say she was pregnant? Only a few minutes before, he'd pulled his fire-engine-red Chevy lowrider in front of Merida Santos's apartment building on Dos Terros Street in the dark, tenement barrio of East Los Angeles. Almost immediately she'd come running out of the hallway, where a single, dim light bulb exposed a shaky set of stairs and walls layered with spray-painted graffiti, and slid into his car. As he kissed her, he'd thought that something was wrong; her eyes looked funny, they were a little sad, and there were the beginnings of dark circles underneath them. He'd started the Chevy, filling Dos Terros Street with a rumble that shook window panes and brought a couple of shouted complaints from the old folks, and then had screeched off toward Whittier Boulevard. Merida, her long black hair cascading in waves around her shoulders, sat away from him and stared at her hands. She was wearing a blue dress and the silver crucifix on a chain that Rico had bought for her birthday the week before.
"Hey," he'd said and leaned over to tilt her face up with a forefinger beneath her chin. "What's wrong? You been crying? That crazy perra been beating on you?"
"No," she'd replied, her soft voice trembling slightly. She was still more a little girl than woman. At sixteen her flesh was smooth and tawny, her body as tight and lean as a colt's. Usually her eyes sparkled with shy, laughing innocence, but tonight something was different, and Rico couldn't figure it out. If her crazy old mother hadn't been beating on her again, then what was wrong? "Did Luis run away from home again?" he asked her. She shook her head. He leaned back, cushioned in the cup of his red bucket seat, and brushed a lock of thick black hair off his forehead. "That Luis better watch out," he said quietly, swerving around a couple of drunks who were dancing together in the middle of the street. He hit the horn, and one of them shot him the finger. "The kid's too young to be running with the Homicides. I told him once, I told him a hundred times not to get mixed up with those ladrones. They're going to get him in trouble. Where you want to eat tonight?"
"It don' matter," Merida said. Rico shrugged and turned onto the boulevard, where a gaudy carnival of neon pulsated over porno movie houses, bars, discos, and liquor stores. Though it was just past six-thirty, the lowriders were already jostling for position, chugging like streamlined locomotives. They were painted every color of the rainbow from electric blue to Day-Glo orange and outfitted with zebra-striped tops or leopard-skin upholstery or radio antennae that seemed as tall as towers. The mass of cars moved at a crawl, bouncing and swaying like wild bucking horses along the boulevard, which was lined with hordes of Chicano teenagers looking for fun on a Saturday night. Music from transistor and car radios blared at each other, the tumultuous frenzy of rock and disco overpowered only by the thundering bass lines that prowled out through the open doors of the bars. The air, sweet and hot with exhaust, cheap perfume, and marijuana, crackled with tinny voices. Rico reached over and turned his own radio up loud, his brown face split by a grin. The growl of KALA's Tiger Eddie became a hypnotic chant—". . . gonna TEAR this town down tonight, gonna lay it to WASTE, 'cause we're the BEST, beatin' all the REST on a SAT-UR-DAY night! Mighty KALA, comin' at you with The Wolves annnnddddd 'Born To Be Bad'!"
Merida had turned the radio off. The Wolves wailed on anyway from a dozen other sets of speakers. "Rico," she'd said, and now she was looking him straight in the eyes, and her lower lip trembled. "I found out I'm pregnant."
He thought, Holy Shit! Pregnant? Did she say pregnant? He'd almost said, "Who did it?" but stopped himself cold. He knew she'd been sleeping only with him for the past three months, even after he'd gotten his apartment down on the low, poor end of Sunset Boulevard. She was a decent, good, loyal woman.
"Hey," he'd said and leaned over to tilt her face up with a forefinger beneath her chin. "What's wrong? You been crying? That crazy perra been beating on you?"
"No," she'd replied, her soft voice trembling slightly. She was still more a little girl than woman. At sixteen her flesh was smooth and tawny, her body as tight and lean as a colt's. Usually her eyes sparkled with shy, laughing innocence, but tonight something was different, and Rico couldn't figure it out. If her crazy old mother hadn't been beating on her again, then what was wrong? "Did Luis run away from home again?" he asked her. She shook her head. He leaned back, cushioned in the cup of his red bucket seat, and brushed a lock of thick black hair off his forehead. "That Luis better watch out," he said quietly, swerving around a couple of drunks who were dancing together in the middle of the street. He hit the horn, and one of them shot him the finger. "The kid's too young to be running with the Homicides. I told him once, I told him a hundred times not to get mixed up with those ladrones. They're going to get him in trouble. Where you want to eat tonight?"
"It don' matter," Merida said. Rico shrugged and turned onto the boulevard, where a gaudy carnival of neon pulsated over porno movie houses, bars, discos, and liquor stores. Though it was just past six-thirty, the lowriders were already jostling for position, chugging like streamlined locomotives. They were painted every color of the rainbow from electric blue to Day-Glo orange and outfitted with zebra-striped tops or leopard-skin upholstery or radio antennae that seemed as tall as towers. The mass of cars moved at a crawl, bouncing and swaying like wild bucking horses along the boulevard, which was lined with hordes of Chicano teenagers looking for fun on a Saturday night. Music from transistor and car radios blared at each other, the tumultuous frenzy of rock and disco overpowered only by the thundering bass lines that prowled out through the open doors of the bars. The air, sweet and hot with exhaust, cheap perfume, and marijuana, crackled with tinny voices. Rico reached over and turned his own radio up loud, his brown face split by a grin. The growl of KALA's Tiger Eddie became a hypnotic chant—". . . gonna TEAR this town down tonight, gonna lay it to WASTE, 'cause we're the BEST, beatin' all the REST on a SAT-UR-DAY night! Mighty KALA, comin' at you with The Wolves annnnddddd 'Born To Be Bad'!"
Merida had turned the radio off. The Wolves wailed on anyway from a dozen other sets of speakers. "Rico," she'd said, and now she was looking him straight in the eyes, and her lower lip trembled. "I found out I'm pregnant."
He thought, Holy Shit! Pregnant? Did she say pregnant? He'd almost said, "Who did it?" but stopped himself cold. He knew she'd been sleeping only with him for the past three months, even after he'd gotten his apartment down on the low, poor end of Sunset Boulevard. She was a decent, good, loyal woman.
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