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slats. A sled in LA. What the fuck did Carlos need with a sled?
Raro,
man.
    Norberto continued sweeping the room with the tiny beam. He saw a ratchet set from Sears. Norberto knew that those were supposed to be worth some money. He considered boosting it for a second, then changed his mind. The beam of light stopped on the chalk outline where Carlo’s body must’ve been. There was a dark splotch, blood or motor oil, Norberto couldn’t tell, next to the outline. A few feet away from that was another chalk outline. This one smaller. About the size and shape of Amado’s right arm.
    . . .
    Max Larga stood in his modern, gourmet-equipped kitchen picking his nose. This action was reflected and distorted over and over in the gleaming appliances and cookware that surrounded him. He pulled his pinky out of his nostril and admired the prize. Without thinking he stuck the gleaming mucus ball into his mouth, smacking his thick lips like it was a fresh tiny oyster, and went about preparing dinner.
    He took a starched white apron off a hook and strapped it around his corpulent waist. He pulled a roasting pan out of a drawer and plopped a large leg of lamb into it. Larga tookfresh marjoram out of the Sub-Zero. Using a large knife he expertly diced the herbs and dumped them in a bowl with a small amount of olive oil. He added salt and pepper and then stuck his hands in the bowl and began mixing. Larga carried the bowl over to the leg of lamb and began rubbing the oil and spices on the meat. His shiny hands caressed the soft, pink meat as he worked the spices into the flesh. Larga found himself getting slightly aroused. He unconsciously pressed his crotch against the butcher-block counter with a gentle rocking motion. He caught himself, his face flushing in embarrassment, when he realized he was using his newly acquired masturbation strokes on the lamb.
    He quickly washed his hands, threw the lamb in the oven, and opened a bottle of merlot.
    . . .
    Esteban was frustrated. How many times was he going to sneak guys over the border, give them jobs, give them a chance, give them a fucking life? And what do these fucking
maricóns
do? They fuck it up. They were always fucking things up. They didn’t appreciate what crime could do for you. Crime could fucking pay,
cabrón
. Crime could add inches to your cock. Crime could set you up in a life like you never even dreamed. But some people just didn’t get it. Esteban knew that Amado didn’t get it. Didn’t appreciate the opportunity. The Caucasians knew about loyalty. It was the fucking
caballeros
who were trouble. Esteban knew he’d be better off hiring out-of-work linebackers from Texas A & M. At least the dumb white guys appreciated a chance to do something with a little action, a little adrenaline. They’d be loyal. ButEsteban felt a certain loyalty himself, a connection with La Raza. Despite all the trouble they caused, he compulsively helped his countrymen.
    Esteban put down his beer and looked at Martin. The young man stubbed out his cigarette and stared back at Esteban without blinking. Perhaps because he felt smarter than Esteban or because he was stoned all the time, Martin wasn’t afraid to tell Esteban the truth . . . even if it pissed Esteban off. Esteban was wise enough to know not to surround himself with ass kissers. Still, there’s something to be said for being surrounded by ass kissers. Esteban sighed.
    â€œI call someone. I tell them to come to me. And what happens? They disappear. What’s that?”
    â€œWe all need to communicate better.”
    Esteban scoffed.
    â€œIt’s beyond that. It’s fuckin’ disrespectful.”
    Martin nodded.
    â€œBut if we had digital cell phones—”
    Esteban cut him off.
    â€œI’m thinking we should make an example of him.”
    â€œWhat good would that do?”
    Esteban lit a cigarette.
    â€œPart of the job is keeping people afraid of you.”
    Martin