Read Over My Head (Wildlings) Online

Authors: Charles de Lint

Over My Head (Wildlings) (15 page)

BOOK: Over My Head (Wildlings)
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"Why's that so funny?" I ask him.

With our Wildling hearing we have no problem understanding each other, even over the roar of the motorcycle and the wind in our ears.

"Because the Kings are all loco," he says. "There's no negotiating with them."

"Then why are you even taking me to this meeting?"

"They'll go after Marina and her family. I don't know why
you're
going, but
I'm
going to break some heads."

"You told your friend Aina that we were just going to talk, and you told me that you weren't coming as an Ocean Aver."

"I say a lot of things I don't mean."

"I need to try talking first," I tell him.

"Sure, bro. It's all your show until they make it into something else. Shouldn't take too long for that to happen."

So I've got a bad feeling about this as we finally pull off South Shore Drive into the dirt parking lot beside Casa Raphael. A half-dozen cars are parked in the lot. Most are the custom, pimped rides that the Kings prefer, but there's also a real beater of a pickup truck. Chaingang pulls in beside the pickup.

"Now that's a nice ride," he says.

He's looking at the pickup. The only thing that seems to be holding its rusted panels together is a thick coating of encrusted mud and dirt.

"You're kidding, right?" I say.

"Come on, bro. It's a classic fifties Ford. J-Dog would know the year."

I want to say, no, it's an old beat-up excuse of a truck that looks even worse than it is beside all these cool custom rides. Instead I just shrug and turn to look at the restaurant.

Casa Raphael doesn't try to get the tourist trade. It looks like a bunker: a long one-storey adobe building with a tar-and-gravel roof. There's some dead grass along the verge between the building and the parking lots, with a pair of raggedy palms out front, facing South Shore. A few ratty agave plants and cacti complete the landscaping. The neon sign doesn't even have a name. It just reads "Taquería." A cracked wooden oval sign over the door says "Casa Raphael" in chalky, peeling turquoise paint.

"You sure you want to go through with this?" Chaingang asks.

I turn to look at him. "No. But I've got to do something."

"Be cool," he says. "We'll just play it by ear. I try not to over-think crap like this, myself."

I nod in agreement. What else am I going to do? Tell him, no, let's just get out of here? How's that going to help the Lopez family? But I can't shake the bad feeling I got when we first pulled into the parking lot.

Chaingang leads the way to the door. When we step inside, it's like one of those old Westerns. The place goes still and everybody turns to look at us. They're all Kings with their tattoos and hard faces, except for one old Mexican guy sitting by the window who looks to be a hundred years old. He's wearing faded jeans, cowboy boots and a checked flannel shirt, all of which set him apart even more from the bangers in their fancy running shoes, baggy T's and pants.

The decor's what you'd expect. Old Formica tables, battered wooden chairs. Nobody seems to be eating, except for the old guy, who's got a plate of enchiladas on the table in front of him. Everybody else is just waiting. Eight or nine of them are sitting around at various tables. The Wildling in me tells me there are two more behind us on either side of the door.

"Chico," Chaingang says to a guy sitting by himself in the middle of the long room.

He's got a shaved head covered in tats, which run down his neck and under his T-shirt until they emerge again in tattooed sleeves that cover both arms. Even the backs of his hands are tattooed. He gives us a big grin, showing off a gold-capped front tooth, but his dark eyes don't hold any humour.

"Chaingang Washington," Chico says. "Nice of you to come down to our part of town. Is this what you'd call slumming?"

"I'm just here for a conversation."

"You were supposed to come alone."

Chaingang jerks a thumb in my direction. "Josh here's the one who wants the conversation. I just came along to give him a lift."

"So he's not under your protection? He doesn't ride with you?"

"Josh doesn't need anybody's protection."

The dark eyes settle on me.

"That so?" Chico says. "Then who fucked up your face, boy?"

Before I can answer, Chaingang cuts in. "A word of advice. You really don't want to piss him off."

Chico's gaze flits to Chaingang, then back to me. But now he's studying me. I guess he's trying to figure out what he's missing, or if Chaingang's just yanking him.

