think, bro?”
Cid’s silence meant he knew the answer. He stayed hunkered down in the back seat.
“I got your boy!”
“What boy?”
“This one. Ugly one.”
Slick waved from the front seat, both hands visible all the time. “I told him I didn’t know you. I got no dog in this fight.”
Rudy scrunched up his face at Slick. “I don’t know this fool. And you best believe any motherfucker I send after you ain’t gonna let you get the drop on him.”
Slick wanted to protest, but it was fair. If he’d been on a paying job to take the kid out, however, the job would have been done. This was an apples and oranges situation. Not the right time
This was exactly the kind of fate Slick was trying to avoid with his bank job. He wanted to marry Emma. And not to propose with a promise but with a ring. An honest-to-goodness diamond ring. Bring on the biggest, brightest blood diamond your slave labor can dig out of the ground. Then he didn’t want to take her home to a trailer park. His car would never be left to rust out, promising, “Next year, next year we’ll be on our feet again.” His kid wasn’t going to grow up on one meal a day.
He still had a chance. He wouldn’t give up as easy as El Cid’s cousin either. Someone was going to have to run him right the fuck over to get him out of the way of his dream.
He sure as hell hoped whoever Rudy was that he wasn’t that guy.
“Pull up here, yo.”
Slick parked the car in front of a patch of brown grass. El Cid rolled down his window. “Turn that shit up.” Slick turned the knob on the stereo. Thick bass, hand claps, rhythmic lyrics and a sample of an Indian sounding drum boomed across the lawn of a one story ranch house with faded blue paint. Two BMX bikes leaned on a chain link fence that ran across the front yard. There were bars on the windows, a security camera at the door, flood lights on poles that could have lit a soccer pitch at night. No shadows was the idea. No place to hide. May as well have a flashing neon sign that read: drug dealer. Slick had no idea what the beef was between Rudy and El Cid, but these sorts of confrontations never went well.
“Yo, Rudy! I got your boy here! Come on out and say what you got to say to my face!”
Strong words called out from the back seat of a Honda with peeling tinted windows. Slick could see in the rearview El Cid ducking down, trying to stay out of sight and away from the window. Act as tough as you want but if you’re scared, you’re scared and the whole world will know it. It’s animal. It’s in us to recognize.
The house stayed quiet.
“Yo, Rudy! Get the fuck out here!”
It was like the house and El Cid were in a staring contest. The music was hurting Slick’s ears.
The front door opened. A man stepped out holding a sawed off shotgun down around his waist. He was shirtless with tattoos across his chest, words mostly, in five-inch-tall gothic script. IN IT FOR LIFE ran across his ballooning belly, under his navel. NEVER DIE under his neck.
“Rudy, I presume?” asked Slick.
El Cid didn’t answer. Might not have heard him. Slick saw curtains move in the house, wondered how many guns were pointed at them.
“Turn that shit down! People got motherfucking jobs around here, man!” Rudy spoke in a booming Mexican accent. The swagger of Ricardo Montalban and the grammar of Tupac Shakur.
Slick turned down the volume on the second rate rap. Silence was always better than two-bit MCs. The pitch of El Cid’s voice rose. “Turn it back up, yo!”
“He said turn it down. His gun is bigger.”
“That you Cid?” said Rudy.
“Yo, Rudy, man, why you tryin’ to take me out?”
“Why do you think, bro?”
Cid’s silence meant he knew the answer. He stayed hunkered down in the back seat.
“I got your boy!”
“What boy?”
“This one. Ugly one.”
Slick waved from the front seat, both hands visible all the time. “I told him I didn’t know you. I got no dog in this fight.”
Rudy scrunched up his face at Slick. “I don’t know this fool. And you best believe any motherfucker I send after you ain’t gonna let you get the drop on him.”
Slick wanted to protest, but it was fair. If he’d been on a paying job to take the kid out, however, the job would have been done. This was an apples and oranges situation. Not the right time
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