“We have to let the police do their thing, Mari. Just chill.”
“Those bunch of good ol’ boys? They love brown and black extermination. Since Freddie Gray and Sandra Bland, we’re being hunted. And with that dude as president, it’s open season. You heard the latest, right? No? Amber in Channelview. Check this out.”
Marisol whipped out her cell phone in its glittery pink case and tapped the screen, bringing up a video of two deputies aiming guns at two men in a bright-blue mustang. Yessenia recognized the car. She looked away. The gunshots sounded like firecrackers on the phone’s small speakers, reverberating throughout the shop. Marisol identified the wounded, and those names sounded familiar too. Everything was too familiar.
“That went down after finding out about Marissa. Them boys are mad as hell. And after Dejah, the streets are lit. How many more have to die before this fool gets caught?”
“Why us, though? Like, why can’t the homies... ” Yessenia trailed off and wrapped herself tighter in her brown cardigan.
“The homies ain’t about handling any business but their own. Amber had kids, man. I met them. She brought them to the house to pick up a registration sticker. Now they’re orphans — part of the system. It ain’t right.”
The stickers were an old argument between them. For Marisol, selling fake car registration and inspection stickers was a means to an end. Either you hustled, or you got hustled. Sometimes Marisol thought Yessenia considered herself too good for the East Side, with its taco trucks and discount grocery stores. Too good for the oil refineries and the upwind from Pasadena. She couldn’t bear to walk on a street with no sidewalks. Didn’t she know, sometimes folks need to make their own way in the world? That’s what Marisol was doing.
Yessenia stirred her orange yogurt soup in disappointment. Marisol’s fake car stickers were bad enough. She also charged little old ladies to fill out their Lone Star card applications for food stamps. Twenty-five dollars a pop and no guarantees. But they kept coming, because they needed someone who knew how to read and write English. Grandmothers, the disabled, single mothers — Marisol took advantage of everyone equally. She even seemed proud of it.
“I wish you’d stop doing that stuff.”
Marisol rolled her eyes at her best friend. “Ain’t no one worrying about no damn stickers right now, Yessi. We’re being killed, pendeja!”
Nearby, an old woman sitting with her young granddaughter glared at Marisol, who responded with an ugly look of her own, daring her to say something, before continuing her train of thought: “I bet you he’s a cop. They know about killing us and getting away with it.”
“Mari, that’s not fair.”
Yessenia’s phone buzzed. She glanced at its screen, then placed it facedown on the table. “Can we take a break from talking about this?” She pushed away her yogurt and stared out the window, her face flushed as snow.
Marisol leaned over to hug her. “I’m not letting anything happen to you, I promise,” she whispered. “Ain’t no one messing with my girl. Nobody.”
The promise hit Yessenia’s ear in a boom. This was how it was with them: the whispers were never quiet, and the secrets never stayed secret. Usually, there wasn’t anything Yessenia could keep from Marisol. So it surprised her that Marisol hadn’t noticed the new gold bracelet on her wrist or her dangling earrings. She was too caught up in her anger.
“Wet out there, ain’t it?” she says.
Behind the counter and the thick glass, the cashier flips through a magazine and doesn’t acknowledge Marisol. His name is Roscoe, Yessenia found out. It’s obvious he wants nothing to do with his customers. He’s almost forgettable in his bright-blue cotton polo and khakis. Roscoe wears his role like camouflage, Marisol thinks, sizing up his prey without her knowing. She’s just a woman alone, stopping into the store for a drink. Not paying attention to the cabrón about to crush her windpipe. He’s one of those East Side country white boys, cowboy boots and hat like an unwritten uniform. If not the cowboy uniform, then an old trucker hat like every man in his family wore after they went bald. That was years away for Roscoe. He kept his blond hair short on the sides and longer on the top. He wasn’t Marisol’s type, not by a long shot. She preferred her country boys like white noise, in the background and hardly noticeable. But this one, this one looked like he had something to prove.
Even the hunting ground is incognito — just an average convenience store. This one is about the size of a thumb, with bright fluorescent lights flooding every corner. Not one place to hide. A strong smell of bleach punches Marisol’s gut. It’s like a hospital, but filled with snacks. She has to admit, it’s a logical setup. If she were a killer, she might’ve thought of it herself.
“Bathroom?”
Roscoe points to the back of the store where a gray door stands open.
Marisol walks slowly past the rows of candy bars and motor oil, casing the area. No one but her and the guy behind the bulletproof glass.
Fuck! How am I gonna get this fool to come out from behind the counter?
If she can’t do that, the piece at the small of her back is useless. The restroom door scrapes against the floor with a loud noise as she closes it behind her.
“Where are you going to get a gun?”
“I got a cousin,” Marisol said.
“Of course,” Yessenia muttered under her breath. She wrapped herself tighter in her favorite brown cardigan — the one that made her feel safe. She’d put her hair in a messy ponytail, ready for whatever Marisol had planned for the night. Her jeans, however, were new, and had cost enough to fill the truck’s gas tank three times over. They were a gift, and she wanted to show them off, even if only to her best friend. But Marisol was once again distracted.
The Hartz Chicken Buffet parking lot was empty as last call at a funeral home. Marisol watched the employees through the stained windows. They buzzed around in dark aprons, cleaning and serving the final customers of the night.
A slow, steady rain made the streets as slick as glass. Cars slithered down Uvalde Road, careful and saint-like. No speeding. No running lights. North Shore had never been this obedient. The most recent murder had been discovered the night before. Bethany Ife, former cheerleader at C.E. King High School in Sheldon. They found her in the wooded area behind a neighborhood off Beltway 8.
The parking lot lights hummed a dull yellow on cars for sale, cracked pavement, and a long-abandoned ATM decorated with weeds. There was once life here, where a haircut, polished nails, and a good meal were possible. Now those options were gone and an uneasy silence filled every crevice in these neighborhoods. There was a collective holding of breath, a closed eye, the frozen-contortion-before-the-doctor’s-needle type of pause. The East Side sat motionless in thought, waiting, wondering who was next.
Inside the truck, it had been an hour of off-tune humming and air-conditioned chill. Marisol watched Hartz customers get their fill of the all-you-can-eat chicken and roll themselves into their cars. A scrawny discount rent-a-cop escorted each woman from the restaurant to her car. He looked fresh out of high school and still in puberty. What’s he going to do if real stuff goes down? Marisol wondered.
“We should add security services,” she said, then mentally added that to her business plan for Marisol & Company Investigations. That meant adding extra people. Yessi, with her scared ass, could stay in the office doing spreadsheets or whatever assistants do. This new hustle would be better than the selling all those stickers or filling out those forms. She could be a legit business owner, calling some shots around here. She’d be important. Everyone would know her.