"So you're a tough guy," Chico says.

"I didn't come to talk about that," I tell him. "I came to talk about the Lopez family."

"Yeah? So talk."

"I want to know what it would take for you to leave them alone."

"Me, I got no beef with them," Chico says. "Trucho—now that's another matter."

"Trucho and I came to our own agreement last night," I tell him.

I see a considering look come into Chico's eyes.

"That was
you
with the hitman from the Solís Cartel?"

"He's not with the cartel. He's an FBI agent. But none of that matters—" Chico holds up a hand, cutting me off.

"I need to check you for a wire," he says.

I glance at Chaingang and he gives me an almost imperceptible nod.

"Sure," I say. "Do your thing."

Someone comes up behind me, but Chico holds up his hand again.

"No pat down," he tells me. "Strip."

I don't bother to look at Chaingang this time. I just pull off my T-shirt and drop my cargos to the floor.

"Man, somebody really did a number on the little rat," Chico says as he takes in the bruises that cover my body.

A couple of the Kings snicker.

I shrug. "Have you seen enough?"

I'm not planning to take off my boxers, I don't care who Chico thinks he is.

"Sure, sure," Chico says. Then he adds, "So what're you doing with the FBI? We don't get mixed up with federal crap."

Yeah, I think as I pull up my pants. Like the drug trade doesn't cross State lines.

"He's just a guy I know," I tell him.

"So talking about him—is that supposed to scare me? Is that why you brought him up?"

"Actually, you brought him up."

I pull my T-shirt back on.

"Are you dissing me, boy?" Chico says.

I sigh. "That's twice you've called me 'boy,'" I tell him. "You know my name. Use it."

"Or what?"

I realize I have to change my approach. It's not that I'm so prideful, or that I haven't been called worse. It's just becoming clear that unless I do something drastic, this thug is never going to take me seriously. If it were just me, I'd walk away. But Marina and her family are at stake here and that's a whole other ball game.

I look at Chaingang. "I don't have time for this," I tell him. "Would you mind waiting outside?"

"Josh …"

I ignore the warning in his eyes. I know what he's trying to tell me. Be cool. Don't shift in front of civilians.

"Would you just
do
it?" I say, unable to keep the edge from my voice.

I don't know what he sees in my face, but he gives a slow nod and turns toward the door. I wait until I hear it close behind him, then I walk up to Chico's table. I think about all those action movies I've watched with Des and I feel stupid trying to play the part of one of their tough guy heroes. But it worked with Trucho and I need to do something to get Chico to actually listen.

"Okay," I tell him. "We've established that I'm not wearing a wire, you don't like black people, and somebody beat me up recently. Is that about it?"

He gives me the easy grin that still doesn't reach his eyes and spreads his hands.

"Come on, amigo," he says. "What makes you think I don't like—"

"I asked you, is that
it
?"

Those hard eyes of his go harder still.

"There's eleven of us," he says, "and you just sent the only chance you had to survive a fight with us out the door. Is this really how you want to play it … boy?"

I give him a smile that I'm not really feeling. Inside, I'm starting to feel nauseous. Only two things are keeping me standing: the thought of what'll happen to Marina and her family, and the mountain lion that's swelling under my skin, just aching to be let loose.

"Here's what I want," I tell him. "You leave the Lopez family alone. Period. Got it?"

"Or else what?"

"Or else I break the bunch of you into pieces, starting with you. And I won't stop like I did with Trucho last night. They're going to need body bags to drag you out of here by the time I'm done."

I hold his gaze until he suddenly laughs and leans back in his chair.

"Heh!" he says. "You really mean it. You've either got the biggest
cojones
of any kid I've ever met, or you're pure loco. Which is it …" He waits a long beat before he finishes with "Josh?"

But I'm done playing nice. I know I can't back down now that I've started.

"You didn't answer my question," I say. "Will you leave them alone?"

"It's not up to me, kid. It's up to Fat Boy."

"Then will you give him my message?"

Chico shakes his head. "You really don't want to pull this crap with Fat Boy. He chews up little boys like you for breakfast and spits out the bones."

"He won't find that as easy as he thinks."

