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“Says you, the master of successful marriage.”
“You lost one, too, Mapstone, so don’t be smug. Not that Sharon didn’t warn you about Patty.”
That was true enough. I felt the need to defend myself, but there wasn’t time. We started across the street and my gut constricted.
“Trust me,” he said. “I’m the ideal man to give you advice.”
“It’s never stopped you.”
Then we were on the curb, crossing the sidewalk.
“Well, well, well, the motherfucking former sheriff and his history bitch.” This came from a slender man. Beneath his hoodie, he looked somewhere south of thirty, with skin the color of almonds. I had never met him, but people still knew me from television and newspaper appearances that Peralta would orchestrate when we broke an old case.
“Peralta, you the only motherfucker in the La-Ti-No community that’s got a nigger pass. Does your gabacho here have a nigger pass?”
The three other men, all large and heavily tattooed, watched us silently with the dead, sociopath eyes that had become all too common. My sensibilities stung from hearing the slur, even though it was common on the street.
“He’s got a nigger pass from way back.” Peralta actually drawled this. “The question is whether it’s worth anything down here anymore.”
“Here’s my black ass,” the man said, “there’s your Mexican lips. Act accordingly. Bloods have owned this corner since my granddad was banging.”
“Whatever you say. Now go shut off that diarrhea coming out of your speakers or I’ll put a bullet in your high-end sound system
.”
The men around the lighter-skinned guy started getting twitchy, but he ordered one of them to turn off the music.
“We need to talk,” Peralta said, swinging a leg over the picnic table and pilfering one of the leader’s fries. “Don’t mind if I do. Mapstone, this here’s Andrew “Cut Me Some” Slack, the middle part being his gangster name.”
“Hey, fuck you, Peralta. My street name’s ‘Scandalous.’ You know that.”
“Sure.” Peralta chuckled and ate another of Scandalous’ French fries. “I gave him his real nickname because when we first arrested him, he kept saying ‘please, cut me some slack.’ Anyway, what kind of black name is Andrew?”
Slack ate part of a fish filet and smiled. “Same old racist bastard, yo. But not enough of one to get re-elected. The times they are a-changing.”
I kept standing, ready to give Peralta backup if things went bad, but he seemed perfectly comfortable. Every few minutes, I looked back toward Robin. The truck sat unmolested.
Peralta leaned forward on his elbows. “So since we’re talking about nicknames and all, what about El Verdugo?”
The backup crew stopped eating and eyed us carefully. Slack chewed intensely and slurped from a giant soft drink.
“Ain’t no such,” he said. “El Verdugo’s an urban legend. And if he ain’t, he’s down in ole Me-he-ko…” His voice didn’t have the same bravado.
“Oh, no,” Peralta said. “He’s up here. I almost wondered if he was coming after your ass, but then I guess he figured Andrew Slack was the name of some plastic surgeon in Scottsdale…”
“What the fuck you saying?” Slack’s voice rose. “El Verdugo? Here? In Phoenix?”
“No, at Disneyland, genius.”
Slack was silent. He desperately wanted to look around him, see who might be lurking, but he wouldn’t let himself. El Verdugo had a reputation.
He pushed away the tray of food and Peralta helped himself to more fries. “Nobody’s been killed down here we don’t know who did the killing,” Slack said.
When he went sullen, Peralta prompted. “But…”
“Look man, we used to own this area.”
“Competition sucks,” Peralta said. “The creative destruction of the underground economy.”
