Dead Shot

           Joey and Daniel crept into Daniel’s parents’ bedroom. Daniel sat on his knees as he searched underneath the bed. He exclaimed excitedly and pulled out a heavy case, laying it on the bed. Snapping open the locks, he opened it. His father’s long rifle, gleaming stock and barrel, sat before them. The smell of sulfur and gun oil was pungent. 

‘This is so cool!’ Joey said. 

‘Yeah, my dad’s a dead shot with this thing,’ Daniel said proudly. 

‘Have you shot it?’

‘My dad showed me how. It’s easy.’

Daniel lifted the rifle from the grooves of its case and hefted it in his hands. It was heavy, but he showed no strain. 

‘Can I hold it?’ Joey asked. 

‘Sure.’ Daniel held the rifle to Joey, who took it. He grinned widely. Daniel looked into the case where he knew the bullets were stored. They weren’t there. 

‘Let’s take it outside!’ Joey shouted.

They went out into Daniel’s backyard. Joey was pointing the rifle at a tree, sighting it with the rifle’s scope. He made a gunshot sound and lowered it. From a neighboring house, the boys saw Mrs. Phgerner on her back porch. Joey had a particular hatred for this woman, for she was the one who told his father of his roughhousing last week, which earned him a beating with his father’s belt. 

Joey leveled the rifle against his shoulder, sighting her in the scope. He placed his finger on the trigger. Daniel noticed that the rifle’s safety was off. 

Mrs. Phgerner’s head was in the dead center of the scope when Joey pulled the trigger. 

Railly and Train Wreck Woo a Girl

            Railly Martinez and Train Wreck Del Mar boarded the bus heading to Pasadena, carrying their instruments. Railly had his old, beat-up Epiphone acoustic. Train Wreck lugged his snare drum and stand. The bus driver looked at them dubiously, preparing herself for mischief. But the two paid their fare, headed to the back of the bus, and settled in their seats peaceably. The driver shut the doors and drove towards Glendale. 

‘Where are we going again, man?’ Train Wreck asked lackadaisically. 

‘You forgot again?’ Railly was annoyed, especially after Train Wreck shrugged. ‘Man, I told you not to smoke, didn’t I?’

‘I needed to clear my head, man.’

‘But I need you to be clear-headed!’

‘Nah, man, don’t worry, I’ll be alright.’

Railly shot a worried look at him. ‘Will you, though? You get weird after smoking.’

‘I got it, I got it.’

‘Okay. If you say so.’

‘So, where are we going?’

‘Pasadena,’ Railly sighed. ‘Off of Colorado. It shouldn’t be far where we get off.’

‘Okay, cool.’ Train Wreck grinned stupidly. 

Railly lifted his guitar, tuning it to the best of his ability. Train Wreck pulled out his sticks and tapped a simple rhythm on his thigh. After some time, he asked Railly, ‘So, how do you know this girl, man?’

‘Oh, you remember that. I met her at a bus stop.’

‘You two took the bus?’

‘It’s what people do when they’re at a bus stop, Wreck.’

‘Sure, sure. So, what? You two struck up a conversation or something?’

‘Not really. I sat down next to her, and she was, like, talking to herself. Low, not loud. And I caught some parts of it. She was talking about me. And when I tried to get her to admit it, she denied it. But we became friends, talking shit and everything. I thought she was cool when she snatched a lady’s wallet from her purse on the bus and treated me to lunch after.’

‘Ah. What’s her name?’

‘Veronica. Veronica something. She likes being called Ronnie, though.’

‘Gotcha.’

The bus turned onto Colorado Boulevard and slowly made its way past Old Town Pasadena. Old brick storefronts morphed into modern buildings of concrete and steel. Railly pulled the lanyard, and the bus came to a hissing stop. He and Train Wreck hauled their instruments off and walked into the night. 

The neighborhood was dark and quiet, punctuated by the soft, yellow glow of a random streetlight. A bird sang in the distance. The rich, earthy scent of mature oak trees lining the street was everywhere. Railly led the way, guided by a map printed from MapQuest. ‘How do you know where she lives, man?’ Train Wreck asked, trying to take out his pipe and lighter discreetly from his pocket. 

