Part 2 (2/2)

”You got a problem, man?” he asked, his voice a mixture of Mexico's stately cadence and west Texas's earthy snarl.

”I'm on patrol,” Vance answered.

”You patrollin' in front of my house? On my street?”

Smiling thinly, Vance took off his sungla.s.ses. His eyes were deep-set, light brown, and seemed too small for his face. ”I wanted to drive over and see you, Ricky. Wanted to say good mornin'.”

”Buenos dias. Anythin' else? I'm gettin' ready for school.”

Vance nodded. ”Graduatin' senior, huh? Prob'ly got your future all lined up, right?”

”I'll make out okay.”

”I'll bet you will. Prob'ly wind up sellin' drugs on the street, is more like it. Good thing you're a real tough hombre, Ricky. You might even learn to enjoy prison life.”

”If I get there first,” Rick said, ”I'll make sure the f.a.gs know you're on your way.”

Vance's smile fractured. ”What's that supposed to mean, smart-a.s.s?”

The boy shrugged, looking along Second Street at nothing in particular. ”You're gonna take a fall, man. Sooner or later, the state cops are gonna latch Cade, and you'll be next. 'Cept you'll be the one holdin' his s.h.i.+tbag, and he'll be long gone 'cross the border.” He stared at Vance. ”Cade doesn't need a number two. Aren't you smart enough to figure that out yet?”

Vance sat very still. His heart was beating hard, and rough memories were being stirred at the back of his brain. He couldn't stomach Rick Jurado-not only because Jurado was the leader of the Rattlesnakes, but on a deeper, more instinctive level. When Vance was a kid living in El Paso with his mother, he'd had to walk home from grammar school across a dusty h.e.l.lhole called Cortez Park. His mother worked at a laundry in the afternoons, and their house was only four blocks from school, but for him it was a nerve-twisting journey across a brutal no-man's-land. The Mexican kids hung out in Cortez Park, and there was a big eighth-grader named Luis who had the same black, fathomless eyes as Rick Jurado. Eddie Vance had been fat and slow, and the Mexican kids could run like panthers; the awful day came when they'd surrounded him, chattering and hollering, and when he'd started crying that only made it worse. They'd thrown him down and scattered his books while other gringo kids watched but were too scared to interfere; and the one named Luis had pulled his pants down, right off his struggling b.u.t.t and legs, and then they'd held him while Luis stripped off Eddie's Fruit-of-the-Looms. The underpants had been wrapped around Vance's face like a feedbag, and as the half-naked fat boy ran home the Mexican kids had screamed with laughter and jeered, ”Burro! Burro! Burro! ”

From then on, Eddie Vance had walked more than a mile out of his way to avoid crossing Cortez Park, and in his mind he'd murdered that Mexican boy named Luis a thousand times. And now here was Luis again, only this time his name was Rick Jurado. This time he was older, he spoke English better, and he was no doubt a lot smarter-but, though Vance was approaching his fifty-fourth birthday, the fat little boy inside him would've recognized those cunning eyes anywhere. It was Luis all right, just wearing a different face.

And the truth was that Vance had never met a Mexican who didn't remind him, in some way, of those jeering kids in Cortez Park almost forty years ago.

”What're you starin' at, man?” Rick challenged. ”Have I got two heads?”

The sheriff's trance snapped. Rage flooded through him. ”I'd just as soon get out of this car and break your neck, you little s.h.i.+t-a.s.s wetback.”

”You won't.” But the boy's body had tensed for either flight or fight. Take it easy! Vance warned himself. He wasn't ready for this kind of trouble, not right here in the middle of Bordertown. He abruptly put his sungla.s.ses back on and worked his knuckles. ”Some of your boys have been driftin' into Inferno after dark. That won't do, Ricky.”

”Last I heard, it was a free country.”

”It's free for Americans.” Though he knew Jurado had been born at the Inferno Clinic on Celeste Street, Vance knew also that the boy's father and mother had been illegals. ”You let your gang punks go over-”

”The Rattlers isn't a gang, man. It's a club.”

”Yeah, right. You let your club punks go over the bridge after dark and there'll be trouble. I won't stand for it. I don't want any Rattler across the bridge at night. Do I make myself-”

”Bull s.h.i.+t,” Rick interrupted. He gestured angrily toward Inferno. ”What about the 'Gades, man? Do they own the f.u.c.kin' town?”

”No. But your boys are askin' for a fight, lettin' themselves be seen where they shouldn't be. I want it to stop.”

”It'll stop,” Rick said. ”When the 'Gades stop makin' raids over here, breakin' out people's windows and spray-paintin' their cars. They raise h.e.l.l on my streets, and we're not even supposed to cross the bridge without gettin' spanked! What about that fire? How come Lockett's not in jail?”

