The Painted Boy by Charles DeLint Page A

the pool table said.
    His voice was quiet, but it snapped like a whip. The gangbangers stopped in their tracks.
    “I’m Flores,” he said to Jay. “What makes you think I’m looking for you?”
    Jay shrugged. Now that he knew that Flores was more than the gangster he pretended to be—just as Paupau was more than an old lady sitting in a back booth at the Dragon Garden back home—the tension left his shoulders.
    “How could I not know?” he asked.
    He was pleased with his response—it was the way Paupau would have answered. But then he saw El Tigre’s eyes narrow in angry suspicion and he realized he shouldn’t be getting cocky.
    He held his hands out in front of him, palms up.
    “I’m new in town,” he said. “I just thought it would be polite to meet you. I mean you no harm.”
    One of the gangbangers snickered. Flores didn’t look at him. He just said, “Shut up,” and continued to study Jay.
    “Who sent you?” he finally asked.
    “Nobody. My grandmother thought I should do some traveling, so I closed my eyes and stuck my finger on a map. Santo del Vado Viejo is what came up.”
    Flores nodded as though this made perfect sense.
    “Boss,” another of the gangbangers said when Flores continued to stand by the pool table, cue in hand, all his attention focused on Jay. “You want us to take this kid out back and—”
    Flores turned on the man. “Didn’t I tell you all to shut up?”
    “Yeah, but—”
    “Get out,” Flores told him. He waved his free hand to take in the rest of the room. “All of you get out of here.”
    From the angry looks the gangbangers shot his way as they filed out, Jay knew the smart thing to do was just stay where he was. He tried not to let the weight of El Tigre’s gaze worry at his nerves, but it was hard. Moment by moment he could feel the tension return to his neck and shoulders.
    “So no one sent you?” Flores said when the last of the gangbangers had filed out.
    “No, sir.”
    “And when you say you mean me no harm,” Flores went on, “do I have your word on that? That you won’t bring your weight, or the weight of your clan, down upon me?”
    Jay started to respond, but something in the other man’s careful phrasing made him stop and think first.
    “Yes, sir,” he said finally. “So long as you can guarantee a similar safety for me and, uh, those under my protection.”
    He hoped he’d said that right. Apparently he had, because Flores nodded and he seemed to relax.
    “But we’re only talking a deliberate attack, right?” he said. His phrasing lost some of its formality. “Because these bandas , they’re still just kids. They get into fistfights and crap like that.”
    “Um . . .”
    “But no weapons,” Flores said. “I get that. Nobody gets hurt for real on either side.”
    When he fell silent, Jay felt he was supposed to say something.
    “Right,” he said. “Well, I should get going.”
    Flores nodded. “I’ll put the word out. You ass’ll be as safe here as it was in—where did you say you were from?”
    This felt like a trick question that for some reason it was important he not answer.
    “I didn’t,” Jay said.
    “That’s right, you didn’t. But you got here on a bus from Chicago.”
    Jay shrugged.
    “Yeah, I know. That doesn’t mean anything. I appreciate your stopping by, kid. You can tell the boys to come back in on your way out.”
    He turned away from Jay and went back to lining up his shot on the pool table. Jay glanced from him to the man behind the counter, the woman at the corner table. The fat man ignored him but the woman winked at him before she looked away.
    What was that supposed to mean? Jay wondered as he made his way outside.
    His shoulders tensed again when he stepped out onto the street where the gangbangers were hanging around, smoking cigarettes. Their dark gazes turned on him as one.
    “Uh, Mr. Flores said that you can go back in,” Jay said.
    He walked quickly away before any of them could respond,