‘From the registrar,’ Railly answered. 

‘Huh?’

‘The PCC registrar. I went there and got her address.’

‘But. They, like, can’t give that away, man. I think that’s illegal.’

‘Yeah, they told me that. I snuck in when no one was looking and found it myself.’

‘Dude. That’s fucked up.’

Railly didn’t answer. 

‘How’d you know it was her?’ Train Wreck continued. ‘I bet there are hundreds of Veronicas or some shit.’

‘Through her birthdate.’

‘How’d you get that?’

‘I asked her.’

‘Why?’

‘I said to her that I wanted to do something nice for her birthday. She gave it to me. Then, I looked her up.’

‘Shit, man. You must really like her.’

Railly stopped and turned to Train Wreck. ‘I don’t just like her, Wreck. She’s the epitome of beauty and grace. A brilliant mind who can discuss Dostoevsky’s fiction and the drawbacks of capitalism flawlessly. She’s everything, man.’

‘Cool, man.’

They reached an intersection deep in the neighborhood. Railly pointed to a dark, two-story house between two Craftsmans. ‘There it is, Wreck. That’s her house.’

‘Got it.’

Train Wreck set up his snare drum on the sidewalk in front of the house. Railly stood next to him and slung his guitar. He strummed melodic chords, each measure sweeter than the next, heading into arpeggios. Train Wreck followed along, nodding his head to the rhythm, before going into the beat. Railly sang mellifluously, with great longing. When the song ended, Railly and Train Wreck waited for a response from the house. Nothing. ‘Alright, Wreck,’ Railly said with determination. ‘Another one.’

They launched into another song. It was Beatlesque. Railly gave his best John Lennon impression. Again, there was no response. ‘Come on, Ronnie!’

They were midway through a third song when a window from the house to the left flew open. A rotund man with slovenly white hair leaned out. ‘What’s going on there?’ he demanded. 

‘Nothing!’ Railly replied. 

‘Doesn’t sound like nothing. It’s too late to make such a racket!’

‘He’s in love, man!’ Train Wreck said. 

From the other neighboring house, a window opened. A woman with curlers in her hair leaned out. ‘Is that you, George?’ she asked. 

‘Yeah, it’s me!’

‘What are you yelling for?’

‘These damn punk rockers are making so much god damn noise. I’m gonna call the cops!’

‘They’re not harming anyone. Besides, I’m enjoying their tunes!’

‘Of course, you are, you anarchist! Some of us need our sleep. We have work in the morning.’

‘You’re retired, George!’

Railly and Train Wreck stood in the middle of the neighbors’ bickering. Stoically, Railly strummed his guitar while Train Wreck tapped on the side of his snare drum. They took some pride in knowing that someone enjoyed their performance. 

‘What are you two boys doing here?’ the neighbor woman asked. 

‘I wanted to show my love to Veronica,’ Railly answered. 

‘Aw, that’s sweet!’ the neighbor woman said.

‘Is she around?’

‘I haven’t seen the family in a while. Maybe they’re away on vacation.’

‘Or, they’re committing her to an asylum again,’ George interrupted. 

‘George!’

‘What?’

‘That’s an ugly rumor, and you have no right to push it!’

As the neighbors bickered, Railly was crushed. Train Wreck noticed and threw his arm over his shoulders. ‘I think we should go, man.’

‘Yeah, I think you’re right, Wreck.’

They gathered their instruments and started their walk down the street towards Colorado Boulevard. The street lamps grew brighter as they approached. Railly and Train Wreck sat on the bus stop bench, waiting. 

‘Maybe you’ll see her again,’ Train Wreck said, pulling out his pipe and lighter, taking liberal tokes of his very skunky weed. 

‘Maybe,’ Railly answered despondently. Their bus approached and stopped beside them. ‘I can hope,’ he said as they boarded, heading into the night. 

