decades had passed since they'd last seen any upkeep or a fresh coat of paint. They made my house look like a damn mansion. Somewhere nearby a stereo was thudding with a ridiculous amount of bass, and I could see here and there low-riders with sparkling paintjobs and rims that probably cost more than most peoples' monthly mortgages.
I turned to tell Hack and Swift to hurry it the hell up when a door nearby banged open, and a flood of footsteps came out of a house across from where I stood. I hesitated to look, but when I did I saw around a dozen young Latino men were crowding out onto the street, they didn't look like the neighborly types. They all wore variations on the same outfit - low-slung baggy pants, and tops all in different shades of red. And each and every one of them came out armed, some with bats, pipes, or knives, others with shiny pistols.
Son of a bitch, we'd come out in the Gardens.
While the majority of places south of the freeway were nowhere you wanted to be unless you absolutely had to, the tiny neighborhood collectively referred to as the Gardens was a god damned no-man's land; fundamentally a warzone, a hotbed of gang activity constantly in flux between the myriad rival tribes vying for control of it. The Hanford authorities washed their hands of it years ago, forsaking it to gang control and refusing to enter its limits unless a particularly bad conflict spilled out into surrounding areas.
Not the kind of place you wanted to pop in on.
"What the hell is this? You must be lost, gringo," the guy who was apparently their leader said. He had a pencil-thin moustache and wore a bright red bandana around his head, and there was an uncomfortably large hand cannon sticking out of the waist of his jeans.
"Way to go Tommy. You landed us right in the middle of the damn ghetto," Hack said as he came up behind me.
"What the fuck's a matter with that puto's eyes?" The leader said.
"He has a condition." I clutched at the strap of my bag. "And we were just on our way to the doctor, so if you gentlemen will excuse us, we'll just find our way out of here."
The gangsters broke into a chorus of laughter.
"Oh, no man, no. You ain't going anywhere."
The leader stepped forward, hand on the handle of his gun, stopping a few feet in front of me. Any trace of laughter or mirth was gone from his face, he was giving me what I believe is referred to as a 'mad-dog' look. That close, I could see the he was young, probably hardly in his twenties.
"You can't leave till you pay the toll, man. Or we beat it out of you. Your choice, puto." He said.
There was that word again.
I think that just about confirmed it wasn't a compliment, considering the way he said it and the way Rosa had said it earlier. I don't think I liked that. Apparently Swift didn't either because before I could even respond he shot like a blur in front of me, threw the young gang-banger into a vicious choke-hold and had the guy's gun out and pressed up against his temple. It got the reaction you'd pretty much expect it to. The street erupted into a lot of yelling and brandishing of weapons.
"Swift! What the hell man?" I hollered.
"Back up, and we'll get out of here and no one gets hurt." Swift was slowly backing away from the gangsters and taking the leader with him. Hack apparently approved of this plan, if the grin splitting his face was any indication.
I have the best friends.
From up the road came the source of the bass that had been throbbing in the background, now so loud it was vibrating through the soles of my shoes. It was coming from an old lowered Cadillac that hopped and bounced to the beat. It sped down the road and screeched to a halt within spitting distance from where our little altercation was taking place. And Rosa jumped out of the car.
Oh for the love of…
The guy Swift was holding broke into a rapid fire shouting in Spanish. I couldn't make out much of it, most the Spanish I know comes from frequenting the taco trucks around
I turned to tell Hack and Swift to hurry it the hell up when a door nearby banged open, and a flood of footsteps came out of a house across from where I stood. I hesitated to look, but when I did I saw around a dozen young Latino men were crowding out onto the street, they didn't look like the neighborly types. They all wore variations on the same outfit - low-slung baggy pants, and tops all in different shades of red. And each and every one of them came out armed, some with bats, pipes, or knives, others with shiny pistols.
Son of a bitch, we'd come out in the Gardens.
While the majority of places south of the freeway were nowhere you wanted to be unless you absolutely had to, the tiny neighborhood collectively referred to as the Gardens was a god damned no-man's land; fundamentally a warzone, a hotbed of gang activity constantly in flux between the myriad rival tribes vying for control of it. The Hanford authorities washed their hands of it years ago, forsaking it to gang control and refusing to enter its limits unless a particularly bad conflict spilled out into surrounding areas.
Not the kind of place you wanted to pop in on.
"What the hell is this? You must be lost, gringo," the guy who was apparently their leader said. He had a pencil-thin moustache and wore a bright red bandana around his head, and there was an uncomfortably large hand cannon sticking out of the waist of his jeans.
"Way to go Tommy. You landed us right in the middle of the damn ghetto," Hack said as he came up behind me.
"What the fuck's a matter with that puto's eyes?" The leader said.
"He has a condition." I clutched at the strap of my bag. "And we were just on our way to the doctor, so if you gentlemen will excuse us, we'll just find our way out of here."
The gangsters broke into a chorus of laughter.
"Oh, no man, no. You ain't going anywhere."
The leader stepped forward, hand on the handle of his gun, stopping a few feet in front of me. Any trace of laughter or mirth was gone from his face, he was giving me what I believe is referred to as a 'mad-dog' look. That close, I could see the he was young, probably hardly in his twenties.
"You can't leave till you pay the toll, man. Or we beat it out of you. Your choice, puto." He said.
There was that word again.
I think that just about confirmed it wasn't a compliment, considering the way he said it and the way Rosa had said it earlier. I don't think I liked that. Apparently Swift didn't either because before I could even respond he shot like a blur in front of me, threw the young gang-banger into a vicious choke-hold and had the guy's gun out and pressed up against his temple. It got the reaction you'd pretty much expect it to. The street erupted into a lot of yelling and brandishing of weapons.
"Swift! What the hell man?" I hollered.
"Back up, and we'll get out of here and no one gets hurt." Swift was slowly backing away from the gangsters and taking the leader with him. Hack apparently approved of this plan, if the grin splitting his face was any indication.
I have the best friends.
From up the road came the source of the bass that had been throbbing in the background, now so loud it was vibrating through the soles of my shoes. It was coming from an old lowered Cadillac that hopped and bounced to the beat. It sped down the road and screeched to a halt within spitting distance from where our little altercation was taking place. And Rosa jumped out of the car.
Oh for the love of…
The guy Swift was holding broke into a rapid fire shouting in Spanish. I couldn't make out much of it, most the Spanish I know comes from frequenting the taco trucks around
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