cry.”
No wonder she was all alone. Most men probably took one look at her and foresaw imminent castration. Divorced four years ago — this much he knew about her, and she had a teenage daughter who’d opted to live with her father up in Lake Tahoe. The only thing Boyd wondered was what had kept them from fleeing any sooner.
He still found himself puzzled by that initial desire he had felt for Madeline when she’d lured him from Cactus Dirk’s to the Ivory Coast. Dozens of other dealers and change girls and waitresses had been more his type: younger, cuter, less traveled. Maybe it was the way she’d moved — legs whose stride hinted at some ripened potency that years and mileage could not erode.
Admittedly, he’d not been free of self-interest. Madeline was, after all, casino brass, and her favor would do his career no harm. Then she’d put forth the suggestion that they skim the take from his table. It was a win-win situation, really.
As Boyd drove, Derek directed him along freeways and local mains, down into the heart of East Hollywood, where Derek said he could purchase the raw ore of a new identity. Big business down here, catering primarily to the illegals up from Mexico, in need of documentation for work and benefits and phony citizenship.
Boyd eyeballed the lay of the land — bodegas and liquor stores with barred windows, shabby storefronts and skeletal remnants that had been burned out years ago in the riots, and cars that didn’t appear to have been running for at least that long. Music thudded, each bass note pounding hard as a railroad spike, while lowriders banged up and down along the streets on hydraulic chassis. And everywhere, on every wall, graffiti demarcated asphalt into boundaries. He looked at all the brown faces, began to feel pale and obvious, positively Scandinavian.
“Just let me do the talking,” said Derek. “And you listen to me, I know you — you want to poke some guy’s sister, you keep it to yourself, hear?” Derek motioned him toward a curbside roost, went on as Boyd wheeled over: “Long as everybody respects each other, it’s cool down here, these guys’ll give you no grief. The cholos, the marielitos … basically honorable guys, I’ve found. A lot more chilled out than most of the blacks, and nobody’s holding you personally responsible for four hundred years of slavery.”
“What are you saying, you’ve done some sort of business with these guys before?”
“These barrios down here, everybody went riot-crazy after the Simi Valley verdict, but how many do you think really gave a shit those cops got off for playing stickball with Rodney King? It was just an excuse to loot.” Derek shrugged. “Some stereos got looted, some looters needed a place to move them, I sell stereos … you do the math, little brother.”
Boyd nodded with admiration. Urban wartime profits were to be made, and where had he been? Up in Seattle trying to sell swimming pools and spas to people who’d just as soon finger him as one more multimillion-dollar defendant should their clumsy kids drown.
The new ID process couldn’t have gone more smoothly, and offered curbside service. An entrepreneurial teenage gang-banger in Air Jordans served as a runner between the car window and one of the scabby buildings. Twenty-five minutes and $120 later, Boyd had a new Social Security card and birth certificate. The kid said he could throw in a green card, too, for that base price, although Boyd declined. With the two new documents, the kid explained, he now had all he needed to obtain a new driver’s license, sign up for government benefits … all the same advantages of life he had enjoyed as Boyd Dobbins, but with none of the entangling legal baggage, should any come back to haunt.
“Well worth it, of course,” Boyd said minutes later, back on the freeway, “but this new name, I don’t know. Look at me, I don’t look like a Peter Wackermann. Do you think I look like a Peter
No wonder she was all alone. Most men probably took one look at her and foresaw imminent castration. Divorced four years ago — this much he knew about her, and she had a teenage daughter who’d opted to live with her father up in Lake Tahoe. The only thing Boyd wondered was what had kept them from fleeing any sooner.
He still found himself puzzled by that initial desire he had felt for Madeline when she’d lured him from Cactus Dirk’s to the Ivory Coast. Dozens of other dealers and change girls and waitresses had been more his type: younger, cuter, less traveled. Maybe it was the way she’d moved — legs whose stride hinted at some ripened potency that years and mileage could not erode.
Admittedly, he’d not been free of self-interest. Madeline was, after all, casino brass, and her favor would do his career no harm. Then she’d put forth the suggestion that they skim the take from his table. It was a win-win situation, really.
As Boyd drove, Derek directed him along freeways and local mains, down into the heart of East Hollywood, where Derek said he could purchase the raw ore of a new identity. Big business down here, catering primarily to the illegals up from Mexico, in need of documentation for work and benefits and phony citizenship.
Boyd eyeballed the lay of the land — bodegas and liquor stores with barred windows, shabby storefronts and skeletal remnants that had been burned out years ago in the riots, and cars that didn’t appear to have been running for at least that long. Music thudded, each bass note pounding hard as a railroad spike, while lowriders banged up and down along the streets on hydraulic chassis. And everywhere, on every wall, graffiti demarcated asphalt into boundaries. He looked at all the brown faces, began to feel pale and obvious, positively Scandinavian.
“Just let me do the talking,” said Derek. “And you listen to me, I know you — you want to poke some guy’s sister, you keep it to yourself, hear?” Derek motioned him toward a curbside roost, went on as Boyd wheeled over: “Long as everybody respects each other, it’s cool down here, these guys’ll give you no grief. The cholos, the marielitos … basically honorable guys, I’ve found. A lot more chilled out than most of the blacks, and nobody’s holding you personally responsible for four hundred years of slavery.”
“What are you saying, you’ve done some sort of business with these guys before?”
“These barrios down here, everybody went riot-crazy after the Simi Valley verdict, but how many do you think really gave a shit those cops got off for playing stickball with Rodney King? It was just an excuse to loot.” Derek shrugged. “Some stereos got looted, some looters needed a place to move them, I sell stereos … you do the math, little brother.”
Boyd nodded with admiration. Urban wartime profits were to be made, and where had he been? Up in Seattle trying to sell swimming pools and spas to people who’d just as soon finger him as one more multimillion-dollar defendant should their clumsy kids drown.
The new ID process couldn’t have gone more smoothly, and offered curbside service. An entrepreneurial teenage gang-banger in Air Jordans served as a runner between the car window and one of the scabby buildings. Twenty-five minutes and $120 later, Boyd had a new Social Security card and birth certificate. The kid said he could throw in a green card, too, for that base price, although Boyd declined. With the two new documents, the kid explained, he now had all he needed to obtain a new driver’s license, sign up for government benefits … all the same advantages of life he had enjoyed as Boyd Dobbins, but with none of the entangling legal baggage, should any come back to haunt.
“Well worth it, of course,” Boyd said minutes later, back on the freeway, “but this new name, I don’t know. Look at me, I don’t look like a Peter Wackermann. Do you think I look like a Peter
Similar Books
