by Kirk Alex
Monk kept walking. Didn’t want to hear it.
“Hear me out.” Ortiz shifted to a hushed tone. Grabbed the other by the sleeve and held him in place. “We drop a dime on him and he drops a dime on us for burning down the diner. Is that what you want? Is it? I’m on parole and you’re on probation, wouldn’t look good.”
“How would he know? He don’t know.”
“All he’s gotta do is add two and two. Get what I’m sayin’? It ain’t complicated. Who do you think it was left us with a flat tire out there by the graveyard that night?”
“What stopped him from doin’ the rest of ’em if it was him? What he woulda done, don’t you think?”
“Don’t you think he woulda if he coulda? Even we thought we was fucked for sure when that car comin’ down that hill crawled right on past us. We thought it was Five-O, remember? Same thing what kept Biggs and his blow monkey from stickin’ around to do more damage to our ride.”
“Where’s his proof we done anything? Besides, I never burned down no diner—and I ain’t on probation. So quit sayin’ that I am.”
“You was there when it went up in smoke, homie. You was there. Five-O don’t care that all you done was provided the matches. You was the accessory.”
“Bullshit.”
“Pastor Stinky’s ass gets taken in, you know he gonna spill all he knows—and he knows we done it together. You know he knows. You with me on that? We rat creepo out, what’s to keep him from fuckin’ us right back?”
“How would he know it was us?”
“Who else? Use your head. Both of our footprints is all over that graveyard.”
“Are you serious? The way it’s been rainin’?”
“My fuckin’ prints: fingerprints and palm prints and footprints is all over that shed over there, genius. Didn’t think of that, did you?”
Felix was at a temporary loss.
“Stop bein’ delusional.”
“I ain’t the one huffs glue.”
“Might as well be—the way you’re acting.”
Felix broke free, and stepped away.
“All right. Didn’t mean that. You ain’t delusional. You never been. We need to talk business. We gotta talk. I got plans. We’re going the wrong way. My short’s back there. Around the corner.”
“Maybe he don’t want nothin’ to do with a jailbird like you.” Felix’s Uncle Hilario had stepped out of the driver’s seat and was reaching inside for his crutches.
“What chu gonna do, Hilario? Beat me with a crutch?”
Ace saw him duck back inside, lean in and pop open the glove compartment and grab a handgun. On instinct, Ace leapt in through the open window on the passenger side, twisted the .38 out of his hand and whipped him across the face several times. Felix was quickly on him, doing his best to get him to stop it. Ace shrugged him off, and continued with the whipping until he nearly had his uncle knocked out and left him with a bloody nose and mouth. At last, he let up. Stuck his head back out. Looked the firearm over. Made sure it was loaded.
CHAPTER 401
“You ain’t right. Doing that to a man with one leg.”
“Why ain’t it right? I ain’t got but one eye. ’Sides, punk drew on me. You seen it.”
“He was only trying to look out after me.”
“By pulling heat? Nobody draws on Jesus Ortiz.”
“You still wrong; you know you wrong.”
“Comin’ with? The way I got it figured, this caper gonna take both of us to pull off.”
“I ain’t goin’ no place with you, Ace.”
“That right? Your choice. Only I’ll grease you right where you stand, Felix. Broad daylight and all. I swear it, Felix. Right here, right now.”
Felix turned his head to look at his uncle who was recovering and wiping the blood from his face with a handkerchief.
“Don’t worry about him. He’ll live. Motherfucker shouldn’t of went for the cannon. Don’t like for nobody to do shit like that.”
“Put the fuckin’ piece away. Before you get us all busted.”
Ace did that. Produced a ten dollar bill. “Lookee-here: to show you my heart’s in the right place.” Dug up several singles. Jammed the folding money in Felix’s shirt pocket.
“I gotta give out good bread to show I’m on the level. If that’s what it takes, that’s what it takes.”
The uncle had recovered to the point he was able to shift out of park. Felix could hear him talking to himself and saw that he was shaking his head. Who could blame him for being pissed?
“Want to stay here and run with that loco carajo? Your funeral, Felix. I don’t need this shit. Better tell my sister not to call my house no more.” And his uncle drove off.
