check for the car. If we don’t show up by closing, he knows he’ll see me
mañana.”
“Fine by me.”
Slayton started the Trans-Am and pulled easily out. As he did, Kiko was booted out of the entrance to El Condor by the gang
of
cholos
who had entered moments before. The sight of the man sprawled in the dirt of the parking lot cancelled all Slayton’s reservations
about leaving the Trans-Am.
The gang jostled Kiko into the cleft between their own Chevy and a parked pickup truck overloaded with house-painting odds
and ends. Slayton spun the Trans-Am around and ground to a stop, blocking the far end of the tunnel formed by the parked vehicles.
“Lucius, I want you to be threatening as hell with that Magnum you’ve got wanning your armpit. Most of these dudes are probably
packed, and they’ll try to stand if we challenge them!” With that, Slayton jacked his own door open and was out. He knew that
members of Chicano gangs rarely just walked away from anything.
He could not see Kiko, only the
cholos
surrounding him. The closest assailants froze, their eyes registering the size of Lucius’s hogleg. He had the trigger thumbed
all the way back.
The gang members scattered in every direction they could improvise, which included over each other, in an insane spread, like
ants on a hill. Slayton shouted, but nothing came of it.
“Don’t shoot them!” he tossed back at Lucius, as he bounded toward where Kiko lay on the ground.
The low-riding Chevy was blocked off, and the
cholos
gave it up, since it would not get them anywhere. People inside El Condor were already gawking out the door to see what the
commotion was about. The door was in Lucius’s direct line of fire. They ducked quickly back inside the bar.
Slayton had also already made the other two cars. One bracketed each end of the street. The El Condor was in the middle, and
escape was neatly cut off.
Chasing the
cholos
would be stupid. Slayton gave it up even before he rounded the east end of the weather-worn building, turning back just as
Lucius shouted, “Ben! He’s hurt!”
He ran back. Kiko had not gotten up, and Lucius was kneeling over him. Kiko was slathered messily with dirt from where he
had squirmed around in the muddy puddles formed by the mix of the dirt with his own blood.
Lucius’s free hand came up lacquered in fresh blood. “Jesus Christ, Ben, he’s been stabbed—oh, god, more than once—look!”
There were at least a dozen knife wounds and one knife still in his body, as the men discovered when they rolled Kiko to a
sitting position against the Chevy. His eye lids were closed, as though he were asleep. He tried to inhale, choked loudly,
and then sneezed, blowing a spray of blood and snot over Lucius and Slayton. He was attempting to talk, but could not.
“He’s had it,” Slayton said, barely above a whisper. He had seen enough death to say so unreservedly. Hating himself for what
had happened, he nevertheless forced the question out: “Kiko! Kiko!. Mercy—is she here? Is she inside? Did you
see
her?”
Kiko nodded. The movement was painful to him, and he keeled forward, trying to grab Slayton for support. Slayton went down
on one knee and caught him. The people in El Condor were still gaping like frightened idiots. It would do no good for him
to exhort them to phone a paramedic unit on behalf of the neighborhood joke, the local moron, the imbecile who would go down
on a
cholo
for a drink, or who would make an ass of himself just to avoid a beating. No way.
Kiko’s breath hitched, and he was gone. Slayton felt the body against his diminish. The arm around his shoulder, which had
been hanging on so desperately for life, went permanently limp, and dangled. Wordlessly, Slayton lifted the dead man in his
arms and took him back to the Trans-Am. Lucius knew he would take the body back with him to the morgue, that he would oversee
its disposition, that though Kiko had been a pauper, he would
mañana.”
“Fine by me.”
Slayton started the Trans-Am and pulled easily out. As he did, Kiko was booted out of the entrance to El Condor by the gang
of
cholos
who had entered moments before. The sight of the man sprawled in the dirt of the parking lot cancelled all Slayton’s reservations
about leaving the Trans-Am.
The gang jostled Kiko into the cleft between their own Chevy and a parked pickup truck overloaded with house-painting odds
and ends. Slayton spun the Trans-Am around and ground to a stop, blocking the far end of the tunnel formed by the parked vehicles.
“Lucius, I want you to be threatening as hell with that Magnum you’ve got wanning your armpit. Most of these dudes are probably
packed, and they’ll try to stand if we challenge them!” With that, Slayton jacked his own door open and was out. He knew that
members of Chicano gangs rarely just walked away from anything.
He could not see Kiko, only the
cholos
surrounding him. The closest assailants froze, their eyes registering the size of Lucius’s hogleg. He had the trigger thumbed
all the way back.
The gang members scattered in every direction they could improvise, which included over each other, in an insane spread, like
ants on a hill. Slayton shouted, but nothing came of it.
“Don’t shoot them!” he tossed back at Lucius, as he bounded toward where Kiko lay on the ground.
The low-riding Chevy was blocked off, and the
cholos
gave it up, since it would not get them anywhere. People inside El Condor were already gawking out the door to see what the
commotion was about. The door was in Lucius’s direct line of fire. They ducked quickly back inside the bar.
Slayton had also already made the other two cars. One bracketed each end of the street. The El Condor was in the middle, and
escape was neatly cut off.
Chasing the
cholos
would be stupid. Slayton gave it up even before he rounded the east end of the weather-worn building, turning back just as
Lucius shouted, “Ben! He’s hurt!”
He ran back. Kiko had not gotten up, and Lucius was kneeling over him. Kiko was slathered messily with dirt from where he
had squirmed around in the muddy puddles formed by the mix of the dirt with his own blood.
Lucius’s free hand came up lacquered in fresh blood. “Jesus Christ, Ben, he’s been stabbed—oh, god, more than once—look!”
There were at least a dozen knife wounds and one knife still in his body, as the men discovered when they rolled Kiko to a
sitting position against the Chevy. His eye lids were closed, as though he were asleep. He tried to inhale, choked loudly,
and then sneezed, blowing a spray of blood and snot over Lucius and Slayton. He was attempting to talk, but could not.
“He’s had it,” Slayton said, barely above a whisper. He had seen enough death to say so unreservedly. Hating himself for what
had happened, he nevertheless forced the question out: “Kiko! Kiko!. Mercy—is she here? Is she inside? Did you
see
her?”
Kiko nodded. The movement was painful to him, and he keeled forward, trying to grab Slayton for support. Slayton went down
on one knee and caught him. The people in El Condor were still gaping like frightened idiots. It would do no good for him
to exhort them to phone a paramedic unit on behalf of the neighborhood joke, the local moron, the imbecile who would go down
on a
cholo
for a drink, or who would make an ass of himself just to avoid a beating. No way.
Kiko’s breath hitched, and he was gone. Slayton felt the body against his diminish. The arm around his shoulder, which had
been hanging on so desperately for life, went permanently limp, and dangled. Wordlessly, Slayton lifted the dead man in his
arms and took him back to the Trans-Am. Lucius knew he would take the body back with him to the morgue, that he would oversee
its disposition, that though Kiko had been a pauper, he would
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