managing The Blue Senorita.
The featureless corridor of his future seemed
to stretch on ahead, with no exits or side passages. Just a single door at the
far end. Emilio promised himself to keep an eye peeled for a way out of that
corridor.
Charlie Crenshaw turned out to be that way.
Emilio hadn't realized that at first. The
pudgy, brown-haired, blue-eyed boy had looked terribly young when he stumbled
into the Blue Senorita that night ten years ago. He'd been roaring drunk and
obviously under age, but he'd flashed his money and spread it generously, and
everyone had nudged each other when he bought doe-eyed Jose for an hour.
When the maricon's time was up, Emilio had let him out a side door and stood watching to make
sure he got good and far away from The Blue Senorita before he forgot about
him. But at the mouth of the alley the kid was jumped by three young malos. Emilio hesitated. Served the
little maricon right to be beat up
and robbed, but not on The Blue Senorita's doorstep. The local policia wouldn't care— Orosco paid them
plenty not to—but if the brat got killed there could be a shitstorm from the
States and that might lead to trouble from the capital.
Cursing under his breath, Emilio had pulled on
his weighted leather gloves and charged up the alley. By the time he waded into
the fight, the kid was already down and being used as a soccer ball. Emilio let
loose on the malos. He crushed noses,
crunched ribs, cracked jaws, shattered teeth, and broke at least one arm. He
smashed them up and left them in a bleeding, crying, gagging, choking pile
because it was his job to look out for The Blue Senorita's interests, because
he wanted to make sure these malos never
prowled The Blue Senorita's neighborhood again.
Because he liked it.
He dragged the unconscious kid back to the
side door and checked out his wallet. He learned his name was Charles Crenshaw
and that he was only fifteen. Fifteen! Hell to pay if he'd been kicked to death
out here. He shuffled through pictures of the boy with his parents, posed at
different ages before different homes. As the boy grew, so did the houses. The
most recent was a palace.
The little maricon was rich.
And then Emilio came to a photo of the boy and
his father standing before a building with a shiny CRENSOFT sign over the
reflecting pool set in the front lawn. CrenSoft . . . Crenshaw . . . the rich
boy's father owned a company.
As he stared at the wallet, thoughts of
blackmail, and even ransom tickled Emilio's mind. But those were just quick
fixes. They would change nothing. Perhaps there was another way. . .
And somewhere down the long,
featureless corridor of his future, he saw a red EXIT sign begin to glow.
Emilio threw Charlie over his shoulder and
carried him back to his apartment. He placed a call to the family, told the
father where Charlie was, and said to come get him. Then he sat back and
waited.
The father arrived at dawn. He was taller than
Emilio, and about ten years older. Every move, every glance was wary and full
of suspicion. He had another man with him; Emilio later learned he was the
father's pilot. When Emilio showed him Charlie's battered, unconscious form,
the father's face went white. He rushed to the bed and shook the boy's
shoulder. When Charlie groaned and turned over, the father seemed satisfied
that he was only sleeping it off. Emilio noticed him checking to make sure his
son's watch and ring were still where they belonged.
When the father spoke, his voice was
tight and harsh.
"Who did this?"
"Tres
malos," Emilio said. His English was not very
The featureless corridor of his future seemed
to stretch on ahead, with no exits or side passages. Just a single door at the
far end. Emilio promised himself to keep an eye peeled for a way out of that
corridor.
Charlie Crenshaw turned out to be that way.
Emilio hadn't realized that at first. The
pudgy, brown-haired, blue-eyed boy had looked terribly young when he stumbled
into the Blue Senorita that night ten years ago. He'd been roaring drunk and
obviously under age, but he'd flashed his money and spread it generously, and
everyone had nudged each other when he bought doe-eyed Jose for an hour.
When the maricon's time was up, Emilio had let him out a side door and stood watching to make
sure he got good and far away from The Blue Senorita before he forgot about
him. But at the mouth of the alley the kid was jumped by three young malos. Emilio hesitated. Served the
little maricon right to be beat up
and robbed, but not on The Blue Senorita's doorstep. The local policia wouldn't care— Orosco paid them
plenty not to—but if the brat got killed there could be a shitstorm from the
States and that might lead to trouble from the capital.
Cursing under his breath, Emilio had pulled on
his weighted leather gloves and charged up the alley. By the time he waded into
the fight, the kid was already down and being used as a soccer ball. Emilio let
loose on the malos. He crushed noses,
crunched ribs, cracked jaws, shattered teeth, and broke at least one arm. He
smashed them up and left them in a bleeding, crying, gagging, choking pile
because it was his job to look out for The Blue Senorita's interests, because
he wanted to make sure these malos never
prowled The Blue Senorita's neighborhood again.
Because he liked it.
He dragged the unconscious kid back to the
side door and checked out his wallet. He learned his name was Charles Crenshaw
and that he was only fifteen. Fifteen! Hell to pay if he'd been kicked to death
out here. He shuffled through pictures of the boy with his parents, posed at
different ages before different homes. As the boy grew, so did the houses. The
most recent was a palace.
The little maricon was rich.
And then Emilio came to a photo of the boy and
his father standing before a building with a shiny CRENSOFT sign over the
reflecting pool set in the front lawn. CrenSoft . . . Crenshaw . . . the rich
boy's father owned a company.
As he stared at the wallet, thoughts of
blackmail, and even ransom tickled Emilio's mind. But those were just quick
fixes. They would change nothing. Perhaps there was another way. . .
And somewhere down the long,
featureless corridor of his future, he saw a red EXIT sign begin to glow.
Emilio threw Charlie over his shoulder and
carried him back to his apartment. He placed a call to the family, told the
father where Charlie was, and said to come get him. Then he sat back and
waited.
The father arrived at dawn. He was taller than
Emilio, and about ten years older. Every move, every glance was wary and full
of suspicion. He had another man with him; Emilio later learned he was the
father's pilot. When Emilio showed him Charlie's battered, unconscious form,
the father's face went white. He rushed to the bed and shook the boy's
shoulder. When Charlie groaned and turned over, the father seemed satisfied
that he was only sleeping it off. Emilio noticed him checking to make sure his
son's watch and ring were still where they belonged.
When the father spoke, his voice was
tight and harsh.
"Who did this?"
"Tres
malos," Emilio said. His English was not very
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