CHAPTER 14: THEN

I pressed my face against the driver’s side window. One glance and I knew this kind of stereo was good, none of that anti-theft crap on it. I stepped back and nodded to Pájaro. He smashed the window with a pipe and opened the door on the driver’s side.

“Now yank that shit out,” he said.

I pulled the stereo box forward, and Pájaro slashed the wires. He reached over the seat and grabbed a stack of CDs from the back and shoved a handful of change from the cup holder into his pocket. Two seconds later we were flying down the street in Pájaro’s mom’s Sentra, laughing like hell. It was maybe three months after I got clicked into MS-13, and everything seemed hilarious and badass at the same time.

Pájaro parked in an alley maybe half a mile away, and we took a look at the shit we’d jacked. Six stereos that we could unload easy. But when we started checking out the music from the truck, we had to laugh. “This music is shit, man,” Pájaro said. He shoved open his door and got out. I grabbed my bag and followed him, and a second later we were walking down the alley, snapping CDs and stomping the cases as we went.

“Fuckin’ Tejano? That cabrón was asking to get his stereo jacked,” I said. I snapped the last CD, then pulled out a baggie with the pills I scored last night from a homegirl at the Bel-Lindo.

“You brought me candy, huh?” Pájaro asked, grinning. “What kind?” He was already working up a spit so he could swallow them easy.

“Hell if I know. Uppers, so who cares?”

We tossed back the pills, then I pulled out a can and started tagging the wall behind us. Thirty seconds later, “MS-13” popped out in these 3-D block letters I’d been practicing. I zipped AZZ into the curve of the three.

“Not bad, carnalito,” Pájaro said. He walked over to the wall and sniffed the still-wet paint. I tossed him the whole can, and he sprayed some into the cap and held it up to his nose. “I love smellin’ these blue roses!” he said. He started laughing.

I kicked a few of the CD cases. “There was some decent rims on that truck, man. We’ve got the wrenches. How come we didn’t take ’em?”

Pájaro’s eyes were already shiny. “’Cause you’re a pinche moron, culero.” He punched my shoulder. “And you’re going to hell for being so greedy.”

“A huevo, loco, I’m serious as shit,” I said. “I’m going back. Ain’t been but five minutes.”

“Five minutes is long enough for a pissed-off Tejanolover to come out and see his truck in pinche pedazos,” Pájaro said.

“Nah, let’s go,” I said. I started air-boxing to show him just how down I was, how I was doing right by my crew.

“Fuckin’ Azael,” he said. But when I headed for the Sentra, Pájaro tossed me the keys and followed me.

We rolled back down the same street with the headlights off, real slow. I parked the Sentra half a block from the truck, and then we walked the rest of the way. As far as we could tell, nobody had even noticed that the window was busted in. There wasn’t no lights on or anybody around outside.

“You were right, man; this is cake,” Pájaro said when we got back to the truck. He was crouching down, looking at the rims. “The lug nuts ain’t even the locking kind.” He handed me one of the wrenches. “You get ’em loose. I’m gonna jack up the other side.”

I was working on the second wheel when I heard something over my shoulder. I looked back, and there was this big Mexican dude standing behind a tree.

I hit the ground a second before he fired.

“Run!” I shouted to Pájaro. I scrambled up and darted into the street. Pájaro was right behind me when the dude fired again. A bullet whizzed past my face. Then another. He kept firing.

And I heard Pájaro fall.

“Just go,” he shouted at me when I turned around. “Get your ass down the street!” There was blood oozing down his leg, and he was dragging it bad when another bullet hit him in the side.

I ran until I got to a gas station and called 911. And then I ran again. My insides were different from seeing what I saw. My insides were different because I was the one who’d wanted to go back.

When I took the car back to Pájaro’s house, his girl, Trippy, was there. She ran toward me, crying. “They shooted him so much you can’t even tell how he was, how he looked like.”

She should have been mad at me, but she wasn’t. I should have told her that the bullets that got him were meant for me, but I didn’t.

“You get him, okay, Azael? Quémalo porque he took my Pájarito from me.” Her face was red and puffy, and mascara was running down her cheeks.

“I got love for my homie, Trippy, you know that.” I hugged her tight. “I’m sorry, Tripps, I’m so sorry.”

She grabbed my arms and locked eyes with me. “Promise you’ll get the one who did this.”