Timo turns back and finds George braking to a stop next to Andy. Further down the street, Hector’s blond mohawk.

Timo rides up onto the sidewalk. George pushes off, chasing him. Paul cuts toward the gutter, popping his front wheel in the air, taking his bike hard over the curb. Timo swerves onto someone’s front lawn and scoots past him.

Paul skids across the same lawn.

– Get off the fucking bike!

George stays in the street, paralleling Timo.

– Don’t be a dick, Timo, get off my brother’s bike.

Timo lifts a hand from the grips and flips him off.

He’s starting to leave Paul behind, but George paces him, searching for a spot where he can put on a little burst, get around one of the cars parked at the curb, and cut his bike in front of Timo’s.

A car door opens in front of him.

He hits front and back brakes, skids, releases the front brake, kicks his rear wheel out and edges around the door further into the street as an El Camino comes around the corner, horn blasting.

Hector has reached Andy and they both watch as George wrenches the bike back into the side of the parked car, bounces off it, and falls into the street as the El Camino drives on.

Andy starts running, Hector riding ahead of him.

George lifts his head from the pavement. He can feel the scrapes on the side of his neck. He wants to turn his head to check on his bike, but he can’t take his eyes off of Fernando Arroyo as he climbs out the open door of the parked Impala.

Paul jumps off his bike and lets it run into the ice plant bordering the driveway at the house next to Fernando’s, leaving Timo to ride up onto his brother’s porch and straight into the house. Running to his best friend, he’s forced to pull up as Ramon emerges from the driver’s side of the Impala.

Fernando looks down at George, takes a hit off the joint he and his brother have been smoking in the car.

– You fucking with my little brother, Whelan?

George is still seeing the primer spotted hood of the El Camino scraping past him. One of Fernando’s shiny black shoes smacks him in the thigh.

– I say, you fucking with my little brother, puta?

Standing on the opposite side of the car, Paul sees that Hector was right about Ramon; he’s fucking huge. His sweat stained wifebeater is stretched tight over mounds of jailhouse muscle covered in jailhouse tattoos. He’s come out of the car armed, the hacksaw, his weapon of choice, dangling from loose fingertips.

Eyes hidden behind wraparound black shades, Ramon waves the rusty bladed saw conversationally.

Timo comes strolling back out of the house.

– Fuck ’em up, bro.

Ramon shakes a finger at him.

– Settle down, ese. Don’t be getting all bloodthirsty right after running away and shit. Don’t look good.

He smiles at Paul.

– So, big Paul Cheney. What’s up, man? You wanna fight?

Paul blinks, looks from Ramon’s face to the saw.

– Drop the saw, I’ll fight.

Ramon looks at the saw, points at it with his free hand.

– This, ese? I drop it I might bend it or some shit.

– Fucking drop it, pussy.

– Pussy?

He looks over the roof of the car at his brother.

– Yo, vato. Called me a pussy over here. Thinks he can get away with that shit.

Fernando kicks George again.

– This one don’t say shit.

– What you gonna do to him?

Fernando hits the joint, flicks the roach away, and gestures at Timo.

– Stick me up, joven.

Timo joins his brother, reaches into the car, and brings out a green and gold minibat from an A’s game and gives it to his brother.

– Here, bro. Bust him up.

– Gonna bust him. Gonna break his head.

He raises the bat.

Ramon nods, looks back at Paul.

– I’m gonna cut this one, cut his dick off.

He takes a firmer grip on the saw, slashes it through the air a couple times.

– Cut that shit off so Timo can bounce his futbol off it whenever he wants.

Timo giggles.

– Cool.

Paul goes for Ramon’s face.

Two handfuls of rocks pepper the back end of the Impala, pocking and scratching the flawless gold flecked deep burgundy paint job.

Tableau.

George on his back in the street. Fernando over him, bat raised to smash into his face. Timo behind him, leaning in to get a better view. Paul ready to seize Ramon’s throat. Ramon ready to scythe Paul’s fingers off.

All of them, their heads turned, looking at Andy, fifteen feet behind the car, hyperventilating, Hector next to him.

Fernando tilts his head back and screams at the sky.

– My car!

Tableau broken.

Hector flings the eighteen inches of bike chain he’s held bundled in his hand. It smashes into the rear window of the Impala, wedging itself in its own hole.

– Fuck your shitty car!

It is as if Fernando never left the game of football, it is as if a ball has just been fumbled into the midst of the scene and everyone else on the field is scattering from it as he charges to scoop it up.

He barrels at Hector, whirling the minibat above his head, Timo dodging out of the way.

Hector spins himself about and begins to pedal away. George scrambles to his feet. Paul yanks his bike free of the ice plant, Ramon ignoring him and starting to climb back inside the Impala. He makes it halfway inside before Fernando returns and raps him across the back of the neck with the minibat and shoves him across the seat, climbing in behind the wheel, Timo diving into the back.

George and Paul are both on their bikes, riding in the opposite direction from Hector.

Fernando hits the hydraulics, boosting the Impala high on its shocks, screeching away from the curb in a tight circle that takes him after the rapidly disappearing Hector, and reveals Andy, where he has been hunched at the rear of the Chevy, now utterly exposed, but with no one left to see him.

He stands there.

Across the street, three small girls are frozen in the midst of a hopscotch they’ve chalked on the sidewalk. Andy waves at them and they run shrieking into their house.

Rocks and broken glass outline the space the rear half of the Impala occupied at the curb. His eye catches on some flecks of blood; his brother’s. In the middle of the street is the hammer that slipped from George’s pocket when he went down. Andy bends, picks it up, looks both ways along the street, walks over the sidewalk across the dead lawn and onto the Arroyos’ front porch.

George and Paul ride around the corner.

George’s handlebars were twisted to the side in the crash and he has to ride with them at an angle. They both pedal onto the lawn.

Paul picks some ice plant from his front spokes.

– What are you doing, dipshit?

Andy points the hammer at the open door.

– Gonna get my bike.

George and Paul look at each other. The left side of George’s neck is badly scraped, a trickle of blood runs to the hollow of his throat and stains the collar of his Double Live Gonzo! T.

He nods.

– Fuck yeah, let’s get it.

They hop off their bikes and wheel them onto the porch.

Andy offers the hammer to George.

– Hector OK?

George takes the hammer.

– They’ll never catch him.

– They’re in a car.

Paul shakes his head.

– Don’t matter. He’ll hit the fields by the railroad tracks before they can catch up.

Hector rides up the driveway.

– Hey.

He stops, kicks one of the empty beer cans littering the front walk.

– What’s up?

George points at Andy.

– Getting his bike.

Hector joins them on the porch.

– Cool.

Andy squints.

– What happened?

– They chased me to the fields by the tracks and had to park and come after me on foot and I lost them in the weeds.