and I stopped a car with three Mexican bangers on their way back from an attempted drive by. We’d held them there until a few more units were on scene and then brought them out one by one. The third suspect came from the back seat and stood about four feet tall. I swear to God, I thought he was a midget. But he wasn’t. It was eleven year old Esteban Guitterez, younger brother to Rueben and Benito. They ran in some Brown Pride gang that was only local. When we did our searches, it was the eleven year old, Esteban, who had two Star nine millimeters in his waistband.
Rueben and Benito had probably given him the guns to hold as soon they spotted us behind them, knowing that a juvenile wouldn’t get any serious time for a weapons possession. That’s probably what happened. Probably. That was easier to believe than Esteban as the designated shooter in the drive by .
That happened over ten years ago. From what little I paid attention to the news, it seemed to be getting worse, not better. A picture of sixteen - year - old Kris Sinderling, looking twenty if she were a day, flashed in my mind.
Could an eighteen - year - old black kid run whores out on East Sprague?
Yeah, maybe. I just didn’t think so. Maybe it was the old-school traditionalist in me, but I wanted a guy in a purple Cadillac, wearing furs and rings and a wide brim hat. More likely, it was just the way the kid carried himself. He had the edginess of one who serves, not the confidence of one who is served.
I sipped my Molson and waited.
25
I polished off the first Molson and sipped my way through most of another when my patience was rewarded.
The door swung open and light filtered in through the doorway. Outside had grown considerab ly darker since I’d come in. I realized I’d be walking home in the dark. I thought of the distance and the terrain and all the crack and gangsters and whores between me and home and decided right then that I’d take a cab. I also started wishing I’d brought along my gun. It would’ve been illegal for me to carry it in the bar due to state law but the reassuring weight of a short-barreled .45 would have been nice .
The man that sauntered through the front door filled the door frame . He wore a tight afro and a manicured beard. His Oakland Raiders jacket was an off-blue, almost the color that the Seattle Seahawks wore. He cruised in with a cane in his left hand, though I saw no sign of a limp. He didn’t wear a hat, but I guess I got my wish for pimp attire with th at cane. And who knows? Maybe the handle screwed off and he kept his stash of dope inside.
He made his way to the corner booth. I watched his reflection in the cracked and smoke-dimmed glass behind the bar. The hooker cocked her hip at him as he approached . The skinny kid was out of the booth and standing five feet away. I was willing to bet that he’d been there before the front door was even half-way open.
“Hey, baby!” the girl said . “I been waitin’ for you.”
“Whattaya got for me, bitch?” the pimp said when he’d reached her. D espite his choice of words, his voice was affectionate.
There was a quick, almost invisible transfer from her hand to his. The move would have become habit between them, so much second nature that even in this safe haven, it was how she handed off her earnings.
“Shit,” he said, eyeing the fold of cash. “You are one earning bitch, baby!” He slapped her on the ass with a massive hand, then kept it there, kneading her buttock. The hooker all but purred.
“Usual, Rolo?” The bartender asked, reaching for a bottle.
“Inna minute,” Rolo told him and slid into the booth with his back to the wall. The hooker slid in next to him and nestled her head onto his shoulder. He whispered to her briefly and a sultry smile came over her face. She slid down and disappeared beneath the table.
Rolo nodded to the skinny kid, who went to the jukebox and inserted a dollar. I averted my eyes from both of them,
Rueben and Benito had probably given him the guns to hold as soon they spotted us behind them, knowing that a juvenile wouldn’t get any serious time for a weapons possession. That’s probably what happened. Probably. That was easier to believe than Esteban as the designated shooter in the drive by .
That happened over ten years ago. From what little I paid attention to the news, it seemed to be getting worse, not better. A picture of sixteen - year - old Kris Sinderling, looking twenty if she were a day, flashed in my mind.
Could an eighteen - year - old black kid run whores out on East Sprague?
Yeah, maybe. I just didn’t think so. Maybe it was the old-school traditionalist in me, but I wanted a guy in a purple Cadillac, wearing furs and rings and a wide brim hat. More likely, it was just the way the kid carried himself. He had the edginess of one who serves, not the confidence of one who is served.
I sipped my Molson and waited.
25
I polished off the first Molson and sipped my way through most of another when my patience was rewarded.
The door swung open and light filtered in through the doorway. Outside had grown considerab ly darker since I’d come in. I realized I’d be walking home in the dark. I thought of the distance and the terrain and all the crack and gangsters and whores between me and home and decided right then that I’d take a cab. I also started wishing I’d brought along my gun. It would’ve been illegal for me to carry it in the bar due to state law but the reassuring weight of a short-barreled .45 would have been nice .
The man that sauntered through the front door filled the door frame . He wore a tight afro and a manicured beard. His Oakland Raiders jacket was an off-blue, almost the color that the Seattle Seahawks wore. He cruised in with a cane in his left hand, though I saw no sign of a limp. He didn’t wear a hat, but I guess I got my wish for pimp attire with th at cane. And who knows? Maybe the handle screwed off and he kept his stash of dope inside.
He made his way to the corner booth. I watched his reflection in the cracked and smoke-dimmed glass behind the bar. The hooker cocked her hip at him as he approached . The skinny kid was out of the booth and standing five feet away. I was willing to bet that he’d been there before the front door was even half-way open.
“Hey, baby!” the girl said . “I been waitin’ for you.”
“Whattaya got for me, bitch?” the pimp said when he’d reached her. D espite his choice of words, his voice was affectionate.
There was a quick, almost invisible transfer from her hand to his. The move would have become habit between them, so much second nature that even in this safe haven, it was how she handed off her earnings.
“Shit,” he said, eyeing the fold of cash. “You are one earning bitch, baby!” He slapped her on the ass with a massive hand, then kept it there, kneading her buttock. The hooker all but purred.
“Usual, Rolo?” The bartender asked, reaching for a bottle.
“Inna minute,” Rolo told him and slid into the booth with his back to the wall. The hooker slid in next to him and nestled her head onto his shoulder. He whispered to her briefly and a sultry smile came over her face. She slid down and disappeared beneath the table.
Rolo nodded to the skinny kid, who went to the jukebox and inserted a dollar. I averted my eyes from both of them,
Similar Books
