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“That’s pretty good.”
“You took a slide on your bike?”
He gazed at her, puzzled.
“The bruises on your arms and neck. I saw you on Higgins a little while ago. You were riding a white Harley.”
“You were looking at me?”
“What’s the spider on your hand mean?”
“You know what Compton is like if you’re white or Hispanic?”
“You’re lunch meat?”
“Ever hear of the Arañas?”
“No.”
“That was our gang, the Spiders. We had one rule and one rule only, and all the Crips and Bloods knew what it was: Anything they did to one of us, we did to ten of them. If a cannibal got caught in the wrong apartment building, he got a free flight off the roof.”
“You look a little hyper.”
“I consider myself pretty mellow.”
“You get into it with somebody?”
“No. Why you asking?”
“Because you’re agitated and because I saw something outside.”
“Where you come from, people talk in code?”
She finished her beer and stared into space as though coming to a decision. “I don’t like to mind other people’s business, but you seem like a nice guy. That’s your Harley in back, right?”
“What about it?” he said.
“When I walked past the alley, there was a guy out there.”
“Which guy? What are you talking about?”
“A guy. He was dressed like a cowboy.”
“What was he doing?”
“Looking at your hog.”
“Who cares?”
“He squatted down like he was examining the engine, like it was his hog.”
“Did this guy look like he’s part white, part Indian? Or m
ore like a white Indian?”
“His Wranglers were splitting on his ass. He was wearing a straw cowboy hat. A white Indian?”
“He had a limp, maybe?”
