"Well, that's her real and private name, anyway. She's got my coloring, but blue eyes and sandy hair. I'm hoping she'll pass ... so her name to the world is Jessica. She's living with my mother while I try to make us some more money."
"How long since you saw her last?"
"Almost a month."
God . "How old is she?"
"Three."
My stomach kicked. "Three is an important age. They start to get really interesting then. Start becoming the person they will be. You should try to work things out so you can be with her now ... shape her."
Alicia smiled sadly. "The money..."
"What about her father? What happened there?"
"Not sure. I was attacked outside the restaurant in L.A. where I was working, on Hope Street. There were three of them. They dragged me into an alley and..."
Now I was on fire. "They were never caught?"
"No. Me being Mexican, I not sure how hard the police looked, you know?"
I knew. My big fingers combed through her glistening black hair. I asked her some questions about her child, about where she lived in Los Angeles ... eventually drew out her mother's name and general location. I committed them to memory. It was just enough for me to track her down proper later, when this bandit's head stuff was wrapped up. I'd know soon enough where to start sending the money.
And, Christ, but my house back in New Mexico felt so empty. Maybe I could just move 'em all in ... Alicia and her baby girl ... and abulea . Fill that old hacidena with life again. Get a dog. Yeah ... so comforting to dream. Hemingway ambushed me suddenly: "Isn't it pretty to think so."
"Pretty to think what?" Her brow wrinkled.
Holy Christ, I was monologing out loud --- must really be getting senile. I shook my head, tracing the line of her jaw with my scarred and bruised hand. "Pretty to think how it would be if I was twenty years younger ... the life we might have had together."
Her fingers traced the lines around my mouth. "Those dimples of yours. When you smile, you look twenty years younger, Héctor. You should just smile more often."
"I need a reason."
"Haven't I given you one?" She nestled in, her breasts pressed to my chest, her arm enveloping my aching ribs, her thigh drawn up over my thighs. We fell into a deep sleep to the sound of rain.
18
We awakened to an explosion.
There was a sharp report outside ... could have been a gunshot, or maybe just a car backfiring. It was unexpected, so I couldn't be sure, either way.
I slipped from the bed and stepped into my pants. I scooped up my Colt and edged to the window. There was the glare of morning sunlight through the L.A. smog, but nothing particularly sinister in sight out there. I edged over to the connecting door, tapped once and then opened it.
Bud Fiske was sitting on the foot of the bed, naked to the waist. His hair was wet and slicked back from the shower. He was just replacing the hypodermic in its case. His left arm and his belly were riddled with scars. I tossed aside my gun and dove for him, trying to get my hands around his scrawny neck. Two words snarled from my twisting mouth: "Fucking junkie!"
Fiske screamed, "No!" and got his hands up and blocked my hands from getting to his throat. He kneed me in the crotch and we both tumbled off the side of the bed. I hit the floor first, right on my rickety ribs. The impact robbed me of my wind. Fiske slid his leg over me and got his hands around my wrists, trying to pin me down. It worked for about a minute. But I had two inches and a hundred pounds, easy, on Bud Fiske. I upended him, scrambled atop him and finally got a grip on his throat. The skinny bastard squeaked out, "I'm di ---"
I squeezed harder and cut off his air, snarling, "That's right you fucking traitor junkie, you are gonna die."
I felt this sharp crack behind my ear and saw lights.
I reached to the back of my throbbing head, tumbling off Bud Fiske. As I rolled onto my back I saw Alicia, wrapped in a sheet. The copper ice bucket she'd taken from the bathroom sink and
"How long since you saw her last?"
"Almost a month."
God . "How old is she?"
"Three."
My stomach kicked. "Three is an important age. They start to get really interesting then. Start becoming the person they will be. You should try to work things out so you can be with her now ... shape her."
Alicia smiled sadly. "The money..."
"What about her father? What happened there?"
"Not sure. I was attacked outside the restaurant in L.A. where I was working, on Hope Street. There were three of them. They dragged me into an alley and..."
Now I was on fire. "They were never caught?"
"No. Me being Mexican, I not sure how hard the police looked, you know?"
I knew. My big fingers combed through her glistening black hair. I asked her some questions about her child, about where she lived in Los Angeles ... eventually drew out her mother's name and general location. I committed them to memory. It was just enough for me to track her down proper later, when this bandit's head stuff was wrapped up. I'd know soon enough where to start sending the money.
And, Christ, but my house back in New Mexico felt so empty. Maybe I could just move 'em all in ... Alicia and her baby girl ... and abulea . Fill that old hacidena with life again. Get a dog. Yeah ... so comforting to dream. Hemingway ambushed me suddenly: "Isn't it pretty to think so."
"Pretty to think what?" Her brow wrinkled.
Holy Christ, I was monologing out loud --- must really be getting senile. I shook my head, tracing the line of her jaw with my scarred and bruised hand. "Pretty to think how it would be if I was twenty years younger ... the life we might have had together."
Her fingers traced the lines around my mouth. "Those dimples of yours. When you smile, you look twenty years younger, Héctor. You should just smile more often."
"I need a reason."
"Haven't I given you one?" She nestled in, her breasts pressed to my chest, her arm enveloping my aching ribs, her thigh drawn up over my thighs. We fell into a deep sleep to the sound of rain.
18
We awakened to an explosion.
There was a sharp report outside ... could have been a gunshot, or maybe just a car backfiring. It was unexpected, so I couldn't be sure, either way.
I slipped from the bed and stepped into my pants. I scooped up my Colt and edged to the window. There was the glare of morning sunlight through the L.A. smog, but nothing particularly sinister in sight out there. I edged over to the connecting door, tapped once and then opened it.
Bud Fiske was sitting on the foot of the bed, naked to the waist. His hair was wet and slicked back from the shower. He was just replacing the hypodermic in its case. His left arm and his belly were riddled with scars. I tossed aside my gun and dove for him, trying to get my hands around his scrawny neck. Two words snarled from my twisting mouth: "Fucking junkie!"
Fiske screamed, "No!" and got his hands up and blocked my hands from getting to his throat. He kneed me in the crotch and we both tumbled off the side of the bed. I hit the floor first, right on my rickety ribs. The impact robbed me of my wind. Fiske slid his leg over me and got his hands around my wrists, trying to pin me down. It worked for about a minute. But I had two inches and a hundred pounds, easy, on Bud Fiske. I upended him, scrambled atop him and finally got a grip on his throat. The skinny bastard squeaked out, "I'm di ---"
I squeezed harder and cut off his air, snarling, "That's right you fucking traitor junkie, you are gonna die."
I felt this sharp crack behind my ear and saw lights.
I reached to the back of my throbbing head, tumbling off Bud Fiske. As I rolled onto my back I saw Alicia, wrapped in a sheet. The copper ice bucket she'd taken from the bathroom sink and
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