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“Don’t make me nervous,” said Gómez. “Quickly!”
Both ran. Inside they reached Vamenos just as Toro Ruíz grabbed about two feet of the lapels of that wonderful ice-cream suit.
“Let go of Vamenos!” said Martínez.
“Let go that suit!” corrected Gómez.
Toro Ruíz, tap-dancing Vamenos, leered at these intruders.
Villanazul stepped up shyly.
Villanazul smiled. “Don’t hit him. Hit me.”
Toro Ruíz hit Villanazul smack on the nose.
Villanazul, holding his nose, tears stinging his eyes, wandered off.
Gómez grabbed one of Toro Ruíz’s arms, Martínez the other. “Drop him, let go, cabrón, coyote, vaca!”
Toro Ruíz twisted the ice cream suit material until all six men screamed in mortal agony. Grunting, sweating, Toro Ruíz dislodged as many as climbed on. He was winding up to hit Vamenos when Villanazul wandered back, eyes streaming.
“Don’t hit him. Hit me!”
As Toro Ruíz hit Villanazul on the nose, a chair crashed on Toro’s head.
“Ai!” said Gómez.
Toro Ruíz swayed, blinking, debating whether to fall. He began to drag Vamenos with him.
“Let go!” cried Gómez. “Let go!”
One by one, with great care, Toro Ruíz’s banana-like fingers let loose of the suit. A moment later he was in ruins at their feet.
“Compadres, this way!”
They ran Vamenos outside and set him down where he freed himself of their hands with injured dignity.
“Okay, okay. My time ain’t up. I still got two minutes and, let’s see—ten seconds.”
“What!” said everybody.
“Vamenos,” said Gómez, “you let a Guadalajara cow climb on you, you pick fights, you smoke, you drink, you eat tacos, and now you have the nerve to say your time ain’t up?”
“I got two minutes and one second left!”
“Hey, Vamenos, you sure look sharp!” Distantly, a woman’s voice called from across the street.
Vamenos smiled and buttoned the coat.
“It’s Ramona Álvarez! Ramona, wait!” Vamenos stepped off the curb.
“Vamenos,” pleaded Gómez. “What can you do in one minute and”—he checked his watch—“forty seconds!”
“Watch! Hey, Ramona!”
Vamenos loped.
“Vamenos, look out!”
