Ratboy and his giant friend standing in front of a Chevy van, flashing gang signs. The big guy looks like he’s been hit in the face with a brick, or perhaps his features never fully formed. And another of the woman, Ratboy’s dead mother, with her thin, delicate face; her cheekbones, full lips, and unruly hair an unmistakable resemblance, at least in type, to my Mindy.
There’s a desk in the corner, with a computer monitor. Google Earth is showing me a map of the Santa Clara Mountains, somewhere south of and inland from Ensenada. There’s an image of a pushpin stuck next to a town called San Vicente and another one farther east. I feel a sudden weird panic and decide it’s time to get back to my body, quickly.
¤ ¤ ¤
From the sidewalk I see a big guy wearing a bandana with his hand inside an oversize jacket, which is wrong already because it’s a warm summer night. Another guy is leaning in my driver’s side window.
I re-enter the body. The kid already has Jason’s Blackberry, and now he’s reaching around me to get at my wallet. All the while he’s chattering away about dumb-ass white junkies and how they’re messin’ up the hood. I grab his shirt with my left hand and pull.
“Whoa, fuckin’ let go a’ me, Pops, or I’ll fuck you up!” This is the second time I’ve heard this today, and I’m not very impressed.
“I think you’re wearing your do-rag too tight, son.” He tries to jerk away but I’ve got a solid grip on him. I see his friend move closer to the windshield and start to pull his hand out of his jacket.
“DeShaun,” the kid yells. “Shoot the motherfucker!”
I’ve been holding on to Mo’s gun the whole time; now I jam the barrel hard into the kid’s head. “Tell DeShaun to give me his gun.”
DeShaun is looking confused; he checks up and down the block, whether for cops or backup I don’t know. The kid barks at him to give up the piece. When he gets to the window I tell him to reach in past his pal and drop it. DeShaun is about six four and has a big round face like a baby’s. I tell him to cross the street, which he does, walking backward. When he’s gone, I tell the kid to drop Jason’s phone and get out of my car.
I’ve got Mo’s gun in my left hand now, pointing out the window, and I start the Z and put it in gear. The kid’s already talking trash, but I’m heading for the border.
19
I’ve got two guns, three phones, and three hundred bucks and change. It’s at least a couple hundred miles to where I’m going. Ratboy’s got a half-hour lead on me, but I don’t need to sleep or eat, so I might even catch up with him. Then what? A shootout at night on a Mexican highway with Mindy in the other car? And if I don’t catch up? I’ve got the name of a town—San Vicente—and a pushpin icon in a map of a mountain range.
Jason’s Blackberry rings. It’s Ratboy. I let it go to voicemail and I text him: cant talk
A minute later I get back: why not?
I’m heading east on the Marina Freeway, toward the 5 South. I text back: in bedroom—have a gun and im going to shoot the man
The Blackberry chirps twice and I read: fire the whole clip into his heart
Another two chirps and: then come to the mine and marry us
I recall that Jason’s web site mentioned that he was an ordained minister. I fire back: ill call when its over
I hate texting. I really hate people who text while driving. Now I am one. As an afterthought I type: keep her pure
And I get back: till my wedding night , with a smiley face.
I’ll show you a smiley face.
¤ ¤ ¤
I’ve never liked Mexico, but then there are a lot of things I don’t like. The 5 freeway ends at the border about two or three hours away, depending on traffic. Then there’s Tijuana to get through.
Every Southern California junkie knows Tijuana. Like Daniel said, doing H is like having sex with a gorilla. You’re not done till the gorilla’s done. Junkies and pillheads cross the border daily for the cheap fix.
There’s a desk in the corner, with a computer monitor. Google Earth is showing me a map of the Santa Clara Mountains, somewhere south of and inland from Ensenada. There’s an image of a pushpin stuck next to a town called San Vicente and another one farther east. I feel a sudden weird panic and decide it’s time to get back to my body, quickly.
¤ ¤ ¤
From the sidewalk I see a big guy wearing a bandana with his hand inside an oversize jacket, which is wrong already because it’s a warm summer night. Another guy is leaning in my driver’s side window.
I re-enter the body. The kid already has Jason’s Blackberry, and now he’s reaching around me to get at my wallet. All the while he’s chattering away about dumb-ass white junkies and how they’re messin’ up the hood. I grab his shirt with my left hand and pull.
“Whoa, fuckin’ let go a’ me, Pops, or I’ll fuck you up!” This is the second time I’ve heard this today, and I’m not very impressed.
“I think you’re wearing your do-rag too tight, son.” He tries to jerk away but I’ve got a solid grip on him. I see his friend move closer to the windshield and start to pull his hand out of his jacket.
“DeShaun,” the kid yells. “Shoot the motherfucker!”
I’ve been holding on to Mo’s gun the whole time; now I jam the barrel hard into the kid’s head. “Tell DeShaun to give me his gun.”
DeShaun is looking confused; he checks up and down the block, whether for cops or backup I don’t know. The kid barks at him to give up the piece. When he gets to the window I tell him to reach in past his pal and drop it. DeShaun is about six four and has a big round face like a baby’s. I tell him to cross the street, which he does, walking backward. When he’s gone, I tell the kid to drop Jason’s phone and get out of my car.
I’ve got Mo’s gun in my left hand now, pointing out the window, and I start the Z and put it in gear. The kid’s already talking trash, but I’m heading for the border.
19
I’ve got two guns, three phones, and three hundred bucks and change. It’s at least a couple hundred miles to where I’m going. Ratboy’s got a half-hour lead on me, but I don’t need to sleep or eat, so I might even catch up with him. Then what? A shootout at night on a Mexican highway with Mindy in the other car? And if I don’t catch up? I’ve got the name of a town—San Vicente—and a pushpin icon in a map of a mountain range.
Jason’s Blackberry rings. It’s Ratboy. I let it go to voicemail and I text him: cant talk
A minute later I get back: why not?
I’m heading east on the Marina Freeway, toward the 5 South. I text back: in bedroom—have a gun and im going to shoot the man
The Blackberry chirps twice and I read: fire the whole clip into his heart
Another two chirps and: then come to the mine and marry us
I recall that Jason’s web site mentioned that he was an ordained minister. I fire back: ill call when its over
I hate texting. I really hate people who text while driving. Now I am one. As an afterthought I type: keep her pure
And I get back: till my wedding night , with a smiley face.
I’ll show you a smiley face.
¤ ¤ ¤
I’ve never liked Mexico, but then there are a lot of things I don’t like. The 5 freeway ends at the border about two or three hours away, depending on traffic. Then there’s Tijuana to get through.
Every Southern California junkie knows Tijuana. Like Daniel said, doing H is like having sex with a gorilla. You’re not done till the gorilla’s done. Junkies and pillheads cross the border daily for the cheap fix.
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