”Because there's no proof he or any of the Renegades set it. All we've got are a few bits of burned-up rags.”

”Man, you know they set it!” Rick shouted. ”They could've burned down the whole town!” He shook his head disgustedly. ”You're a chickens.h.i.+t, Vance! Big sheriff, huh? Well, you listen up! My men are watchin' the streets at night, and I swear to G.o.d we'll cut the b.a.l.l.s off any 'Gade we catch!

Comprende? ”

Anger reddened Vance's cheeks. He was looking into the face of Luis again, and standing on the battlefield of Cortez Park. Deep down, his stomach was squeezed with a fat kid's fear. ”I don't think I like your tone of voice, boy! I'll take care of the Renegades! You just keep your punks on this side of the bridge after dark, you got it?”

Rick Jurado suddenly walked a few feet away, bent down, and picked something up. Vance saw it was the red rooster. The Mexican boy approached the car, held the rooster over the winds.h.i.+eld, and gave a quick, strong squeeze with his hands. The rooster squawked and flapped, and a grayish-white blob fell from its rear end onto the winds.h.i.+eld and oozed down the gla.s.s.

”There's my answer,” the boy said defiantly. ”Chickens.h.i.+t for a chickens.h.i.+t.”

Vance was out of the car before the white line reached the hood. Rick took two strides back, dropped the rooster, and tensed himself to meet the onrus.h.i.+ng storm. The rooster let out a strangled crowing as it darted for the cover of a yucca bush.

Even as he knew he was touching a match to dynamite, Vance reached out to grab the boy's collar; but Rick was way too fast for him, and easily dodged aside. Vance clutched at empty air, and again the vision of Luis and Cortez Park whirled around him. He bellowed with fury, drawing his fist back to strike at his tormentor.

But before the blow could fall, a screen door slammed and a boy's voice called out in Spanish, ”Hey, Ricardo! You need some help?” The voice was followed immediately by a sharp crack! that froze the sheriff's fist in midair.

He looked across the street, where a rail-thin Mexican kid wearing chinos, combat boots, and a black T-s.h.i.+rt stood on the front steps of a rundown house. ”You need some help, man?” he asked again, this time in English, and then he reared his right hand back and quickly snapped it forward in a smooth, blurred motion.

The bullwhip he was holding popped like a firecracker going off, its tip flicking up a cigarette b.u.t.t from the gutter. Shreds of tobacco whirled.

The moment stretched. Rick Jurado watched Vance's face, could see the rage and cowardice fighting on it; then he saw Vance blink, and he knew which had won. The sheriff's fist opened. His arm came down to his side, and he clasped it like a broken wing.

”No, Zarra,” Rick said, his voice calm now. ”Everythin's steady, man.”

”Jus' checkin'.” Carlos ”Zarra” Alhambra wrapped the bullwhip around his right arm and sat on the porch steps, his gangly legs stretched out before him.

Vance saw two more Mexican boys walking in his direction along Second Street. Down where the street dead-ended in a tangle of boulders and sagebrush, another boy stood at the curb, watching the sheriff. In his hand was a tire iron.

”You got anythin' else to say?” Rick prodded.

Vance sensed the many eyes on him from the windows of the crummy houses. He knew there was no way to win here; all Bordertown was a big Cortez Park. Vance glanced uneasily at the punk with the bullwhip, knowing that Zarra Alhambra could snap out a lizard's eyeb.a.l.l.s with that d.a.m.ned thing. He pointed a thick finger into Rick's face. ”I'm warnin' you! No Rattlers in Inferno after dark, you hear?”

”Eh?” Rick cupped a hand behind his ear.

Across the street, Zarra laughed. ”You remember!” Vance said, and then he got into the patrol car. ”

You remember, smart-a.s.s! ” he shouted once the door was shut. The streak down his winds.h.i.+eld infuriated him, and he switched on the wipers. The streak became a smear. His face burned as their laughter reached him. He put the car in reverse and backed rapidly along Second Street to Republica Road, swerved the car around, and roared over the bridge into Inferno.

”Big lawman!” Zarra hooted. He stood up. ”I shoulda popped his fat b.u.t.t, huh?”

”Not this time.” Rick's heartbeat was slowing down now; it had been racing during his confrontation with Vance, but he hadn't dared show even a shadow of fear. ”Next time you can pop him real good. You can bust his b.a.l.l.s.”

”Alllll right! Wreckage, man!” Zarra thrust his left fist up in a power salute, the symbol of the Rattlesnakes.

”Wreckage.” Rick returned the salute halfheartedly. He saw Chico Magellas and Petey Gomez approaching, jaunty and strutting as if they walked on a street of gold instead of cracked concrete, on their way to the corner to catch the school bus. ”Later,” he told Zarra, and he went back up the steps into the brown house.

<script>