"You know, you need to be taught some respect, kid." Chico says. "We're not just a bunch of
cholos
running around like we don't have a clue. You come against one of us, then you come up against us all. That's something you maybe should have thought about before you walked in here."

"Will you give him my message?" I repeat.

Chico gives me another shake of his head. "Fat Boy does whatever he wants and we do what he tells us. I'm not going to him with some crap like this."

"Then I guess I have to make
you
the message," I say.

He gives me another smile, but this one goes all the way up to his eyes.

"Oh,
ese
," he says, "you know you're not walking out of here in one piece—right?"

I know what I have to do. I have to make him know that I'm serious, just the way I did with Trucho last night. As I start for him, he makes a motion with his hand. I don't know what it means until it suddenly feels like I've been punched in the back.

No, not punched.

The sound is like a clap of thunder in this enclosed space.

I've been shot.

It's like when the goons from ValentiCorp Tasered me. Everything slows way down, but it's moving too fast at the same time. The impact lifts me off my feet and slams me against Chico's table. The bullet goes right through me. Blood sprays out of the sudden hole in my chest where the bullet bursts out.

The shock hits me first. Stuns me. My ears ring.

Then comes the pain.

I can feel everything shutting down inside and a great black wave is flooding my head.

The table tilts when I hit it and follows me down to the floor.

I try to suck in air, but my lungs are filling with blood.

I sprawl on the floor.

The edge of the table lands on my back and the impact makes me spew blood out of my mouth.

I remember Chaingang warning me:
The Kings are all loco. There's no negotiating with them
.

I should have listened to him.

Then in the flooding dark I hear Chico say, "This is how you send a message … boy."

Chaingang

Some have it and some don't. Some people can lay down the law with one look and there's no arguing. J-Dog can be like that—with the gang, no question, if not always with me. Grandma, every damn time. Hell, I'm twice her size and she could probably still give me a licking.

But Josh having that something?

If you'd asked me before today, I'd have had to laugh. He's a good kid, no question, but a leader? Sorry, that would be a big
no
.

But today. When we're standing in Casa Raphael—and he has to look
up
at me fercrissakes—I see the determination in his eyes. Back at my crib when he came to my door, I saw a foreshadowing of this iron will, but nothing like this.

Don't get me wrong. He doesn't scare me. The only thing that scares me is getting attached to people because then you're at their mercy. They can be taken away or can turn their backs on you. Just walk out of your life all on their own.

Seeing Josh like this … now I get why the elders want him so badly. Why they
need
him to step up before everything goes to hell between the humans and us. Just look at him: Wildling, multiracial, raised by a single mom, a genuine true-blue guy with more than a bit of steel in him. The kind of kid who'll stand up to scrutiny while they run the show from the shadows.

So while my gut tells me that leaving him alone with the Kings is the last thing I should do, the Wildling in me says to let him call the shots here. And it's not because his mountain lion is so much bigger than the mouse in me. It's because there's something in who he is now that's bigger than I'll ever be. Josh standing in front of me in Casa Raphael with that big old mountain lion under his skin commands my respect.

So I walk out of the taquería.

But listen up, I'm not stupid. I don't trust the Kings because I've yet to meet one that isn't a little nuts.

So I walk over to my bike and grab the crowbar I keep sheathed along the bottom of the tank. I return to the door and stand there, listening, ready. Except when it happens, I'm way too late to do shit.

At the sound of the gunshot I slam through the door. The crowbar comes down on the gunman's arm so hard that the doctors are never going to be able to put all those bone shards back together. I tap the fool on his head with the crowbar as he's falling, and snatch his gun out of the air. Then I'm facing the room in a crouch, ready for anything.

Anything, except for what I see.

Jesus, Josh.

He's sprawled on the floor in front of Chico, the table lying half on him, and there's blood spurting everywhere. The banger I took out is unconscious on the floor beside me. There's dead silence. The rest of the King's all have handguns and a couple of shotguns pointed at me. All except for Chico. He's just sitting there with this shit-eating grin, Josh at his feet, the kid no longer breathing.

BOOK: Over My Head (Wildlings)
9Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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