“Fuck him. Talking out of his ass.”
Felix had taken the ten spot out. Held it up to his eyes.
“What’s this? What chu doin’? Make me feel real small when you do that. Ain’t fake. My jack ain’t fake. I wouldn’t do you like that, homeboy. I don’t pass funny money.”
“No, not you.”
Satisfied, Felix stuffed the money back in his pocket. Counted the other bills. Total was pathetic. It was better than nothing. Ace insisted there was more, a lot more where that came from, but they needed to talk—in private. Felix wasn’t saying much. Watched Ace dig his hand inside his thrift store sport coat for a fresh stogie. Stuck it in Felix’s mouth.
“Mancini’s old lady had twins.”
Ace lit the stogie for him. They walked back to where Ortiz had his beater parked around the corner from the thrift shop.
“Can’t get over it. Goes and names them after a couple of chumps like Rudy and Roe. Makes me want to puke.”
“Ain’t the daddy supposed to be passing out the stogies?”
“You just answered your own question, homie. Only Mancini’s too dumb to figure it out. Ain’t no big deal. Got him about a dozen little ones by as many bitches, not countin’ ones he got with Luz. The way things are now days. I don’t sweat it. Don’t mean nothin’.”
Ace relit his own stogie that kept going out. Truth was: cigar was too strong, and he did not exactly know what to do with it. Had been one of those impulse buys. Too late now for buyer’s remorse.
He puffed on. Coughed up a storm, so was Felix. Smoke was choking.
“I gotta tell you: feel good for a change.”
Felix looked at him, without saying anything. Playing it cool, thought Ace, only he was far from cool. Them draped khakis and stretch belt and white T don’t make no dude automatically cool just because he thought he was.
“All right. Lookee-here. You’re right. When you’re right, you’re right. What can I say? We’ll go together and help homie find his old lady. It’s the righteous thing to do.”
Felix wasn’t agreeing or disagreeing.
“Well, ain’t it? It’s the right thing to do. Homie oughta know his woman is with that flakey maricon. I’m with you all the way on that.”
CHAPTER 402
They reached the Toyota.
“You do the driving, Felix.” Ace tossed him the keys. “I wanna enjoy this stogie. Ain’t every day a man has twins.”
They climbed in.
“What do you think of the wardrobe? Not bad, huh? About time I bought me some clean skins to wear. Feel a lot better. New rags make a man feel good about himself. First pair of decent kicks I had me in close to ten years, no shit.”
Monk shifted. Got them on Magnolia, and took it west.
“Been years since I bought me some kicks. Government issue don’t count. Picked these loafers up for two bucks. Can’t beat it.” Ortiz paused to stick his head out the window and blow his nose by pressing his thumb against one nostril, then the other. “Lotta them White Bread motherfuckers wear loafers. All I know is they fit. Price was right. Don’t care for the fake eye being blue, neither; it’s a comfortable fit. One of these days I plan to have me a eye made to match the good one.”
“Plan? You ‘plan’? They got eyes already made; they got al
l kinds.”
“Never mind.”
Ace was back poking his head out the window to hack up phlegm, and a front tooth dropped out.
“Fuckin’ Meth Mouth.” Ortiz was angry with himself. Ducked his head inside, and was wiping his mouth with his shirttail. “Gotta quit meth for good before I lose what teeth I got left. This ain’t even supposed to be happenin’ now; teeth ain’t supposed to fall out until after you quit. No lie.” Coughed some more. “Wanna hear somethin’ funny? Lotsa chicks think the blue eye is cool. They dig it. No lie.” Ace shook his head and grinned. “Blue eye and fuckin’ White Bread moccasins.”
CHAPTER 403
Felix remained tight-lipped. Ace wasn’t saying anything he wanted to hear. Jiving. Talking shit as usual. None of it meant anything. Crazy Meth Mouth was yakking out of his culo to cover up for being greedy. Tweaker couldn’t shut up, either. Give him a lousy thirteen dollars. Where was the rest of it? Had to be more. Had to be.
“Socks cost me a quarter. Got the whole wardrobe and shoes for under twenty-two bucks. Can’t beat it. A bargain. Lookee-here, Felix, that’s what you should try sometime: get you some new skins. Make you feel like a new man.”
