Free All Involved by Ryan Gattis

look back and there’s another body on the grass and two more guys coming out the house.
    We turn the corner, hit the driveway, the sidewalk.
    When Joker’s homies turn the corner of the garage, Fate opens up with the shotgun. Shit’s so loud it sounds like a plane crash. And I laugh.
    It goes like that, like planned, cuz we’re in the car and driving. But I don’t know which way’s which.
    I feel thin like Kleenex. I want to laugh again. I want to tell the whole story of what it looked like, what it felt like.
    And then I feel like I need to puke maybe.
    â€œYou got them motherfuckers?” Fate wants to know and I want to answer.
    I can’t. I try but my mouth won’t work.
    I never shot nobody before.
    I mean, I shot plenty. Targets and birds and all that.
    But I never shot no body before.
    It’s different.
    â€œYou got to fix up,” Fate says and yanks the rearview so he can see me. He stares at me hard. Nobody argues with that face. Never.
    The car feels like it’s moving faster than fast, but I know Clever’s going the speed limit.
    That was part of the plan too.
    I nod.
    I know I need to fix up.
    But my arms don’t move. They don’t do what he wants. Or what I want.
    Fate tells Apache, “Fucking do that shit.”
    Apache lifts my arms up, smashes a hoodie down over my dress.
    He swipes the makeup off my face with a cloth, pinches my earrings out, and mashes a ballcap down on my head before pulling the hood up.
    They’re looking for a girl shooter.
    If they’re looking. And even if they were, it wouldn’t matter anyways. I don’t look like that anymore. Not from outside.
    But, shit, sheriffs sure ain’t looking. They’re all on TV. I laugh at that too.
    I laugh at how they’re busy in Florence, Watts, putting out Los Angeles’s fucking fires tonight. You think they care if some all involved shit got handled in Lynwood? No way. They’re prolly glad.Glad they don’t have to investigate. Glad they can just put on body armor and march into crowds instead.
    I pick my pager up off the floor. I’ve got it in my hand. All’s I can think about is mi mamá . All I can think about is her worried face.
    And I feel the sadness fall on me like a blanket, making it so I can’t breathe.
    â€œFate,” I say, and my voice’s real small.
    He’s watching the road. “What?”
    â€œHow am I gonna tell her what happened?”
    Fate doesn’t get it at first. He looks at Apache but Apache’s looking out the window, so Fate looks back at me.
    He gets it then, but I can tell he doesn’t have the answer when his mouth drops open in the rearview and stays like that.
    We’re on Imperial, cruising by the swap meet, when Fate says, “You tell your madre you did justice. That’s what you fucking tell her.”

RAY VERA,
A.K.A. LIL MOSCO
    APRIL 29, 1992
    7:12 P . M .
1
    I don’t even know what Fate’s fucking problem is. I only did what he would’ve done. Back in the day, he made his name doing what I did and way worse. He’s all punishing me now cuz of what happened with me shooting up the front of that club, trying to check me or something by making me do his errands.
    I been overseeing distribution for a year or more. I’m past this shit. Serious, pickups are for new booty motherfuckers like Oso. Truth is, he’d been doing them before Big Fate decided it was on me. Today he sees them riots going on TV and out of nowhere decides to send me out of town on a run. Sure, he says the right thing, like, “We’re sending you cuz the cops are everywhere else,” but he knows me too well. He could see in my eyes how bad I wanted to get up in some shit. I mean, who couldn’t use a new TV, right?
    Only good thing about this trip, and I mean the only thing, is I get to drive Fate’s car, this big old Chevy from the ’70s. Swear to God, the engine on this