The River Man

  When it was sweltering, as it always is in July, I often left my parents’ house for some fresh air. I’d take my bike and ride out of the neighborhood, down Glendale Boulevard, to Fletcher Drive. My destination was the river. The city began to open it up to walkers, joggers, and others. Its trail wasn’t maintained, though, with a lot of potholes, dips, and cracked concrete. 

The ride down the trail heading to Lincoln Heights was pleasant. It was cooler in the afternoon. And the river had a smell. Aquatic and vegetal, but never stagnant. In the center of the river, rock formations had built up over the years, allowing plants and trees to grow, transforming them into small islands. Cranes and egrets flew down to these islands. From the city’s run-off came the return of the old ecology. 

One early evening, I was on my normal ride, rolling down the river’s trail, approaching the environs of Frogtown, when I saw movement on one of the little islands in the middle of the river. It wasn’t birds, for the rustling of the thin trees and bamboo shoots was caused by something larger. I slowed down until I stopped and looked at the island. From the grass came a man, skinny, with a shiny bald head, wearing a dirty T-shirt and cut-off jeans. He was working on a plastic tarp when he noticed me, looking up. His smile was wide, revealing gaps where his teeth were missing. He waved at me, and I waved back. 

Little by little, the river man built a house on his island. He set up a frame and covered it with plastic tarps, cardboard, and plywood. Smoke billowed from a handmade stove. Whenever I rode past, he worked on his house or washed in the river. He would wave at me, and I reciprocated. His smile was always there. 

The summer ended, giving way to fall. Then, winter arrived, bringing with it the rains. At first, it was scattered sprinkles. Then, full showers. The rain became monstrous, coming down relentlessly. The river swelled until its waters crested over the banks, flooding Frogtown. 

People lost their homes after the winter rains. They weren’t salvageable, so they sold the land underneath them and moved out of the neighborhood. Developers came in and built luxury condos, pricing out those who remained. 

The river appears cleaner nowadays, with well-maintained trails and newly developed parks. I stopped riding down the river because too many new people were crowding the trails. The river man’s house was washed out, its debris still entangled in the river’s trees. I don’t know what happened to him. 

The Neighbor Girl

        One hot, muggy summer day, while lounging on my parents’ front porch, listening to a Dodgers game on my little radio, and hoping for a breeze to cut through the heat, I heard the Salvadors next door arguing again. It might’ve been about the same old thing, like money. They were always fighting about money. I cocked my head towards the Salvadors’ house as Vin Skully’s dulcet voice called a play. It was Mrs. Salvador leading the fight, with Mr. Salvador acting as a bitter chorus, as their dog barked. The only time that dynamic came into play was when their daughter Cee Cee got in trouble. She had been causing a lot of trouble lately, gaining a reputation with the neighborhood families.

A full shouting match between the three Salvadors was now taking place. It didn’t last long. Cee Cee rushed out of the front door, slamming it with fury. I turned off my radio. She sat on the front stairs of her house, slumped and cradling her head in her hands. Her long, silky black hair acted as a curtain hiding her face. I kept low on the porch, hoping she hadn’t seen me, as she sobbed. 

It was my birthday, and my friends came to my house. Mom got a large sheet cake from Phoenix Bakery. Grandma and my aunts slow-roasted pork and beef, and my dad and uncles gathered in the backyard to drink beer. My friends and I played and ran around, high on sugar, until the sun set and everyone needed to go home. Mom and Grandma cleaned up. Dad pitched in and picked up the empty cans scattered in the grass before heading back inside the house to help with the kitchen. 

I was alone in the backyard, nodding off on a chair, enduring a post-sugar crash, when I heard a small voice say, ‘Hey!’ The voice was coming from the chain-link fence separating my house from the Salvadors. I woke up a little and turned towards it. Cee Cee stood in the dark, her dog, a large black Rottweiler, panting beside her. 

‘Hi,’ I said. 

‘Did you have a party?’

I nodded my head. 

‘Why wasn’t I invited?’

She didn’t sound angry or sad. But I felt ashamed. I mumbled an indirect answer. 