“That shit you got on ain’t new, it’s second-hand.”
“Yeah? It’s new shit to me. Makes me feel good. Should try it.”
“What with?” Felix found himself choking on the cigar smoke. “I don’t know how much you found out there, or even what you found. Probably got it all spent.”
“Wasn’t much. That ten-spot and change was the last of it. But you’re right: billfold’s as empty as my belly. Had to buy the twins a gift; couple baby presents. Biggs had him a secret hiding place out there. Kept dope and some cash in there, some old guns, silver crowns, gold teeth; sick son of a bitch.”
“Look who’s talking.” Felix tossed the cigar out the window. He’d had enough of it.
“Hey, fuck you, man. You ain’t never seen me pull nobody’s teeth out of their mouth.”
“Not yet.”
“That’s where I draw the line. I don’t pull nobody’s teeth out of their mouth. That’s sick shit, man. I don’t need that.”
“You sure didn’t have any problem taking it with you and spending it, did you?”
“Damn right. What was I supposed to do? Be a dumb asshole and leave it all for ‘Norman Bates’ to spend? What do you think he does with it?”
Felix said nothing.
“Wasn’t much there to talk about anyway. Mayonnaise jar with some dental gold, a few worthless rings and bracelets. Like I said: mostly dental gold. Ain’t worth as much as real gold.”
“Bullshit. It’s still gold. Gold is gold.”
“Like money is money. Only a Ben Franklin is worth a lot more than a Abe Lincoln. Get me? Dental gold’s gotta be smelted to get all the alloy and junk out. You ain’t got to do that when it’s 22-karat, the real thing.”
“I know you, man. Smacked up. Gimme crumbs.”
“I give you what I could.” Ortiz cleared his throat. Had the sniffles and wiped with the back of his sleeve. “Know what? You ain’t even right to carry on like this. I never give you a hard time about all them empties you kept for yourself, did I? And that hand truck. Probably hocked it for a small fortune. Besides, you know he picked up a lot of that shit: dope and whatnot, jammed it in his pockets and took it with him that night. You know that’s how the creepy motherfucker lures them rock-head hoes what work at McCoy’s. You seen him and that pimp Marvin peepin’ in on Peach and them other bitches. Get me? So if we gonna talk, let’s talk—but don’t gimme no lip about what little I dug up out there in the boneyard.”
CHAPTER 404
Felix knew better than to argue with him. Truth was, Ortiz was bullshitting his way out of what he discovered in the sticks. Felix suspected what Ace had ended up with was “a small fortune,” and not the lousy three milk crates of empty bottles and aluminum cans and an old hand truck that anyone could pick up at any hardware store for about twenty or thirty bucks that he had been allowed to keep for himself. Felix knew he was being conned, but he let Ace think whatever he wanted to think.
“Got an inside wire on a dentist’s office we can do, couple of funeral homes. Yo, we ain’t got to yank nobody’s teeth out, Felix. Already been took care of. ’Sides, there’s more to it than that. Homie I done time with works as assistant to the embalmer at both funeral homes. Know the chucha worked for the dentist. Got let go for refusing to blow the dude—unless she got a raise. Easy scores. We’ll take enough embalming fluid with us, too; pick up some dust and weed after to make you enough wicky sticks to keep you happy the rest of your life, if you want. Up to you.”
“Where’d you get the idea I was into wicky sticks? What’s up with that? Finger-Lickin’s the one hooked on wicky sticks, not me. I ain’t the one’s into embalming fluid.”
“You’re gettin’ my train of thought all fucked up and derailed, as usual. Thing to keep in mind: they’re easy scores. Don’t want peeps to know you into wicky sticks? That’s cool with me. I don’t judge nobody. I don’t pass judgement.”
“I only do ’em when there don’t be nothin’ else around. And you know I don’t do glue.”
“Whatever. Cool. You ain’t got to convince me of nothin’. What I’m sayin’ is they’re easy scores. Plus my main caper. Can’t miss. We don’t have to go near the embalming fluid. But if we did get our hands on some, we could always lay it on Wilburn for a few bucks. Fuckin’ kid loves that shit. Weed dipped in embalming fluid and laced with dust. Hell, who am I to knock it?”
