and gazed in them only in dim bathrooms.
His brother Marco’s real name was Julian, but he had changed it on coming to the States in the great Mariel Harbor boat lift because Julian figured he looked more like a Marco. Anglos said he looked a lot like a dead spic comic named Freddie Prinze, especially with his mustache. How’d he die, Marco wanted to know? He blew his brains out, they told him. What a way to go… .
Miguel pulled the Caddy up to the entrance of Ransom-Everglades and pushed a button, which automatically flicked all the door locks open. A long-haired Anglo boy wearing a crisp leather jacket climbed in the backseat. Two more schools, and two more boys joined the first in the Caddy’s backseat. One wore oyster-colored corduroys and a high school letterman’s jacket. The other wore jeans and a light windbreaker.
“Hey, man,” said Marco, “let’s party.”
Miguel headed the Caddy back to South Beach, specifically the southern end of Collins Avenue, which was their prime turf. A small Cuban diner had been headquarters of their man Ramon until the dude, soon-to-be-a-dead-fuck, moved in. The Riveros figured he was part of somebody bigger, so an example was called for. It was Miguel who stepped inside, glad to see the diner was deserted except for a big dark man standing behind the counter wearing an apron.
“Can I help you?” the fucker asked in Spanish.
“Yeah,” Miguel came back. “I’d like a take-out order.” Right across the counter from him now. “For Ramon.”
His fist came up fast. The fucker never had time to react. The blow bashed into his solar plexus and doubled him over the counter. The guy was big, but he was slow. Miguel cracked him once on the back of the head just for fun and then half-led, half-dragged him out of the diner and had him squeezed in the Caddy’s backseat with the Anglo dudes before anyone in South Beach was the wiser. Then he was back behind the Caddy’s wheel, gunning the engine.
“Let’s party, man,” said Marco.
Miguel drove the Caddy north toward the Orange Bowl and an abandoned warehouse, which doubled as the brothers’ home and headquarters. They didn’t care about bringing the Anglos down here because they wouldn’t be in condition to tell anyone about it. The boys sat all squeezed together in the backseat, the effects of Marco’s pot lessening in them enough for the fear to come through. The stranger next to them was only semiconscious, eyes glassy. He was moaning and he didn’t smell too good.
It was Miguel who dragged him through the warehouse front door while the cooler Marco led the way for the rest of them.
“Come on in, man, it’s party time!” he announced as if he genuinely meant it.
He closed and locked the door behind the boys. They were in what looked like a huge living room partitioned off with old and broken furniture scattered over a dust-coated floor.
Miguel tossed the stranger to the floor, then kicked him once in the head and twice in the gut. A whoooosssssh of air sped through the guy’s mouth. Miguel kicked him in the gut again. He rolled over.
Marco slapped his arm around the shoulder of the boy in the leather jacket. He squeezed it tenderly.
“I like you, man,” he said. “You’re my favorite.”
But then his hand was in motion, incredibly quick like a cat after a ball of yarn, switching from the shoulder to the throat. The boy reeled backward as he felt his air being choked off. His eyes bulged when he saw the gun in Marco’s hand coming straight for his mouth.
The other boys were too shocked to move and by the time they looked to the door, Miguel was on them from behind, grasping them by the scruffs of the neck and shaking viciously. They felt like puppets in his fleshy hands.
Marco tilted the barrel of his monstrous revolver down the throat of the boy in the leather jacket. He cocked the hammer, all the soft prettiness gone from his face, rage replacing it.
“You fuck with us, man? You fuck with
His brother Marco’s real name was Julian, but he had changed it on coming to the States in the great Mariel Harbor boat lift because Julian figured he looked more like a Marco. Anglos said he looked a lot like a dead spic comic named Freddie Prinze, especially with his mustache. How’d he die, Marco wanted to know? He blew his brains out, they told him. What a way to go… .
Miguel pulled the Caddy up to the entrance of Ransom-Everglades and pushed a button, which automatically flicked all the door locks open. A long-haired Anglo boy wearing a crisp leather jacket climbed in the backseat. Two more schools, and two more boys joined the first in the Caddy’s backseat. One wore oyster-colored corduroys and a high school letterman’s jacket. The other wore jeans and a light windbreaker.
“Hey, man,” said Marco, “let’s party.”
Miguel headed the Caddy back to South Beach, specifically the southern end of Collins Avenue, which was their prime turf. A small Cuban diner had been headquarters of their man Ramon until the dude, soon-to-be-a-dead-fuck, moved in. The Riveros figured he was part of somebody bigger, so an example was called for. It was Miguel who stepped inside, glad to see the diner was deserted except for a big dark man standing behind the counter wearing an apron.
“Can I help you?” the fucker asked in Spanish.
“Yeah,” Miguel came back. “I’d like a take-out order.” Right across the counter from him now. “For Ramon.”
His fist came up fast. The fucker never had time to react. The blow bashed into his solar plexus and doubled him over the counter. The guy was big, but he was slow. Miguel cracked him once on the back of the head just for fun and then half-led, half-dragged him out of the diner and had him squeezed in the Caddy’s backseat with the Anglo dudes before anyone in South Beach was the wiser. Then he was back behind the Caddy’s wheel, gunning the engine.
“Let’s party, man,” said Marco.
Miguel drove the Caddy north toward the Orange Bowl and an abandoned warehouse, which doubled as the brothers’ home and headquarters. They didn’t care about bringing the Anglos down here because they wouldn’t be in condition to tell anyone about it. The boys sat all squeezed together in the backseat, the effects of Marco’s pot lessening in them enough for the fear to come through. The stranger next to them was only semiconscious, eyes glassy. He was moaning and he didn’t smell too good.
It was Miguel who dragged him through the warehouse front door while the cooler Marco led the way for the rest of them.
“Come on in, man, it’s party time!” he announced as if he genuinely meant it.
He closed and locked the door behind the boys. They were in what looked like a huge living room partitioned off with old and broken furniture scattered over a dust-coated floor.
Miguel tossed the stranger to the floor, then kicked him once in the head and twice in the gut. A whoooosssssh of air sped through the guy’s mouth. Miguel kicked him in the gut again. He rolled over.
Marco slapped his arm around the shoulder of the boy in the leather jacket. He squeezed it tenderly.
“I like you, man,” he said. “You’re my favorite.”
But then his hand was in motion, incredibly quick like a cat after a ball of yarn, switching from the shoulder to the throat. The boy reeled backward as he felt his air being choked off. His eyes bulged when he saw the gun in Marco’s hand coming straight for his mouth.
The other boys were too shocked to move and by the time they looked to the door, Miguel was on them from behind, grasping them by the scruffs of the neck and shaking viciously. They felt like puppets in his fleshy hands.
Marco tilted the barrel of his monstrous revolver down the throat of the boy in the leather jacket. He cocked the hammer, all the soft prettiness gone from his face, rage replacing it.
“You fuck with us, man? You fuck with
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