– Hey, guys!

They all come out into the hall.

George moves toward the bikes.

– They back?

Andy is still looking in the garage.

– What is this shit?

George comes over.

– Oh, fuck.

Andy looks at him.

– What is it?

George looks over his shoulder at Hector and Paul.

– What’d you think?

Paul takes a look.

– Fuck me.

Hector moves Andy aside so he can see.

– What? Oh fuck.

They stare at trash bags spilling hundreds of empty cold and allergy medicine boxes, bottles, and foil packets; at gallon jugs of iodine tincture lined against the wall; heaps of matchboxes with the strike surface cut off; various cans and bottles of acetone, Red Devil Lye, methanol, muriatic acid, and Coleman’s camp fuel. A pingpong table in the middle of the garage is covered with an assortment of PVC fittings, flasks, Pyrex bowls, and pie tins. Baking sheets line a catering table against the wall, and two blow dryers are plugged into sockets next to a toaster oven with a shattered glass front. The row of tiny windows in the garage door are taped over with the same lowrider and skin magazine posters that cover the walls.

Paul takes a step forward.

– Fuck. Me.

George hooks the back of his shirt.

– C’mon, man, this shit can blow up.

Andy squeezes past Hector.

– What is it?

Paul jerks free of George and looks at the baking sheets, all of them covered in a coarse powder.

– Looks like the Great Brain doesn’t know it all. It’s a crank lab, man.

– What?

George grabs his brother’s shoulder.

– Stay out of there.

Andy shrugs him off.

– Fuck you.

He goes to Paul, points at the powder on the sheet.

– That it?

Paul shakes his head.

– No, man, that’s like a stage you go through. Jeff told me about it.

Hector steps into the garage, toes the plastic jugs next to the wall.

– How’s he know?

– Working for Security Eye. He was guarding that house out in Springtown for an insurance company, the one that burned down. That was a crank lab that blew up. He talked to a detective or something. Guy told him.

George steps into the garage.

– See, the shit blows up, that’s what happened to Richard Pryor.

– That was freebase, fuckwad.

– Same thing.

– No it’s not. Freebase is smoking coke. Crank is crystal meth.

– Fuck you.

– Fuck you. I know.

– I don’t give a fuck what it is, let’s get out.

Hector whips his new chain at one of the lowrider pinups, ripping it through the middle and leaving a gash on the dirty drywall behind it.

– Arroyos are dealin’ crank. Bikes must be a fucking hobby.

Paul rummages in a cardboard box. Dirty kitchen utensils, tangles of rubber bands, newsprint coupons for Mountain Mike’s Pizza, more bits and pieces of bicycles and PVC.

– Maybe. Might just be making it. Selling to a dealer.

George is looking at the homemade chemistry set cobbled together on the table.

– Jesus, they’re making a lot.

Andy opens a paint smeared Kelvinator refrigerator in the corner.

– Yeah, they are.

Paul is fingering a rusty Buck knife with a broken tip, he looks up.

– What?

Andy points at the contents of the fridge.

– They’re making a lot.

The top shelf of the fridge is loaded with six large Ziploc storage bags, each stuffed full with yellow crystals.

Hector, about to slash a Oui centerfold, pauses to look.

– Shit. Holy shit.

Paul drops the Buck knife and comes over. He picks up one of the bags.

– Man. Oh, man. Fucking A.

Andy picks up a bag.

– How much is this?

George grabs the bag and puts it back in the fridge.

– It’s a fucking lot. C’mon, let’s go.

Paul opens his bag.

– I don’t know, man. A quarter gram is like this much.

He holds his thumb and index finger about an inch apart.

– That costs twenty.

He hefts the bag.

– This is like, man, gotta be a pound. How many grams in a pound?

Andy blinks once while his brain arranges the numbers and they appear on the inside of his eyelids. He reads them off.

– Four hundred fifty three and a half. Well, a little more than a half. Like point five nine and change.

– Four hundred fifty three, point five nine and change times four?

– Eighteen hundred fourteen, point three six.

Paul licks his lips.

– And that times twenty?

– Thirty six thousand two hundred eighty seven, point two.

Paul squeezes the bag, it rustles, and the crystals crunch.

– That’s a car, man. That’s the most bitchin’ car ever. Fuck, man, that’s four decent cars.

George takes the big bag from Paul and hands it to Andy.

– Put everything back like it was, man. This is not a car. It’s fucking crank and you have to sell it to get the money to buy the car and you don’t know how to sell it and you get busted and end up in Santa Rita playing bitch to some fuckstick like Ramon.

– Fuck you, man. What’s easier than selling drugs? Your aunt deals pills. She does OK.

Andy finishes arranging the bags and steps back.

– That’s it.

George looks.

– You sure? It looks different.

– Maybe move that one on the end to the right a little.

George pushes the bags around. Hector’s found a can of WD40 and is using it to loosen up his chain.

Andy looks at his brother’s back, nudges Paul with his elbow.

Paul gives him a shove.

– Knock it off, fag.

Andy rolls his eyes, nudges him again.

Paul raises a hand to give him a slap.

– What did I just fucking?

He sees the bag of crank Andy is holding behind his back.

George closes the fridge and turns.

– That shit’s more trouble than it’s worth. I told you that story about that guy.

He has told them the story. They’ve all heard the story from last summer when he was making pill runs for aunt Amy.

He was dropping a vial of ludes with a guy who needed them to come down. A crankhead who’d been binging for like a week. George went in the guy’s apartment and the guy wouldn’t let him go.

George was still freaked hours later when he told them the story.

The guy just kept fucking talking shit and spazzing out and making me play Monopoly. Wouldn’t let me be the dog like I always am, didn’t want to be the dog himself, he was the fucking racecar, kept going Zoomzoomzoom, but I couldn’t be the dog. Just played and played and kept talking about nothing, just spewing shit and just when it seemed like he was winding down I’d make a move toward the door and the guy would do another couple lines and start jumping around and get pissed if I tried to leave the kitchen. Guy finally went bankrupt and started crying and saying that he lost everything and he was gonna kill himself and went to the closet to get a gun he said he had and I shoved the guy in the closet and slammed the door and ran the fuck out of the place. Told aunt Amy that’s it, man, no more fucking crankheads. Rather drop a bag of bennies at a biker party than do another lude run for a crankhead.

And he’s been down on crank ever since.

Paul holds up a hand.

– OK, man, whatever.

Through the garage door they hear a car pull into the driveway, the sound of Fernando screaming at his younger brothers, then the two of them screaming back at him as “Beat It” blares from the Impala’s stereo.

Paul makes a face.

– Fucking Michael Jackson.

By the time the Arroyos are coming in the front door the guys have run out the back with their bikes, thrown them over the rear neighbor’s fence, and gone over after them. Their pockets crammed with the money, jewelry, a bag of loose joints from Timo’s stash, a pearl handled switchblade, a box of Trojans, and a few copies of Oui. Paul with the bag of crank he’s taken from Andy shoved down the back of his pants.