The Starshine Connection by Buck Sanders

go in.” He got out of the car by himself, moving exaggeratedly, like a cinema hero on the vengeance trail.
    When Lucius made a move to follow Kiko out of the car, Slayton stayed him.
    “What the hell is going on, Ben? He’s not going in that place alone—?”
    “You don’t get it, Lucius. You and I are
gaviotas, gringos.
We’d stir up more trouble in there than two men can handle. And we wouldn’t get anything out of it. Kiko moves in and out
     of the bars with relative impunity. Sure, he gets boffed around for drinks and such—but he
knows
that. He’s willing to go in there anyway, to get Mercy out for us with no hassle.”
    “Couldn’t he use a little help?” Lucius said, with a cheesy expression on his face. “I mean, a guy like him—he’s got a good
     chunk of his attic insulation missing, Ben, in case you didn’t notice.”
    “That’s just it. Nobody has ever offered Kiko the opportunity to be a man, to brave it out. Nobody gave a shit until I saved
     his ass from the
cholos.
He has enough brains to think he owes me one. Whether he does or doesn’t isn’t important; what
is
important is that that poor bastard was never given a chance by anybody. He can do something besides be a punching bag. He’s
     going in there knowing that he can use his ‘weakness’ as an advantage—to get me what I asked him for!” Slayton’s face was
     flushing red with anger at the whole helpless situation. “Are you too goddam stupid to see what he’s doing, Lucius?”
    “Yeah, yeah, okay. Sorry.”
    Slayton’s eyes never left Kiko as he shambled across the street and entered El Condor.
    “Trouble,” he said, after a minute.
    The flashy, chrome-encrusted low-riders who had dogged them earlier were beginning to ooze out of the woodwork. Twice the
     parked Trans-Am was cruised, all heads within the moving auto turned in Slayton’s direction. Another car slotted itself into
     the row of trucks and tired autos in front of the El Condor. Four
cholos
unhorsed themselves and sauntered arrogantly into the bar.
    “C’mon, Kiko,” Lucius muttered to himself. “Goddam building’s not big enough to take this long…”
    “She might not be in there,” Slayton said. “He could be just waiting around. She might be out on call. That might be her,
     for instance.”
    He indicated a brown and tan Bronco that had just ground to a dust-clouded halt in the parking lot. An overweight Mexican
     in a yoked shirt and a battered felt cowboy hat jumped down and rushed around to open the door for a woman who did not look
     battered or common enough to be his wife.
    “
Fodongas
and
forrazos;
we got ’em both, step right up,” Slayton said. “I’d say that was a
forrazo.”
    “Huh?” Lucius was lost.
    “A
fodonga,
my dear colleague, is like the whores you see on Sunset Boulevard—stringy, sallow, track-marks up one arm and down the other,
comprende?
A
forrazo
is of a little better stock. The cleavage you see is real. And the price is probably higher than for your average street
     whore. Take the makeup away, and she still probably looks pretty good.”
    “Oh,” said Lucius, unnerved by the whole topic. “Here come the shock-absorber marines again. Listen, what if we have to leave?”
     His body involuntarily crouched lower in the seat as the low-rider passed again, this time on the opposite side of the street.
    “Kiko knows we might not be here when he comes out. He said it was okay, that this—the barrio—was his home.”
    “How lucky for him.”
    “He has graciously volunteered to be my eyes and ears in the barrio regarding this Starshine thing. He seems to be accomplishing
     more than your boys.” He had stung Lucius, and knew it, but having made the point, he shifted to more immediate concerns.
     “I think it would be a good idea to let him do just that. It’s going to hot up if we hang around. Let’s park somewhere else
     for a while and then come back.”
    “Kiko can take care of himself?”
    “He’ll