‘Do you want to come over?’ she asked. 

I argued with myself. I hesitated because I wasn’t allowed to go to the Salvadors, but I was also worried about disappointing Cee Cee more. I came up with an excuse, pointing to her dog and asking, ‘Doesn’t he bite?’

‘Señor is good. He likes people.’

Cee Cee pulled the chain-link fence low enough for me to jump over it. ‘Come on,’ she said. 

I stood and climbed over the fence. Señor came up and sniffed my hand and thighs. Cee Cee petted his head and motioned for me to follow. 

We went to the garage. Its large, heavy door was thrown open, exposing a washer and dryer set, a laundry sink, and a broken-in leather sofa pushed against the opposite wall. Cee Cee sat on it and patted the seat next to her. I sat down. Señor walked over and lay on the concrete floor, resting his head on an outstretched leg. 

‘Your party looked nice,’ she said. 

‘Thank you.’ 

‘How old are you?’

I told her. ‘You’re a man now,’ she said. 

I looked down at my skinny, hairless legs. I didn’t feel like a man. But it felt good nonetheless.

‘Do you like girls?’

It was an innocent question, one that my aunts loved asking me, usually in a joking way. Cee Cee didn’t sound like she was joking. I lowered my head, trying to hide my shy smile. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I think so.’

Cee Cee reached over and cradled her hand over mine. It felt good, comforting. Then, she leaned forward and kissed me on the lips, like in the movies or on TV. I was confused. It was a very adult thing, and I thought it was wrong. But I also enjoyed it. Something odd coursed through me, something I couldn’t name. It started in my stomach and spread downward. 

She pulled back from the kiss and looked at me. Her eyes were soft and warm. She stood in front of me, unbuttoning her jean shorts and pulling everything down. I saw all of her. I was stunned. She was flushed, her lips parted slightly. ‘Now, you,’ she said, stepping closer to me, her hands trembling. 

I don’t know what happened—a bolt of electricity shot through me. I stood up, trying to hide my shame, and nervously ran out of the garage, to the chain-link fence, and hopped over it. I didn’t look back. 

I never saw Cee Cee again after that. I don’t know what happened to her. But I catch myself thinking about her from time to time. But I can never remember her face. 

Review #2 - The Restless Hands

Bruno Fischer (1908-1992) was a weird cat. German-born and Long Island-raised, he cut his teeth as a reporter for several small-time New York newspapers and socialist journals before he started writing fiction to increase his earning potential. His first contributions were weird stories, what we call horror today. From what I learned about the guy, he wrote pretty grizzly stuff. But then, as Fischer put it, the weird fiction market suddenly collapsed in the early 1940’s. Like… there one day, gone the next. All the stories he sent for publication were returned to him, and he was basically out of work. But no one can keep a good writer down - or a hack. When he was ready to ride the writing dragon again in the late 40s, the paperback novel market was emerging, a perfect place for a man of Fischer’s caliber. His novel The Restless Hands was published in 1953.

Where to start with The Restless Hands? Well, here it goes. Tony Bascomb, a small-time crook, must escape NYC fast because of some dirty double-crossing during a delivery truck heist in New Jersey. He goes to his hometown of Hessian Valley, NY, to hide out. But if he had his druthers, Hessian Valley would’ve been the last place he had chosen. For you see, he was, and still is, the number one suspect in the strangling murder of local beauty Isabel Sprague. Why? Because they were seen together THAT one time before her death! Seriously.

Tony meets up with his childhood chums Mark Kinard, the caretaker of his parent’s summer campground and a very tightly wound Virgo, and George Dentz, a wannabe lothario with a terrible case of chronic horniness. The action starts to gather speed when Tony also meets up with his former sweetheart, Rebecca Sprague, older sister to our slain Isabel. Rebecca has some mixed feelings about Tony. He has a bad-boy-with-a-heart-of-gold quality that is hard not to fall in love with. On the other hand, most people in town think he murdered her sister. He also didn’t do himself any favors by running off to NYC without telling her. 

