and exchanged cash for small packages hidden in their palms. After they walked away, two of the gangbangers stood and hit off their beer bottles, then began sparring, throwing slaps at each other until one backed off.
“Let’s go suggest a change of scenery to these
pendajos
,” Cody said, sliding open the glass door. We walked across the grassy area to where they stood.
“What’s going on, boys?” Cody said. The men stared at us with blank eyes. A couple of them were probably teenagers, the rest in their twenties. Tattoos covered their brown skin, their teeth flashed with silver caps, and the pants they wore sagged low on their hips.
“You want something?” said the largest of the bunch, his torso fat and barrel shaped. He stepped to within an arm’s length of Cody and gave him the dead eye.
“You want to sell drugs, go find somewhere else to do it,” I said, addressing a man with angular eyes and a square jaw. “The people living here have a right to this area.”
“You a funny man, homes,” he replied. “Maybe not too smart, though.”
“I think you’re the one with an intelligence issue,” Cody said. The fat man started to say something, but Cody shoved him and sent him sprawling over the table.
The
cholos
jumped at us, circling, getting in position to rush from all sides. I heard the flick of a knife, and saw a blade in the hand of one of the younger gangbangers. He came at me and I kicked his wrist, my foot extending over his head. The knife flew from his hand, then I grabbed him by the hair and pounded his face into the large pine tree shadowing the table. He flailed, but after the third blow he dropped to the ground, bleeding from the mouth and unconscious. Before I could turn, another one jumped on my back. I hit him hard in the ribs with an elbow, peeled his hand from my throat, and slapped him into a wrist lock. When he bent to keep his arm from breaking, I kicked him in the gut, and he collapsed and lay in the fetal position.
Two of the gang ran at Cody. One got behind him and swung a forty-ounce Budweiser bottle, shattering it over his skull. Cody turned and grabbed the man’s neck, then picked him up by the crotch and launched him into the other Latino. They went down in a heap.
The Mexicans regrouped, waving bottles and knives, circling. Cody and I were waiting for their attack when two men in street clothes walked into the square.
“Looks like cops,” Cody said, a thin trickle of blood running beside his ear.
Four of the gangbangers bolted, leaving the unconscious member lying near the tree. The two Cody and I had spoken to remained, apparently unconcerned about the arrival of whoever was coming our way. Probably because they weren’t holding drugs, I guessed.
“You recognize them?” Cody said, nodding at the white men walking toward us.
“I’ve seen the bigger guy before. Pretty sure he works for Douglas County.”
“What’s he doing in California, then?”
The two men approached and flashed badges.
“What happened to him?” said the smaller one, a pock-faced man with black hair. He pointed at the prone Latino, who lay near the picnic bench, blood trickling from his mouth.
“He was playing Frisbee and ran into the tree,” I said.
The man glared at me, but his big partner’s freckled face split into a grin.
“Don’t you hate it when that happens?” he said.
“If you two are here buying dope, you’re out of luck,” Pock Face said. “So get lost.” He began searching the two gangbangers, ignoring us as Cody and I backed away to the small patio of the Perez apartment. Theresa opened the sliding door while we watched the cops handcuff their suspects.
“It’s Rodrigo,” Theresa said. “Their leader.” She pointed to the slim man being led away. He was walking in starts and stops and leaning unexpectedly, making it difficult for the cop to guide him smoothly. It was an old prison trick.
“I guess our work is done here, huh?” I said to
“Let’s go suggest a change of scenery to these
pendajos
,” Cody said, sliding open the glass door. We walked across the grassy area to where they stood.
“What’s going on, boys?” Cody said. The men stared at us with blank eyes. A couple of them were probably teenagers, the rest in their twenties. Tattoos covered their brown skin, their teeth flashed with silver caps, and the pants they wore sagged low on their hips.
“You want something?” said the largest of the bunch, his torso fat and barrel shaped. He stepped to within an arm’s length of Cody and gave him the dead eye.
“You want to sell drugs, go find somewhere else to do it,” I said, addressing a man with angular eyes and a square jaw. “The people living here have a right to this area.”
“You a funny man, homes,” he replied. “Maybe not too smart, though.”
“I think you’re the one with an intelligence issue,” Cody said. The fat man started to say something, but Cody shoved him and sent him sprawling over the table.
The
cholos
jumped at us, circling, getting in position to rush from all sides. I heard the flick of a knife, and saw a blade in the hand of one of the younger gangbangers. He came at me and I kicked his wrist, my foot extending over his head. The knife flew from his hand, then I grabbed him by the hair and pounded his face into the large pine tree shadowing the table. He flailed, but after the third blow he dropped to the ground, bleeding from the mouth and unconscious. Before I could turn, another one jumped on my back. I hit him hard in the ribs with an elbow, peeled his hand from my throat, and slapped him into a wrist lock. When he bent to keep his arm from breaking, I kicked him in the gut, and he collapsed and lay in the fetal position.
Two of the gang ran at Cody. One got behind him and swung a forty-ounce Budweiser bottle, shattering it over his skull. Cody turned and grabbed the man’s neck, then picked him up by the crotch and launched him into the other Latino. They went down in a heap.
The Mexicans regrouped, waving bottles and knives, circling. Cody and I were waiting for their attack when two men in street clothes walked into the square.
“Looks like cops,” Cody said, a thin trickle of blood running beside his ear.
Four of the gangbangers bolted, leaving the unconscious member lying near the tree. The two Cody and I had spoken to remained, apparently unconcerned about the arrival of whoever was coming our way. Probably because they weren’t holding drugs, I guessed.
“You recognize them?” Cody said, nodding at the white men walking toward us.
“I’ve seen the bigger guy before. Pretty sure he works for Douglas County.”
“What’s he doing in California, then?”
The two men approached and flashed badges.
“What happened to him?” said the smaller one, a pock-faced man with black hair. He pointed at the prone Latino, who lay near the picnic bench, blood trickling from his mouth.
“He was playing Frisbee and ran into the tree,” I said.
The man glared at me, but his big partner’s freckled face split into a grin.
“Don’t you hate it when that happens?” he said.
“If you two are here buying dope, you’re out of luck,” Pock Face said. “So get lost.” He began searching the two gangbangers, ignoring us as Cody and I backed away to the small patio of the Perez apartment. Theresa opened the sliding door while we watched the cops handcuff their suspects.
“It’s Rodrigo,” Theresa said. “Their leader.” She pointed to the slim man being led away. He was walking in starts and stops and leaning unexpectedly, making it difficult for the cop to guide him smoothly. It was an old prison trick.
“I guess our work is done here, huh?” I said to
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