Free All Involved by Ryan Gattis Page B

up mad and I laugh in his face.
    â€œYou even know how stupid you sound right now? Real gangsters don’t give a fuck about raza . They only care about money. Shit, it’s what I would do if I was there. You would too. Say what you say to advance your goals. That’s it. Get a dude to focus on something way in the distance and then put your fucking hand in his pocket. It’s genius, vato .”
    â€œI mean, like, maybe.” Baseball rubs the back of his head. “But getting a green light on you is fucking real, bro. Sometimes they put whole varrios on.”
    â€œWhy don’t you tell me what happened with Manny already? Shit. Talking so much and never getting to a point!”
    â€œOkay, so he did that one drive-by, killed that grandma on her porch by accident. How the fuck didn’t you hear about that?”
    I smash him with a look. “Shit, man, how did you hear about it? You ain’t even involved yet and you spout more stories than a veterano .”
    â€œI got ears.” He’s kind of pouting and shit. “Everybody knows it.”
    He gets quiet after that, not saying anything until we hit the outskirts of Riverside. That’s when he finally says, “You ever worry they might put a light on you for that girl or what?”
    â€œNever happen, fool.” But then I’m thinking about it. I’m wondering if they might. “Wasn’t even a drive-by. That shit was a walk-up.”
    â€œRaza’s raza, man. Player or not, she was that. She was our people.”
    I’m like, “She ain’t our fucking people. Don’t be stupid.”
    But then I’m thinking, like, was she? I don’t feel like talking no more, so I turn on the radio to keep him from responding but Art Laboe’s nothing but static this far out. It’s a shame too. This drive’s perfect for them oldie sounds, but I put that new Kid Frost into the tape deck instead. Shit only came out like last week, so I don’t know if it’s no Hispanic Causing Panic yet, but it’s good. I been listening to “Mi Vida Loca” on side 2 like nonstop since it came out.
    Man, I never told nobody this, but I love the desert at night. I roll the window down just to see the stars and feel the wind, but a big rig goes by and I have to seal it up. Two exits later, I pull off the freeway, and we zigzag up onto a hill and cut through a giant batch of tract homes all built on a slant. Every one’s two or three stories tall. They’re houses with attics, you know? Every one with the same colors, like sand or wood or whatever, but nothing else. Pretty much the American dream if it wasn’t for the hourlong commute both ways every day.
    â€œWork in L.A.,” I say, “live way the fuck away.”
    â€œ La neta. ” Baseball agrees with me cuz he knows it’s the truth, and like that, we’re friends again.
    We stay that way through the front door, past the fake plants, and into the living room. There’s a kitchen right next to it, separated by a little wall with stools up against it. My connect is standing in there, mixing a drink and looking all sexy and shit.
    Through her thin silk robe, I can see a green-and-blue flowery bikini. She’s white, forties-ish, all tan and hippied out with a red flower in her hair, but she’s got good meat on her. Good thighs. Good ass. Tits to match. She’s solid.
    I didn’t believe when she first told me, but she’s actually a social worker. No shit, that’s her job. Puts her in touch with the right kind of people, I guess. Her old man’s up at Men’s Central Jail in L.A., but she runs his business on the outside. I don’t know her real name. Behind her back everybody I ever heard calls her Scarlet. I’m sure she knows and doesn’t mind it.
    The television’s on loud and her son’s sitting in front of it, leaning kind of hard toward the screen. It’s on