Anyway, somewhere along the story, a romantic square is formed when Mark, George, and Tony all decide to pursue Rebecca for marriage, because obviously she’s the only woman in town. And while all this is going on poor, dear Rebecca has an unfortunate run-in with a pair of strangling hands in the middle of the night. The assault is so severe that Rebecca’s Pa and local lumber magnate, Mr. Sprague, hires Boston, MA’s private detective-to-the-stars, Ben Helm, to find the perpetrator because HVPD’s one cop couldn’t be bothered, apparently. Things become more complicated when the girlfriend of Tony’s gang boss arrives in HV, NY, looking for Tony, and the boss is close behind, looking for him as well. 

The ending of The Restless Hands wasn’t good. The number one thing that disappoints me about a mystery novel is when it solves the mystery without any leadup. I literally said, “What?” in that incredulous tone we all have when a book’s ending doesn’t smack. And here, it didn’t smack. But Bruno Fischer made up for the slipshod ending by creating a world of believable characters. Some of the situations Tony and the crew found themselves in did make me chuckle. It was like reading an episode of Joel-era MST3K at times. Though I’m sure that wasn’t Fischer's intention. Overall, if I run into any more Bruno Fischer novels, I will read them.
x

Sunday

            Hazel met Charlie at Astro’s on Fletcher Drive. He noticed how sick she looked but didn’t say anything. They shared a brief hug and then sat down in a booth. She ordered an extra sweet iced tea; he asked for black coffee. Their conversation meandered until Hazel couldn’t take it anymore. ‘I just can’t…’ she interrupted, then stopped. ‘You know? I’m not ready.’

‘I know,’ Charlie said. ‘I was thinking the same thing.’

She glared up at him. ‘It’s not yours to think about.’

‘I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.’

Hazel zipped up her hoodie and brought her arms together. She rocked back and forth in her seat, humming discordantly. Charlie tapped a finger on the table. He had a question to ask but didn’t want to. ‘Did you see Henri?’

She pulled her hood over her head and slumped over the table. ‘One last time. I swear, Charlie.’

‘You’ve said that before.’

She held a hand up. ‘I don’t need you pulling that on me, okay?’ 

‘Pulling what?’

‘That concerned dad shit. I don’t need it.’

‘Right.’ He finished his coffee and asked for a refill. ‘Why didn’t you ask him to drive you?’

Hazel didn’t answer. She crossed her arms on the table and laid her head on them. ‘Because I trust you,’ she said. Charlie spun a creamer cup on the table. 

‘If you wanna bail, I understand,’ she said.

‘I made a promise to you.’

‘But I’d understand.’

‘When’s the appointment again?’

‘This Sunday, one PM.’

‘I’ll be there.’

She snorted back her runny nose. ‘Thanks, Charlie.’

At close to noon on Sunday, Charlie drove down Riverside Drive and pulled up to Hazel’s house on Newell Street. It was a weathered bungalow in a dilapidated court. He texted her that he was outside and parked. 

Hazel came out very heavily dressed. She got into his car. ‘How are you?’ he asked.

‘Cold. Do you mind turning on the heater?’

He turned it on and lowered his window. They drove to Glendale. ‘How long has it been?’ he asked. 

‘How long?’ 

‘Since you last used.’

She flashed a brief smile, ‘About four days. Last time was the day before we met up. I told you one last time.’

They arrived at the clinic and checked in, waiting a half hour before the nurse came to escort Hazel. Charlie stayed behind, leafing through old magazines. He quickly became bored.

An hour later, the nurse rolled Hazel out in a wheelchair. She was barely conscious. The nurse smiled gently, ‘She’s alright. There were no problems. Be sure to allow her plenty of bed rest.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Charlie pulled the car up to the front of the clinic and helped ease Hazel inside. He drove without worrying about the heater.

Charlie helped Hazel leave the car and led her back to her house. The living room was a mess. Food rotted on the coffee table. Empty liquor bottles were strewn about on the floor. The kitchen was filthy. Hazel’s father was snoring loudly in the back of the bungalow. He guided her to her bedroom, crushing burnt tin foil underfoot, and eased her into bed. ‘Thanks,’ she said, shivering.

