Free Zoot-Suit Murders by Thomas Sanchez Page B

Carr’s?”
    “Yah.” Younger winked. “I think you’re a real cute trick. But I think you ought to try a different toothpaste.” He turned and shoved his way past Tony Tomale and out the door.

13
    M orning light was beginning to streak the dirty streets of the Zona Roja with a tinge of steel gray. A single jeepload of helmeted Shore Patrolmen roamed up and down long empty blocks, on guard for the crumpled forms of any sailor they might have overlooked the night before, searching in side alleys cluttered with debris of empty beer bottles and the shifting flutter of loose papers scattering in a restless wind. There was not a taxicab in sight. Younger kept walking toward the blunt concrete finger of City Hall emerging in early dawn’s gray distance. On the roof of Jimmy Zapata’s bail-bond shop a black-and-white billboard stood out clearly in half-light: DIALGOD . A Shore Patrol jeep came around the corner before Younger, its engine echoing off empty storefronts like the metal purr of a speedboat across amountain lake. One of the Shore Patrolmen from the passing jeep tipped a club to his hard white helmet in a mock salute. “How you doing, Admiral?” The Shore Patrolman’s voice caught Younger by surprise. Younger saluted the man back and laughed. It never ceased to amaze him, whether the sailors had hard white helmets on or not, they were all so damn young, like his brother, Marvin, peachfuzz-faced kids. They’d better be good killers, because it made Younger uneasy to think they were the only ones out there keeping America safe. Up toward the concrete finger of City Hall the yellow shape of a cab floated through a deserted intersection, not stopping for the flashing red light. Younger called out. It was no use. He knew the cabbie couldn’t hear him. The Shore Patrol jeep passed out of sight behind him; the streetlights flickered. He walked faster, reading the posters in store windows as he began to trot:
    JUNK MAKES WEAPONS,
TURN IN YOUR OLD TOASTERS, SHOVELS, TIRES
AMERICA CALLING,
TAKE YOUR PLACE IN THE CIVILIAN DEFENSE:
BUY WAR BONDS, SAVE FREEDOM OF SPEECH,
SAVE DEMOCRACY
    Every window had a large poster of a sailor drowning in a fiery sea before a sinking ship, pointing an accusatory finger above the words, SOMEONE TALKED !
    Competing with the posters was a four-word slogan slashed in red paint on the sides and fronts of all buildings:
    ¡SINARQUISTAS POR LA RAZA!
    The yellow shape of a cab appeared again in the distant intersection. Younger ran faster, shouting for the cab to stop. It kept going. He turned down an alley, hoping to catch the cab on the next street. At the end of the alley he was nearly breathless; breaking out on the street, he saw the cab rounding thecorner and shouted. The cabbie saw him, clicking off the UNOCCUPIED light on the taxi roof and roaring down the middle of the street. Younger couldn’t understand why the cabbie was suddenly in such a hurry. Then he saw them, directly across the black pavement, the purple-green-and-yellow flash of their baggy suits bright as neon lights, brims of their wide hats like beaks of large angry birds as they kicked and screamed at a form in white cowering on the sidewalk before them. Younger ran across the street, the cab skidding to a stop behind him. One of the Zoots jerked around to the intrusive sound of the cab; he saw Younger running toward him and reached beneath his floppy coat. The click of a stiletto in the Zoot’s hand released a sudden silver flash of an eight-inch knife blade.
    “¡
Ese
! Back off, dude! Back off! It ain’t your fight!” The Zoot waved the blade before his face, swaggering like a bullfighter straight toward Younger. “Back off or I’ll dag you!”
    Younger heard the cab door swing open behind him, the cabbie shouting at the top of his lungs, “Get in, buddy! Get in!”
    “C’mon home to mama!” The Zoot jabbed the knife at Younger, making a loud sucking sound with his lips as his hand slashed the blade before