The clean shirt vato started to walk away; Dirty Shirt stopped him and pointed to Buzz’s stick. “What’s that thing got to do with it?”
Buzz smiled and took three steps backward, eyes on the tree. “Son, you set that roach’s ass on fire and I’ll show you.”
Clean Shirt whipped out a lighter, flicked it on and held the flame under the victor bug. The bug scampered up the tree; Buzz got a bead and overhanded his baton. It hit and clattered to the ground; Dirty Shirt picked it up and fingered pulp off the tip. “That’s him. Holy fuck.”
Clean Shirt made the sign of the cross, pachuco version, his right hand stroking his balls; Dirty Shirt crossed the standard way. Buzz tossed his stick in the air, bounced it off the inside crook of his elbow, caught it and twirled it behind his back, let it hit the pavement, then brought it to parade rest with a jerk of the thong. The Mexicans were slack-jawed now; Buzz braced them while their mouths were still open. “Mondo Lopez, Juan Duarte and Sammy Benavides.
They used to gangsterize around here. Spill nice and I’ll show you some more tricks.”
Dirty Shirt spat a string of obscenities in Spanish; Clean Shirt translated. “Javier hates 1st Flats like a dog. Like a fucking evil dog.”
Buzz was wondering if Audrey Anders would go for his stick routine. “So Side 79
Ellroy, James – Big Nowhere, The those boys ran with the Flats?”
Javier spat on the pavement–an eloquent lunger. “Traitors, man. Back maybe ’43, ’44, the Fence and Flats had a peace council. Lopez and Duarte was supposed to be in on it, but they joined the fuckin’ Sinarquista Nazi putos, then the fuckin’ Commie Sleepy Lagoon putos, when they shoulda been fightin’
with us. The fuckin’ Apaches cleaned the Flats’ and Fences’ fuckin’ clock, man.
I lost my cousin Caldo.”
Buzz unclipped two more fivers. “What else have you got? Feel free to get ugly.”
“Benavides was ugly, man! He raped his own fuckin’ little sister!”
Buzz handed out the money. “Easy now. Give me some more on that, whatever else you got and some leads on family. Easy.”
Clean Shirt said, “It’s just a rumor on Benavides, and Duarte’s got a queer cousin, so maybe he’s queer, too. Queerness runs in families, I read it in _Argosy_ magazine.”
Buzz tucked his billy club back in his pants. “What about families?
Who’s got family still around here?”
Javier answered. “Lopez’ mother died, and I think maybe he got some cousins in Bakersfield. ‘Cept for the maricón, mosta Duarte’s people moved back to Mexico, and I know that puto Benavides got parents livin’ on 4th and Evergreen.”
“A house? An apartment?”
Clean Shirt piped in: “Little shack with all these statues in front.” He twirled a finger and pointed to his head. “The mother is crazy. Loca grande.”
Buzz sighed. “That’s all I get for fifteen scoots and my show?”
Javier said, “Every vato in the Heights hates those cabróns, ask them.”
Clean Shirt said, “We could make up some shit, you could pay us for that.”
Buzz said, “Try to stay alive,” and drove to 4th and Evergreen.
o
o
o
The lawn was a shrine.
Jesus statues were lined up facing the Street; there was a stable made out of kid’s Lincoln Logs behind them, a dog turd reposing in baby J.C.’s manger. Buzz walked up to the porch and rang the bell; he saw the Virgin Mary on an end table. The front of her flowing white gown bore an inscription: “Fuck me.” Buzz made a snap deduction–Mr. and Mrs. Benavides couldn’t see too well.
An old woman opened the door. “Quién?”
Buzz said, “Police, ma’am. And I don’t speak Spanish.”
The ginch fingered a string of beads around her neck. “I speak Inglés.
Is about Sammy?”
“Yes, ma’am. How’d you know that?”
The old girl pointed to the wall above a chipped brick fireplace. A devil had been drawn there–red suit, horns and trident. Buzz walked over and scoped him out. A photo of a Mex kid was glued where his face should be, and a line of Jesus statues was looking up from the ledge, giving him the evil eye.