‘Yeah.’

Hazel lay on her back, her sleepy eyes on Charlie. She smiled tiredly, ‘It wasn’t yours. Don’t worry about it.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘You’re a liar, Charlie.’

He turned to leave, closing the door behind him. When he got to his car, Charlie swore that today would be the last time he’d ever speak to Hazel. Just like all the other times he promised himself.

Burbank Boulevard

                Kay and Ally went to a show at the Spot Friday night. Kay promised she had a hookup to get them in. Ally had doubts. Why would anyone let a couple of high school girls into the prime underground club in NoHo? But she didn’t interrogate Kay. 

Kay had the address written down on a Post-It stuck on the steering wheel of her car but vaguely knew that it was on Burbank Boulevard. The building numbers on that block were hard to see, especially at night. They drove down the street three times, trying to find the Spot. Finally, Kay said, like, fuck it, and parked on a random street in a sketchy neighborhood, and they started looking on foot. They eventually found the Spot.

It was a bizarre carnival fever dream of a building, with strange nightmarish multicolored murals painted on the facade, a large anatomical head for a ticket booth, surrounded by a wooden fence painted like a tarot deck. No one was in the head, so Kay started slamming her fist on the fence, screaming. A strange white man opened a gate near Kay and Ally. He looked like a hipster clown with face tattoos and dyed hair spikes.  

‘You here for the show?’ he asked. 

‘Yeah,’ Kay said.

‘Ten-dollar cover.’

‘Isay said we’d be covered.’

‘You Katherine?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Come on in.’

The gate led to the large patio. It looked like a Day-Glo freak show, with large turn-of-the-century sideshow advertisements billowing in the nocturnal SoCal breeze and circus accouterments arraigned in every space. People were smoking on benches or picnic tables near a large blazing fire pit. ‘Yo, Kay!’ someone screamed.

She turned around and smiled, ‘Hey, Isay!’ 

They ran to each other and hugged. Isay was older, in his mid-twenties, kind of short, handsome. But there was something wrong about his face, something untrustworthy about it. Ally wondered how they knew each other. Kay brought him to her. ‘Is this your friend?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, this is Ally.’

‘A pleasure to meet you,’ he said before bringing her hand to his lips. 

‘Yeah,’ Ally said uncomfortably.

‘So, you wanna see the inside?’ Isay asked. Kay responded enthusiastically. Ally wanted to leave.

The inside of the Spot was dark and packed. A colorfully lighted-up stage decorated like something out of Peewee’s Playhouse dominated one side, where a band was hammering away sonically. The crowd was pogoing to the music. Ally lost track of Kay and squeezed through the crowd to look for her. Kay was in the back of the space talking to Isay. He gave her a Dixie cup. Something inside Ally wanted to slap it out of her hand. But she drank from it and looked fine. 

Another band came on stage after the first one and started playing. They weren’t as good, though. The faces of the crowd shined from the stage’s different color lights. They looked insane. The crowd charged hard towards the stage during the second song, dragging Ally with them. She started to panic. A hand reached out and grabbed her own, pulling her away. Isay stood beside her. He smiled, ‘Gotta watch out for these people. They’re animals.’

‘Yeah,’ she said, out of breath.

‘Let’s go outside. It’s more peaceful.’

They stepped out to the patio. There were a few people around, smoking. Ally found Kay lying on a bench near the fire pit. She sat down near her. Kay looked off. ‘You okay?’ Ally asked.

‘Yeah, Ally, I’m alright,’ she slurred, her breath sickly sweet with whiskey.

‘Jesus fuck, Kay!’

‘It’s okay,’ Isay said. He took out a large flask from his jacket pocket, unscrewed the top, and drank a healthy pull. He exhaled roughly and hooted, ‘Now that’s the good shit right here!’ He looked at Ally, waving the flask at her. ‘Want a taste?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Come on, Ally,’ Kay muttered, her eyes closed. ‘Take a sip.’

