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Peralta, the anti-intellectual, channeling the ghost of Joseph Schumpeter. Now that was new.
“All these fucking ‘Cans coming across the border. Bring their gangs with ’em. Keep having babies. What the fuck part of illegal alien don’t they understand? The pie’s only so big. Only so many white motherfuckers with money to buy drugs. ’Specially now. Bloods are American fucking citizens.”
“What about guns?”
Slack hesitated slightly. “You’re not even a fucking cop. Why am I talking to you?”
Peralta picked his teeth. “Because you’re afraid of El Verdugo. To him you’re just another mayate.”
“Fuck no!” He rose halfway up, puffed out his chest, showed the silver-plated pistol in his waistband, and sat back, all conventions satisfied.
He went on in a conversational voice.
“Word on the street is La Familia is moving in from Southern California. They’re taking over some of the foreclosed places out on the west side, using them as safe houses and moving guns for the Gulf Cartel.”
“Now why would the cartel want a bunch of bangers when they can just buy from Anglos with clean records making a trip south now and then?” Peralta almost echoed Amy Preston’s words.
“It’s volume, my man,” Stack said. “Word is, La Fam has a smuggling route where they can get truckloads of guns across into Mexico.”
“Don’t fuck with me,” Peralta said. “Smuggling route, my ass.”
Slack was undeterred. “Word is, they go across the Indian rez. They’ve got some Border Patrol on the payroll. Some say they’re working directly with the Mexican cops.”
“What’s your piece of the action?” Peralta asked.
“Wish I had some, el sheriff.” He spat toward the sidewalk. “For us, it’s all about maintain. We just fighting to keep the business we got.”
“Just a hard-working businessman, huh?”
He nodded. “Exact.”
Peralta stood. “Thanks. You stay safe now.” He nodded to me and we walked back across Central.
Behind us came, “Hey, what are you going to do for me, Peralta? What about El Verdugo? Cut me some slack!”
“See,” Peralta said. “He can’t help himself.”
“What’s a mayate?”
“Now, Mapstone, I wouldn’t want to make you go all politically correct on me.”
***
Back home, Robin lit the Peace and Prosperity candle and sat with me in the study. After the day of visits to the most scenic parts of the city, I still didn’t know where Peralta was going. It felt as if we were up against an army of ghosts and impossible odds.
“Was I just a fool?” Robin asked, her face in her hands. “I always thought, the way I grew up, I had a pretty good bastard detector. But not with Jax. Pedro Alejandro Vega. El Verdugo. What a moron…”
I reached over and touched her shoulder.
She stood, stepped in front of me, and bent down. I felt her long fingers against the sides of my face and then her lips on mine. I kissed her back with minimal stabs of guilt, grasping her waist to pull her closer. Her hair spilled around me and our tongues found each other. It wasn’t the best kiss I’d ever had, but it was close, damned close, and if only for a moment it vanquished all the fear and grief and hurt. When I said I didn’t trust Robin, it was about this. I didn’t trust myself.
“Take me out in the back yard and let’s look at the stars,” she said.
Our back yard was indeed a good place for stargazing, despite being in the heart of the city. Fourteen-percent humidity would do that. I told her it was too dangerous.
She sighed and sat back on her haunches in front of me. “David, are we ever going to have sex?” She held both my hands. “I don’t know about you, but I really need sex.”
“Robin, I love Lindsey. I made a vow.”
