trouble. He spent five years in prison for forcibly restraining a woman in a motel room and raping her. In addition, his police record listed arrests for assault, theft, shooting at an occupied building, and torching a car that belonged to a member of another gang. Except for the rape, every arrest had resulted in probation.
Because of overcrowding in the state's prison system, Raoul had been allowed to serve his final months in the relative ease of the spacious new jail. Now the sneer on his face and the sociopathic dullness in his eyes became more pronounced as a low-riding car stopped at the curb.
Raoul got in. Gang handshakes were exchanged. The car pulled away. Maintaining a careful distance, Bowie followed to the modest, single-story home of Raoul's parents, where relatives and friends parked and hurried in. Music and the smell of barbecued chicken drifted along the street. Bowie took for granted that one of the ways Raoul would celebrate was with alcohol. Around two in the afternoon, when the booze had its effect and the urge to have fun took control, Raoul left his parents’ home, got in the lowrider with his friends, and drove down the street.
The car stopped next to Bowie, who assumed that neighbors had phoned Raoul's parents about the man watching the house. A window slid down. Pounding music boomed out. Raoul glowered.
“I'd like to talk to you,” Bowie said.
“I did my time. Why don't you chingado cops leave me alone?”
“I'm not a police officer.”
“I was innocent. The bitch lied.”
“I've got a business proposition for you.”
Raoul lapsed into a string of hate-filled Spanish.
Bowie surprised Raoul by answering in Spanish. “I'm serious. I've got a business proposition for you.”
Raoul spat on Bowie's car. The window went up. The car moved on.
Bowie followed. Raoul and his friends reached an Allsup's gas station, where they bought two twelve-packs of Tecote beer. They drove over to Interstate 40 and headed west.
Bowie continued to follow as they left the crowded highway and turned north onto a deserted, narrow road. Bowie noted the mountains in the distance and the cacti around him.
The paved road became gravel and, except for the two vehicles, was now totally deserted as it rose toward a low hill. From a quarter mile back, staying clear of the dust their car raised, Bowie had an occasional glimpse of them drinking beer and knew that in their quest for fun they'd decided that he would provide it.
Their car went over the hill. Following, cresting the hill, descending, Bowie saw what he expected: the car blocking the road, an embankment shielding it from anybody watching from a distance.
Raoul and his three friends were propped against the lowrider, drinking beer, watching him stop. As he got out, the sun weighed on him, but he ignored it, focusing his reflexes, leaning sideways when Raoul threw his empty can at him.
“That's what I think of your shitface business proposition,” Raoul said.
The can clattered over stones, but Bowie wasn't distracted. The jeans that Raoul wore from the jail had been replaced by baggy, big-pocketed pants that hung low on his hips like the pants his friends wore.
The pants aren't hanging down to their butt cracks just for style , Bowie thought. It's because of weight. They have weapons.
“You cops shouldn't be harassing me.” Raoul seemed proud that he knew the word. “It's against the law.”
His friends thought that was hilarious.
“I told you, I'm not a police officer,” Bowie assured him.
“So this isn't entrapment.” Another big word Raoul was proud of. “I won't be charged for stomping a cop.”
“Or cutting you,” a kid next to Raoul said, drawing a knife.
“Or maybe I should just give you a red hole in your head.” Raoul pulled a semi-automatic pistol from his pants. It was small, a .32.
“You wouldn't enjoy doing that,” Bowie said.
“No?”
“You ever hear of Carrie Fisher?”
“ Who? ”
“The actress. Debbie
Because of overcrowding in the state's prison system, Raoul had been allowed to serve his final months in the relative ease of the spacious new jail. Now the sneer on his face and the sociopathic dullness in his eyes became more pronounced as a low-riding car stopped at the curb.
Raoul got in. Gang handshakes were exchanged. The car pulled away. Maintaining a careful distance, Bowie followed to the modest, single-story home of Raoul's parents, where relatives and friends parked and hurried in. Music and the smell of barbecued chicken drifted along the street. Bowie took for granted that one of the ways Raoul would celebrate was with alcohol. Around two in the afternoon, when the booze had its effect and the urge to have fun took control, Raoul left his parents’ home, got in the lowrider with his friends, and drove down the street.
The car stopped next to Bowie, who assumed that neighbors had phoned Raoul's parents about the man watching the house. A window slid down. Pounding music boomed out. Raoul glowered.
“I'd like to talk to you,” Bowie said.
“I did my time. Why don't you chingado cops leave me alone?”
“I'm not a police officer.”
“I was innocent. The bitch lied.”
“I've got a business proposition for you.”
Raoul lapsed into a string of hate-filled Spanish.
Bowie surprised Raoul by answering in Spanish. “I'm serious. I've got a business proposition for you.”
Raoul spat on Bowie's car. The window went up. The car moved on.
Bowie followed. Raoul and his friends reached an Allsup's gas station, where they bought two twelve-packs of Tecote beer. They drove over to Interstate 40 and headed west.
Bowie continued to follow as they left the crowded highway and turned north onto a deserted, narrow road. Bowie noted the mountains in the distance and the cacti around him.
The paved road became gravel and, except for the two vehicles, was now totally deserted as it rose toward a low hill. From a quarter mile back, staying clear of the dust their car raised, Bowie had an occasional glimpse of them drinking beer and knew that in their quest for fun they'd decided that he would provide it.
Their car went over the hill. Following, cresting the hill, descending, Bowie saw what he expected: the car blocking the road, an embankment shielding it from anybody watching from a distance.
Raoul and his three friends were propped against the lowrider, drinking beer, watching him stop. As he got out, the sun weighed on him, but he ignored it, focusing his reflexes, leaning sideways when Raoul threw his empty can at him.
“That's what I think of your shitface business proposition,” Raoul said.
The can clattered over stones, but Bowie wasn't distracted. The jeans that Raoul wore from the jail had been replaced by baggy, big-pocketed pants that hung low on his hips like the pants his friends wore.
The pants aren't hanging down to their butt cracks just for style , Bowie thought. It's because of weight. They have weapons.
“You cops shouldn't be harassing me.” Raoul seemed proud that he knew the word. “It's against the law.”
His friends thought that was hilarious.
“I told you, I'm not a police officer,” Bowie assured him.
“So this isn't entrapment.” Another big word Raoul was proud of. “I won't be charged for stomping a cop.”
“Or cutting you,” a kid next to Raoul said, drawing a knife.
“Or maybe I should just give you a red hole in your head.” Raoul pulled a semi-automatic pistol from his pants. It was small, a .32.
“You wouldn't enjoy doing that,” Bowie said.
“No?”
“You ever hear of Carrie Fisher?”
“ Who? ”
“The actress. Debbie
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