By the time the Arroyos have stopped screaming at each other and Fernando has broken Timo’s nose for being a smartass and squared off with Ramon in a no holds barred fistfight that has Timo hiding behind the legless couch, by the time the fight is over and Timo has gone for a doobie to kill the pain of his throbbing nose and found everything trashed and told his brothers and they’ve run to the garage and found that a half kilo of crank is missing and Ramon has gone for his little chrome.22 automatic, by that time the guys have cleared the neighbor’s yard, ridden to the Senior Taco in the P amp;X shopping center, and ordered sixteen tacos with fries and milkshakes.

They know being a rat sucks, but the Arroyos are gonna know who robbed them and if they don’t do something those crazy fuckers will. Paul’s ready to do it. It was his idea they rob the place, if someone has to rat the Arroyos, it’s him.

But as they’re talking and waiting for their food, Andy gets up and makes the call. Not that he still wants revenge for the stolen bike he’s leaned against the phone booth, but he does want to make the call himself. He just can’t help it. Finding the school picture of Alexandra when he was digging through Timo’s shit was too much; the little photo clipped from a large sheet of them; Te quiero, Timo written in the corner in red ballpoint, in her own hand.

So he dials 0 and asks for the cops and anonymously reports a disturbance at 1367 North P Street. Some kind of fight or something.

The cops know that address. Small town heat that they are, they like nothing more than to bust the chops of the local spic hooligans. So they send a couple cars right over there.

Paul has just grabbed the last taco from the pile in the middle of the table and peeled off the grease stained orange paper and crunched into the taco, biting it in half, when a few blocks away the cops arrive at the Arroyos’ just in time to see Ramon stepping out the front door, tucking the bright silver.22 into his waistband.

They don’t bother telling him to drop it.

They roll their bikes up the driveway as if they live there, Paul flipping his new Buck knife open with the edge of his thumb the way Jeff showed him, the razor edged blade slicing clean through the hank of yellow rope, the crooked gate creaking open on rusted hinges before creaking closed behind them.

George loops one of the loose rope ends around the gatepost to keep it from swinging open. He peeks through a wide crack between the gate’s warped planks and watches the street. No one comes out on their front porch to gaze across the street. No bright lights shine out from the cracks between curtains as someone looks from their kitchen window. The street is TV time quiet. Everyone parked in front of the tube watching Magnum P.I.

He turns around. Andy is lining up the bikes, turning them so they face the gate, enough room between them so that they can all jump on and start riding without being on top of each other.

Paul is at the side door. He turns the knob. Shakes his head. George joins him. The window peeking into the garage is covered on the inside. Tinfoil and black duct tape.

Hector has gone around the rear corner of the house, trying the back windows for one that’s unlocked.

He stays low so the tall crest of his mohawk can’t be seen from any of the other backyards. The guys wanted him to wear a cap or something over it. Fuck that. Thing takes almost as long to do as his sister’s hair. Besides, these old houses off Junction Avenue have huge yards and tons of big trees that are like a hundred years old or something. No one is gonna see shit. What the guys really wanted was for him to cut it off. They’re uptight that if someone gets a look at them going in or out the mohawk is gonna get them all busted. Sure, there’s only a couple other guys in town that got ’em. And he’s the only Mexican. But that’s the point. Looking different is the point. Having your appearance spit in people’s faces and piss them off is the point. Cut off the hawk and it’s like caving in. Fuck that.

And where the fuck’s an unlocked window for fucksake?

He’s checked the whole back of the house, tried the kitchen and bedroom and livingroom windows and they’re all locked. Normally, you could slip a jimmy into the crack between the sliding glass door and the jamb, but the owners have a piece of 1×2 laid flat in the door’s guide slot or whatever the hell it’s called. Pop the lock and try to open the door and it’ll just get jammed against the stick.

And, man, it’s a mess in there. Boxes and shit piled all over. Stuff that just looks like garbage. A shitty old couch and a lamp. Not even a TV. What kind of stuff they supposed to find in a place like this?

Fuck it. Not his problem.

He peeks around the corner into the narrow space that runs between the far side of the house and the fence. One of those little louvered bathroom windows is cranked open. He goes back around the other side of the house and gets the guys.

He tells them what the deal is, and they all look at Andy.

Andy keeps his hands in his pockets, his right hand fingering the twenty sided die.

Bob Whelan stands at the foot of the stairs, sipping coffee and looking up at the door to his older son’s room. He thinks about going up and kicking the foot of George’s bed and getting his lazy ass up and dressed and out to the job site with him. Been weeks since the kid’s come out for a day’s work. It’d do him good to get out there and make a couple bucks instead of screwing around with his pals all day.

Cindy shuffles into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes and yawning. Barely looking at what she’s doing, she gets a mug from the cabinet, fills it with coffee, rips open two packets of Sweet’N Low, dumps them in the mug, pours in a drop of milk and stirs it with her index finger before taking a big swallow.

She looks at Bob at the bottom of the stairs.

– You should go get him.

He shrugs.

– Not gonna force him to make money he doesn’t want to make.

She reaches under the XL T that reaches halfway down her thighs and scratches her stomach.

– If you want his company all you have to do is ask.

Bob walks away from the stairs.

– Not about wanting his company. Doesn’t matter. He’d rather mess around with Paul and Hector.

She picks up the coffee pot and tops off his cup for him.

– So take Andy. Andy would love to go.

He rolls his eyes.

– Honey, if you’d been there the time I took him. That kid on a construction site is like the opposite of a bull in a china shop. Thought he was gonna kill himself, wandering around daydreaming.

– So give him a broom and have him sweep some stuff up.

– It’s not like that. Can’t just stand off to the side. You have to be on the ball and pay attention to what’s going on around you. He’ll be out there sweeping and thinking about math problems and Dungeons amp; Dragons and whatever else and end up under a grader or something.

– Take them both. George can keep an eye on Andy and you can spend some time with both of them.

Bob’s cup bangs on the counter when he sets it down.

– I’m not trying to arrange quality time with my sons, Cin. I was just thinking George should be working a little more this summer and fucking around a little less. OK?

Cindy shakes her head and starts for the bedroom.

– Fine, Bob, whatever you say. I’ve got to get dressed for work. You want to wait a few minutes I’ll make you some breakfast.

– I’ll get something from the cater truck.

– Suit yourself.