Clark's eyes were too bright. Arturo was going to know something was wrong.
"I hate that redheaded bastard," Arturo said to Missy. "I know he's your brother, but I can't stand him." He took a tiny bite of the doughnut, glanced at Vlad. "I'm only going to eat half of this, so don't give me that look."
"Have you ever seen The Lion King?" Vlad said to Arturo.
Arturo pushed the rest of the doughnut into his mouth.
"The Lion King," said Vlad. "It's a cartoon movie. Haven't you ever watched it with your kids?"
"Diet Coke." Cecil banged the can onto the table.
"I guess so," Arturo said to Vlad. He licked powdered sugar off his fingers.
"Remember how in The Lion King everybody blames Simba for killing his father in the stampede, even though it wasn't really his fault?" Vlad glanced at Clark. "See, it was really his bad uncle Scar who was responsible, but everyone blamed Simba…"
"If you say so." Arturo picked up the can of Diet Coke, snapped it open. Diet Coke sprayed the table. "Son of a bitch." He jumped up, soda dripping off his chin, and backhanded Cecil, sent him flying. "You did that on purpose."
Vlad tried to stand, but his legs still wouldn't work. "Even though everyone thought Simba was guilty, they didn't kill him." He braced his hands against the tabletop, pushed himself upright. "I mean… Scar wanted to kill him, but the pride rules called for Simba to be exiled…"
Arturo wiped soda off his jacket with angry sweeps of his hands.
"Simba was part of the pride," Vlad pleaded with Clark and Missy. "You don't kill a member of the pride just because they make a mistake, even if it's a big mistake…"
Arturo shook out his handkerchief, dabbed at his face.
"You exile him, and then after a while, he gets to come back, and everybody is happy again." Vlad looked around the table. "That's how it works."
"This isn't The Lion King," said Clark.
"Yeah, Vlad, what are you talking about?" asked Arturo.
Cecil stepped behind Arturo, shoved a gun in his ear, a tiny gun, a lady's.22, and pulled the trigger.
It made such a small sound that Vlad thought at first that the gun had misfired. Then Arturo twisted away, took a step toward Vlad, and fell. Vlad pushed off from the table, slid onto the floor beside Arturo.
"Yes!" Cecil jabbed the gun at Arturo. "How's that feel, fucker? That penetrate your brain?"
Clark winced at the blood dripping from Arturo's ear. "Whoa."
Missy backed away from the table.
"Didn't think I could do it, did you?" Cecil said to Clark, waving the gun in the air. "Give the job to Vlad, give the job to Frank, but never even think about giving it to Cecil. Shit, I'm just family, right, so what do I know?"
Vlad cradled Arturo in his arms, singing to him, trying to revive him, but all the weight in Arturo's body was gone.
"Lookee here at your big tough hombre," crowed Cecil. "He don't look so tough now, does he, Clark? Pow. One shot, just like you asked for. So much for his fucking bulletproof clothes. Hey, man, anytime you want, you feel free to thank me."
Clark looked at Missy. "Who knew?"
"That's my gun," Missy said to Cecil. "You didn't ask if you could take it."
"You always underestimated me," Cecil said to Missy. "Vlad's standing around jabbering about cartoons, and I'm the go-to guy." He pretended to fan the little semiauto. "Fucking stone killer, right under your noses, but you never even noticed."
Vlad rocked Arturo. In movies, men always talked before they died. They told their true feelings, and gave messages for their families. In movies, men said it didn't hurt, or sometimes that they felt cold, but Arturo had died without saying a word. Vlad hung his head, feeling the life drain out of him, too.
"Things are going to be different now," Cecil said, out of breath, pointing the gun from one to the other. "I want… I want my own damn car, and my own credit card, too. I want… I want a plasma-screen TV in my room, and… and… I want a big fucking gun."
"Bag Arturo up before he bleeds all over the place," Missy said. "We're going to have to scrub the floor down. There's ammonia in the bathroom for the floor and-"
"Don't look at me," said Cecil. "Vlad gets the shit job for a change."
Missy rubbed her temples as if she had a headache. "Vlad, bag Arturo up. Please?"
Vlad shook his head.
Clark took another sip of Pepsi. "Here we go. Nothing is ever simple."
Cecil sauntered over to Vlad, looked down at him. "My sister told you to do something, bitch." He poked Vlad in the forehead with the.22. It looked like a toy gun, but it left a red ring on Vlad's white skin. "You hear me?"
"Back off, Cecil," said Clark.
Vlad looked past Cecil. "What am I going to tell Arturo's wife and children?"
"Don't tell them anything," said Missy. "The plan stays the same. We pack Arturo in with the clothes, and then take him to the incinerator tomorrow morning. His wife knows better than to check up on him for a few days. By then… he's just smoke."
"You said we were going to talk to him," said Vlad.
"You talked to him," said Cecil, moving on the balls of his feet, as if he were onstage. "You talked to him your way, and I talked to him mine." He aimed the gun at Vlad. "Now do what my sister told you, before I fucking talk to you, too."
"You're not going to turn Arturo into smoke," Vlad said to Missy.
"Put the gun down, Cecil," said Clark. "We're all friends here."
"Bullshit," said Cecil.
"Cecil, you do what Clark says," said Missy. "Go on, give me my gun back."
"No fucking way," said Cecil. "I told you before. Everything is different now. Cecil don't fetch and carry no more. Get used to it."
"I'll take care of Arturo," said Vlad. "I'll give him a proper funeral."
"Vlad… dude, it's got to be done like we planned," said Clark.
"Get your ass up. I don't want to tell you again." Cecil posed with the gun, pointing it out vertically and horizontally at Vlad, making gunshot sounds. "You want me to pop him, too, Clark? I'll fucking do it. This killing thing is no big deal. You get used to it real fast, that's the God's honest truth. I think I got me a natural aptitude."
"Give me my gun, Cecil," ordered Missy.
Cecil whirled on her. "I told you. Everything is-" The gun went off, and Missy gave a little cry, sat down in the chair.
"Missy?" said Clark. "Missy!"
"I didn't do anything," said Cecil.
Pink liquid ran out of Missy's right eye and down her cheek.
"Look what you done," Cecil said to Vlad. "You distracted me."
Clark clutched at Missy, but she flopped onto the floor. He stood over her, calling her name, howling like he had been the one shot, but she didn't move. Just like Arturo: One minute they were alive, and then next minute they were gone, and all the shouting didn't make a bit of difference.
"This is your fault," Cecil said to Vlad, so angry that he was sweating. "You did it." He shot Vlad. Shot him again. And again.
Vlad barely felt it. He brushed powdered sugar from the doughnut off Arturo's lips.
40
Thorpe watched from an outside table at the Los Flores Taqueteria as Paulo Rodriguez made a loop through the park across the street. Every minute or so, Paulo would pass into view, bent low over the handlebars like a fighter pilot, his teeth bared in delight. He had customized the bike Thorpe had left for him, adding streamers from the handlebars and about a dozen reflectors interspersed among the front and back spokes. A tiny Mexican flag hung from the seat, flapping as he sped away.
At the side of the path, his mother sat on a bench, chatting with two other women, string bags of fruit and snacks in their laps. It was early evening, still light, and they moved unhurriedly, nodding their heads in agreement, occasionally waving away the hovering insects. As Paulo sped toward her, his mother chided him to slow down, and he slammed on the brakes, locked the back wheel, and skidded to a stop in front of her. She wagged a finger, and he hung his head, more to hide his grin than from shame. She slipped a section of orange into his mouth and sent him on his way.