“Easy scores. That what you said?”
“Can’t miss.”
“Like we couldn’t miss when we tried to boost the padre’s car stereo.”
“Yeah. Only our look-out wasn’t lookin’ out like he was supposed to.”
“You ain’t layin’ that on me. It was both of us messed up.”
“Can only see out my good eye. What do you expect, 20/20? I ain’t got 20/20. You the one supposed to have 20/20 vision. Why you was appointed sentry. I ain’t the one stepped on my dick. You ain’t blamin’ me for it.”
Felix shook his head. Said nothing.
“Hell, whole world is fucked, is what it is. Lookit me: skins I just picked up probably come off of some dead dude. Man probably died of swine flu or something, cancer or something; maybe sypht, like that dude Capone, who knows? Or could be the dude was old, tryin’ to nail some young chucha in her tight culo—and his ticker quit. Shit happens. I don’t know. And his old lady or his next-door neighbor give the dude’s wardrobe to the Goodwill, then you got somebody like me goes in and buys the duds and wears ’em like they was off the rack at Sears—and happy to have ’em. See what I’m gettin’ at here? Fuckin’ life is a puzzle. That’s what it is: puzzle. Whole thing. Ain’t no use tryin’ to put it all together, neither. Gets you no place.”
“All I know is you got the man’s stash without letting me in on my share.”
“You’re right there. Only you know how I get sick if I don’t get my shit every day. You’re right: I shot up. I can’t lie to my best homie about that. Besides, you in on it now, ain’t you? Cuttin’ you in on a fair share now, ain’t I? So don’t beat a dead horse; furthermore—that’s what I said: furthermore—don’t look a gifted horse in the mouth. You know what they say: Somebody gives you a gift, don’t check the motherfucker’s mouth to see how old the motherfucker is.”
“What do we do about Rudy Perez? Ain’t right for us not to do something about that.”
“Like I been wantin’ to all along: We gonna help Perez all right, for sure, but we gonna help ourselves, too, homeboy. We gonna step on ‘Norman Bates’ some. Gonna do like I promised myself: bust in—and we even the score with the sorry chupacabrones for the way they ambushed us that night. I wanna cut the ghoul’s cajones off and stomp them in his mouth, him and that other ghoul he hangs with. Coupla retarded carajos.” Ortiz tossed the stogie out the window. He stuck a Camel cigarette between his lips
. Filterless. Lit up.
“Hardcore, ain’t you?”
“Goddamn right. And proud of it.” Ortiz coughed. Spitting phlegm. “Keeps ’em from wanting to bum smokes when you smoke ’em without filters.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“I know that.” Ortiz glanced at the other guy. “Just remember this: I ain’t never pulled nobody’s fangs out of their jaw. I’m hard and will go down hard when my time comes. That’s all right with me. I’m ready. Been ready. Life ain’t exactly been silk sheets and manicures.” More phlegm came up and he spat it out. “Yeah, I’m hardcore. Been that kind of existence. I know one thing: I ain’t never wasted nobody to get their gold choppers. That’s where I draw the line. I got my principles. Some people might say different. I know who Jesus Ortiz is. All I gotta do is be true to myself and I’ll be fine. Ain’t nobody got to sweat that.”
CHAPTER 405
You’re a whore’s son. What can you expect from a whore? Remember your mama Charlotte Yvonne turning tricks to supplement the family income? She would get all made up in black fishnets and pumps, tight dress or skirt, braless blouse (way ahead of her time, she was) and “work” the retirement homes in Tinsel Town, or else she would take a stroll up the street to the Hollywood Y and blow the geezers. Some johns suspected she was half-mad, but allowed her to do them anyway. What’s a little “madness” between a trick and his whore? Later, when the family relocated to Temple City and then East LA, his mother continued to ply her trade. Charlotte Yvonne would come home after an afternoon or evening of “makin’ money” and his stepfather would beat her for not bringing in more than she did (although always eager to take whatever there was to buy his booze with), and then would really let her have it for being a “loose woman,” go all out.
