same.
He loved to drive by the St. Ignatio School
where the priests and sisters had tried to beat some religion into him and make
him like all the other sheep they imprisoned in their classrooms. He loved to
stop in front of the adobe chapel and blow the horn until one of those
black-robed fools came out, then give them the dirty-digit salute and screech
away.
He knew where his mother was living—still in
the same old shack down in the Camino Verde settlement where he'd been born—but
he never visited her. They'd be ice-skating in hell before he gave that puta the time of day. Always putting him
down, always saying he was a good-for-nothing puerco just like his father. Emilio had never known his father, and
he'd spent years hating him for deserting his family. But after Emilio's last
blowup with his mother, he no longer blamed his old man for leaving.
That blowup had come when Emilio turned twenty
and took the bouncer job at The Cockscomb, the toughest, meanest, low-rent
whorehouse in Tijuana . His mother had kicked him out of the trailer, telling him he was going
to hell, that he was going to die before he was twenty-one. Emilio had
sauntered off and never looked back.
He proved himself at The Cockscomb. He'd been
fighting since he was a kid and he'd learned every cheap, dirty, back-alley
brawling trick there ever was, usually the hard way. He had the scars to prove
it. He was good with a knife—very good. He'd stabbed his share and had been
stabbed a few times in return. One of his opponents had died, writhing on the
floor at his feet. Emilio had felt nothing.
He started working out, popping steroids and
bulking up until his shoulders were too wide for most doorways. He had a short
fuse to begin with, and the juice trimmed it down to the nub.
But not to where he was out of control. Never
out of control. He always eased the belligerent drunken Americanos out to the street, but heaven help the locals who got
out of line. Emilio would beat them to a pulp and love every bloody minute of
it. Another man died from one of those beatings, but he'd deserved it. Over the
succeeding years he caused the death of three more men—two with a blade, and
one with a bullet.
He moved up quickly through the Tijuana sex world, from whorehouses, to brothels,
to chief enforcer at the renowned Blue Senorita, a high-ticket bordello and
tavern that catered almost exclusively to Americanos. Orosco, the owner, liked to brag that the Blue Senorita was a
"full-service whorehouse," catering to all tastes—strip shows, live
sex shows, donkey sex shows; where a man could have a woman, or another man, or
a young girl, or a young boy, or—if he had the energy and a fat enough
wallet—all four. For his first few years at the Blue Senorita Emilio had been
proud of his position—inordinately so, he now thought— but the sameness of its
nightly routine, along with the realization that he had risen as far as he
could go and that somewhere along the corridor of his years, when he'd aged and
softened and slowed, he'd be replaced by someone younger and stronger and
hungrier. Then he'd find himself out on the street with no income, no savings,
no pension. And he'd wind up one of those useless old men who hung around the
square in their cigarette-burned shirts and their pee-stained pants, sipping
from bottles of cheap wine and yammering to anybody who'd listen about their
younger days when they'd had all the money they could spend, and any women they
wanted. When they'd been somebody instead
of nobody.
He could see no future in Tijuana . Nowhere in all of Mexico . Perhaps America was the place. But maybe it was too late
for him in America . He would be turning thirty soon. And how would he get in? Damned if
he'd be a wetback. Not after practically
He loved to drive by the St. Ignatio School
where the priests and sisters had tried to beat some religion into him and make
him like all the other sheep they imprisoned in their classrooms. He loved to
stop in front of the adobe chapel and blow the horn until one of those
black-robed fools came out, then give them the dirty-digit salute and screech
away.
He knew where his mother was living—still in
the same old shack down in the Camino Verde settlement where he'd been born—but
he never visited her. They'd be ice-skating in hell before he gave that puta the time of day. Always putting him
down, always saying he was a good-for-nothing puerco just like his father. Emilio had never known his father, and
he'd spent years hating him for deserting his family. But after Emilio's last
blowup with his mother, he no longer blamed his old man for leaving.
That blowup had come when Emilio turned twenty
and took the bouncer job at The Cockscomb, the toughest, meanest, low-rent
whorehouse in Tijuana . His mother had kicked him out of the trailer, telling him he was going
to hell, that he was going to die before he was twenty-one. Emilio had
sauntered off and never looked back.
He proved himself at The Cockscomb. He'd been
fighting since he was a kid and he'd learned every cheap, dirty, back-alley
brawling trick there ever was, usually the hard way. He had the scars to prove
it. He was good with a knife—very good. He'd stabbed his share and had been
stabbed a few times in return. One of his opponents had died, writhing on the
floor at his feet. Emilio had felt nothing.
He started working out, popping steroids and
bulking up until his shoulders were too wide for most doorways. He had a short
fuse to begin with, and the juice trimmed it down to the nub.
But not to where he was out of control. Never
out of control. He always eased the belligerent drunken Americanos out to the street, but heaven help the locals who got
out of line. Emilio would beat them to a pulp and love every bloody minute of
it. Another man died from one of those beatings, but he'd deserved it. Over the
succeeding years he caused the death of three more men—two with a blade, and
one with a bullet.
He moved up quickly through the Tijuana sex world, from whorehouses, to brothels,
to chief enforcer at the renowned Blue Senorita, a high-ticket bordello and
tavern that catered almost exclusively to Americanos. Orosco, the owner, liked to brag that the Blue Senorita was a
"full-service whorehouse," catering to all tastes—strip shows, live
sex shows, donkey sex shows; where a man could have a woman, or another man, or
a young girl, or a young boy, or—if he had the energy and a fat enough
wallet—all four. For his first few years at the Blue Senorita Emilio had been
proud of his position—inordinately so, he now thought— but the sameness of its
nightly routine, along with the realization that he had risen as far as he
could go and that somewhere along the corridor of his years, when he'd aged and
softened and slowed, he'd be replaced by someone younger and stronger and
hungrier. Then he'd find himself out on the street with no income, no savings,
no pension. And he'd wind up one of those useless old men who hung around the
square in their cigarette-burned shirts and their pee-stained pants, sipping
from bottles of cheap wine and yammering to anybody who'd listen about their
younger days when they'd had all the money they could spend, and any women they
wanted. When they'd been somebody instead
of nobody.
He could see no future in Tijuana . Nowhere in all of Mexico . Perhaps America was the place. But maybe it was too late
for him in America . He would be turning thirty soon. And how would he get in? Damned if
he'd be a wetback. Not after practically
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