Free Burning Midnight by Loren D. Estleman

a gray T-shirt with a stylized sunrise screen-printed on it, khaki cargo pants two sizes too large but cinched tightly with a broad leather belt, and two-hundred-dollar Nikes that looked freshly swiped from the store. No tarantula tattoo: But I think I’d heard somewhere that that was for members who had to prove they were worthy of belonging. The founders were exempt.
    I said, “I thought someone else was carrying your gun these days.”
    â€œYou here to arrest me?” He had almost no accent.
    â€œI leave that kind of thing to the cops. They’ve got the manpower to do it all over again when someone takes your place.” I tilted my head toward the door behind him. “That’s a heroin nap. It’s not good business to raid your own stock.”
    â€œCut him some slack. Today’s his eighteenth birthday. Not a small thing to know your life’s almost over.”
    â€œDoesn’t have to be.”
    â€œYou don’t know what you’re talking about.” One of his caved-in cheeks poked out, bulged by his tongue. “Walker, right?”
    â€œSí, está correcto.”
    He shook his head. “It makes me puke when Anglos try to speak Spanish.”
    I moved a shoulder. “You can’t be far from eighteen yourself.”
    â€œI’m twenty. Just about used up. You’re trespassing. Why?”
    I doubted anyone but the Jesuits had clear title to the place, but I let that one ride. “In a minute. I saw Little Miss Mexico on the stairs. She ought to be playing jacks.”
    â€œJacks, Petes, she’s not choosy. If you want a fix-up, talk to her. I’m not in that racket.”
    â€œEvery word, every little move, straight from the script. Don’t you boys watch anything but Scarface ?”
    â€œ Carlito’s Way. Less clowning, more plot.”
    â€œListen to Rex Reed. I’m doing you a favor. Girl like her could put you both in the joint and save you the trouble of dying in the street.”
    He smiled. He had good teeth. “I guess where you come from jail’s a really bad thing.”
    â€œI’m going to reach inside my coat. For a picture. Okay?”
    â€œDescribe it to me.”
    â€œSixteen, five-ten, but about your weight. His name’s Ernesto Pasada.”
    â€œI don’t know him.”
    â€œToo thin. The neighborhood isn’t that big, and you don’t really all look alike.”
    â€œMaybe I’ve seen him. What’s your end?”
    â€œHis sister wants him back.”
    â€œWhy tell me?”
    â€œYou’re the man to see in Mexicantown.”
    â€œDomingo’s the man to see. I’m just a peon.”
    â€œI can’t wait around for him to sober up. I work by the day.”
    â€œTalk to Nesto. He’s old enough to wipe his own ass.”
    â€œTell me where he is and I’ll give it a whirl.”
    â€œI haven’t seen him in months.”
    â€œNo good. His tarantula hasn’t had time to heal.”
    â€œAnyone can get a tattoo.”
    â€œIf he doesn’t mind leaving that hand behind when he goes home. No ink artist in town would touch the job without gang endorsement. Come on, Luís. Your type never forgets a wrong or an insult. Last I knew there was a thousand bucks riding on the head of the cop who put down your brother.”
    â€œThat’s a lie. I wouldn’t pay anyone else to do my work.”
    â€œSure you would. You’re as yellow as Siete. He’s afraid he won’t live long enough to buy a drink legally.”
    That shot him right out of his expensive sneakers, that did. His smile didn’t flicker. “Time to go, amigo. You get a free pass today, it being today.”
    â€œSure. Tell him happy birthday. I hear he celebrated early by setting fire to the Tiger’s garage.”
    â€œDid Zorborón tell you that? He’s an old lady.”
    â€œHe can take care of himself. I’m more concerned