‘Yeah, come on, Ally,’ Isay said. ‘You trust Kay, yeah? How close’re you two?’

‘Like sisters,’ Ally said. 

‘Yeah, that’s what I thought. And Kay trusts me. She knows I wouldn’t lead her astray. We’re family.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah, Ally,’ Kay said, pointing an unbalanced finger towards the sky, ‘we’re cousins, practically helped raise me. I trust him.’

‘Yeah, man!’ he said. He offered the flask again.

Ally held it in her hand and took a sip. The liquor burned in her throat harshly. She coughed, almost to the point of choking. 

Isay laughed, ‘You have to take it gentler. Gotta savor it.’

He showed her. Ally felt a warm, loving, tingling sensation with every sip. Kay sat up on her bench and took the flask from Ally, drinking her fill. Isay laughed maniacally and joined them. They kept drinking until the flask was drained. The world was spinning in a happy dance. The warmth of the fire was beautiful against the cool evening wind. 

It was nearly dawn when Ally woke up in the backseat of a stranger’s car. She panicked, screamed, and thrashed around. ‘Hey, hey!’ cried the driver. He was very angry. It took Ally a moment to recognize Kay’s older brother, Mike. She looked at the passenger seat. Kay was lying supine in it, snoring. 

‘You two are in so much fuckin’ trouble,’ Mike said. 

‘I’m sorry,’ Ally slurred. 

‘Yeah. Whatever. You can deal with your folks when I drop you off.’

‘Where’s Isay?’

‘Probably still bleedin’ on the street curb.’

‘What?’

Mike sighed, flicked on a turn signal, and made a left. He looked at Ally through the rearview mirror, ‘You can’t trust Isay, Ally. You just can’t. He’s bad news when he’s around little girls.’

‘I’m not a little girl,’ Ally said. 

‘Right, you’re not. Sorry. Regardless, he’s no good to be around.’

‘Aren’t you two cousins?’

‘Yeah. That doesn’t mean I can let him do whatever he fuckin’ wants to do. Someone has to stop him.’

‘What happened, Mike?’

He was quiet for a moment, concentrating on the drive down San Fernando Boulevard. He clicked his tongue, ‘My homeboy Jimbi called me sayin’ that Isay was being inappropriate with you.’

‘Jimbi?’

‘You’ve met him. He’s the white boy with the painted spikes and face tattoos.’

‘Oh…’

‘Yeah. Anyway, he was keepin’ an eye on you and Kay. When you were passin’ out, Isay started draggin’ you someplace. Jimbi went up to stop him. Isay was denyin’ everything, then was confrontational. He didn’t know that Jimbi got his black belt at Twin Towers. Isay got curb-stomped to hell and gone.’

‘And Jimbi called you?’

‘Yup. He didn’t want you and Kay there when someone called the cops.’

‘Did someone call them?’

‘It would’ve been a matter of time, Ally. No hipster likes violence at their club, you know?’

The pale, false light of dawn died away as the golden sun crested in the east. Mike made a turn and entered Glassell Park, pulling onto Avenue Thirty-two, and parked in front of Ally’s house. Ally stared at the house and felt terribly sick. ‘Can you come with me, Mike?’ she asked. 

He chuckled, ‘I think I’ve helped you enough, Ally. My hands are still full with this one.’ He pointed his thumb towards Kay. 

‘Right.’

‘Look, just go in there with your head high. You fucked up; now you face the consequences. But don’t let that define you. That’s what being an adult should be all about, right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘See ya around, Ally.’

Ally got out of the car and wobbled towards her house. She imagined what her parents were going to say, how her mom was going to chastise her loudly and viciously while beseeching la madre y el nino, how her father was going to tack on punishment on top of punishment until he felt satisfied that justice for the transgression against his authority was reached, how she herself was probably going to explode, as she always had, towards her parents’ overreactions and instigate another miniature cold war with them. Eventually, Ally and her parents will forgive each other after some time, as they have always done.