More kids pressed at the car’s windows, peering in, offering Selah and Cloud junk. They crawled forward, following the interminable descent down into the valley below. The one-eyed kid walked alongside, a constant shadow against the fronts of the shacks. Fifteen minutes passed, the smell of burning rubber and garbage returning now, the air heavy with dust and coal. The kid stepped forward again, and knocked on Selah’s window.
“Here we go,” said Cloud, but Selah went ahead and did so.
“Look,” said the kid, peeling something off the outside of her door. It was a sticker, simple and faded blue. “See?”
“See what?”
“You got tagged. This sticker, it means you were picked out. One of the kids, they saw you had good stuff inside.” The kid grinned cheerfully at her. “A few blocks farther down? A couple of guys with guns watch for cars with stickers. They will come up, gun in your window, and take everything you have.”
Selah looked over at Cloud, who shook his head. “Who’s to say he didn’t stick that thing on there himself?”
The kid snorted and rolled his eye dramatically. “Ai dios, what, it going to take guns in your face for you to believe? I bet, even then, you will say, ‘Oh, man, that kid is good, these guns look almost real.’”
Cloud couldn’t help himself—his dour stare slipped and he laughed. Selah grinned. “What’s your name?”
“Ramonito. I swear to you, I’m not lying. You are in big trouble if you keep going.”
“Ramonito,” said Selah, testing the name on her tongue. “I’m Selah. This is Cloud. How long you been in LA?”
“All my life.” He seemed happy to share. “I was born in Pomona during the War, but my father, he moved us up here to get away from the gangs, to make some money. He always said we would leave, go to Nevada, or Utah, but when my mother died, he gave up. Now I work, but one day? I will save enough to buy a bus ticket to San Diego, and move to the Mexican Free States.” He was still walking alongside them, giving the occasional dirty look to any other kid who tried to press in. His looks were vicious; the other kids kept back.
“There, see? That is the 210 overpass. They wait for you there. They come up, take all your stuff, maybe hit you to scare you, and then run to hide until you drive on and the next marked car comes by. It is a very good system. They work it all day.” Ramonito nodded approvingly.
Selah and Cloud peered ahead. An overpass soared over the slums, an improbable concrete bridge that arched out over their highway. Homes had been built on it, rendering it useless for traffic, three- or even four-story cinderblock and brick houses and huts from whose bases vines and plants grew down to trail over the tops of the cars that passed beneath. Cloud dug into his pack in the backseat, and pulled out a pair of binoculars. He scanned the bridge, and then lowered it. “I don’t see anything.”
Ramonito clutched at his head in despair. “You think they stand there waving their guns?” He shook his head. “You are not very quick, are you? You need my help. The way you’re going, you won’t make it in LA for long. Here, I will help you. Leave your car. I will take you on foot. Where are you going?”
Selah stared at the overpass as it inched ever closer. “We’re heading over the Pueblo Hills, into Buena Park.” She looked at Ramonito. “That’s got to be out of your area, no?”
Ramonito shook his head, grinning once more. “No way! I know all of LA. OK, maybe not all, but much more than you. How were you going to get there? You weren’t going to just walk?”
Cloud nodded. “Sure. How else?”
Ramonito clutched his head again. “You’re crazy! This area up here, Fontana, north Ontario, it’s not really under anybody’s control. Just little pinche gangs, yeah? But when you get down close to Chino Hills, or Diamond Bar, that is getting into the territory of Las Culebras, and man, they are serious. They control everything west of Pomona, right up to the Wall, yeah?” He looked at them, hand resting lightly on the door, checking for understanding. Both Selah and Cloud looked back at him blankly.
“If you say so,” said Selah. “I’ve never heard of them.”
“Our friend Chico said he works with a group called the Buena Park Locos. Said they control the area down there,” Cloud said, driving with one eye on the road.
“If he’s in Buena Park, he has no choice,” said Ramonito, nodding. “Mira, you won’t get far without my help.”
Selah looked down the road. There weren’t any blocks to measure distance by, but if there were, it would be about two more to the overpass. Ramonito had peeled off the sticker, but they were bound to get into trouble sooner or later. She studied the kid’s face, met his single intent eye, and saw a spark of intensity deep within that she decided to trust. “Why you helping us out? What’s in it for you?”
“Money,” grinned Ramonito. “You pay me much more for help like this than for water. I bet you get real generous if I help you get to Buena Park, like two hundred dollars, no?”
Selah laughed again. “Maybe.” She looked at Cloud. “What do you think? I say we give him a shot.”
Cloud frowned. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t you ever just read somebody? Get a good feeling? He obviously knows what’s going on around here. We obviously don’t. A guide is a good idea. And I do believe him about that sticker. Which means he already saved our asses.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Cloud looked like he could argue some more, but then he nodded. “All right. Let’s give him a shot.” He gave Ramonito a thumbs up. “You’re on, kid. What do we do with the car?”
“Sure,” said Ramonito. “People do it all the time. Somebody will jump in and drive it for you, no problem.”
Cloud snorted. “Figures.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel once more, a restless and complex tattoo of sound, and then smacked his hand down on the dash, the sound one of finality. “All right. Good luck in the chop shop, Baby Blue. Let’s go.”
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About the Author
My name is Phil Tucker and my dream is to one day be a full time author. Why do I write? Because it's my first and truest passion. My mind formulates endless stories, and when you catch me daydreaming, I'm probably brainstorming my next novel. Nothing gives me the same thrill, and my greatest hope is that one day I'll be sufficiently adept at my craft so as to provide readers with the same magic that inspired and delighted me as a child.
Keep in touch! You can reach me at [email protected]
Twitter handle is @pwtucker
Blog is www.transientme.com
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Goodreads page is here.
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