Hector climbed out the side of the car that was not buckled. He was dazed, not so much from being hurt but from the roller-coaster-like ride that brought them to a halt in the orange grove. He brushed aside a limb of the orange tree that they had knocked over. He could smell the oranges that the tires had crushed and the chemical scent of the grove. And every time he took a step he could feel the sucking action of the mud under his shoes. He walked to the middle of the road to stomp the mud from his feet. He looked up the road white with fog. The car that had rammed them was gone.
“Híjole, what a ride,” Mando said as he climbed out of the car and wobbled as if he had just gotten off the Tilt-o-Whirl. “I feel dizzy.”
Uncle came out of the car. “Everyone okay?” he asked in a frightened tone.
“I’m fine,” Hector said as he went over and examined one of the tires. He put a pinkie into a gaping hole that had drained the life out of the tire.
“I’m okay,” Mando said. “I jus’ hurt my shoulder or something. I’ll be all right.”
Hector rose, slapping dirt from his hands and walked to the front of the car. Steam was rising from the hood. He opened it and all three of them looked at the engine. Flecks of green coolant were splattered everywhere.
Holding his nose with his hand, the stinky odor of steam getting to him, Uncle reached his other hand down and poked at the radiator hose. “It’s just split. It’s nothin’ big.”
He stepped back and examined the battered car. The driver’s side was crushed. The glass was busted into spider lines and lightning-like cracks. Streaks of red paint from the Buick were embedded into the paint of the Ford.
“I never did like the color,” he quipped. “The red does something for it.” He tried to pull the door open, but the handle came off in his hand. He tossed it into the orange grove. He sucked in a lot of country air and asked Hector, “Did you get a picture of them?”
“Yeah, dozens,” Hector answered. When he saw that the Buick had meant business, Hector had reached into the back seat, took his uncle’s camera, ripped off the lens cap, and shot a rapid succession of pictures, unsure if they were focused.
“I hope you got a picture of me smacking that guy,” Uncle said. He looked at the heel of his palm. It still tingled from the upper cut.
“I hope so, too. You were bad, Unc. Mando, did you see Unc whack him one?”
“How could I, ese? I was down on the floor prayin’.”
Mr. Inouye, with one of his two German shepherds, stepped toward them out of the fog. “I heard some terrible noise,” he said as he shook his head and ran a finger along the side of the Ford. “Ruined a good car. Are you fellas okay?”
“We’re okay,” Hector said. He touched the cold nose of the dog that came to nuzzle him. Orange pulp was still stuck to the German shepherd’s nose.
Mr. Inouye walked around the car and moaned when he saw his fallen tree. He picked an orange and tossed it. The German shepherd ran after it in great leaps. “Oh, this is bad,” groaned the farmer.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Inouye. I have insurance,” Uncle said.
“I’m not worried about insurance. I’m speaking of the fog. I think it’s getting worse every year.”
“It wasn’t the fog,” Hector said. “Some guys tried to run us off the road!”
They returned to the farm. While Hector and Mando went inside, after taking off their muddy shoes, Mr. Inouye helped Uncle replace the radiator hose and change the tire.
“You have a nice house,” Hector said, trying to make conversation with Mrs. Inouye. They were sitting on stools in the kitchen, eating cookies. A small TV was on, the volume turned down so low that the voices sounded like gnats.
“Yes, it’s a nice crib,” Mando said as he looked around.
“What do you mean by ‘crib’?” a confused Mrs. Inouye asked.
“You know, ‘crib’ means a house.”
“Mando, that’s no way to talk,” Hector scolded. He turned to Mrs. Inouye and politely explained. “We live in Los Angeles, and we hardly got any room.”
“But Los Angeles is so pretty,” said Mrs. Inouye.
Hector and Mando looked at each, as if to say, “It is?” They lived in East Los, where the rows of houses were cramped and cars often parked on the sidewalk. Graffiti slashed across walls. Litter blew across the streets, and broken wine bottles glittered in the gutter. Across the street there was a panadería that did good business. All day and all night its pastry sweetened the air, but the smell was sickening after a while.
“Mr. Paul says hi,” Hector said, undoing the top of an Oreo and looking at the white cream. He thought of hooking his front teeth into the cream, but he knew it would be impolite.
“You mean Paul Kanzaki?” Mrs. Inouye said with a bright smile.
“I think that’s him,” Hector said, nibbling his cookie like a rabbit.
“Yeah, it’s him,” Mando said. He jumped up from his stool and took a business card from his pocket. “I got it when we left his shop.” He handed it to a smiling Mrs. Inouye.
“How is he?” Mrs. Inouye asked, her elbows up on the counter, fully interested.
“He’s okay, I guess. He colored the picture of your farm.”
“He did? How nice.” Mrs. Inouye got up and went to the living room and brought back the picture that she had already propped on her wide-screen television. “He did a nice job.”
The three of them were admiring the framed picture when Mr. Inouye came into the kitchen wearing his leather work gloves. “Boys, your uncle wants you.”
Hector and Mando thanked Mrs. Inouye for the cookies, put on their mud-caked shoes at the back door, and left the house. The beat-up Ford was in the driveway, the German shepherds sniffing the new tire.
Hector and Mando got in. Uncle gave a thumbs-up sign and said, “It’s still working.”
They drove the rattling Ford from the Inouye farm back to Parlier. Uncle stopped at the convenience store and asked if they had seen two men in a red Buick.
“Earlier,” the woman replied. She had a trail of tears tattooed near her left eye. Her other eye was bloodshot.
“Can you describe them?” Uncle asked.
“Just two guys. One fat one. Thin hair. Maybe forty-five, fifty. I saw that one had plenty of bills in his wallet, and I’m not talking about one-dollar bills, either.”
Uncle backed away from the counter, and with his brow pinched with worry and his leg feeling stiff, he limped to the potato chip rack. “You guys want some Fritos?”
“It’s them, huh, Uncle?” Hector asked.
“Yeah, it’s them, all right. You don’t want a bag?”
“Nah.”
They got back into the car and returned to Fresno. They took the old highway because Uncle was afraid the car would come apart if they tried the freeway. The door rattled and the glass vibrated loudly. Instead of going directly back to the apartment, Uncle stopped at Paul’s studio. The bums were still in front of the building. Now they were sitting on cardboard, sucking on another bottle, pink-colored wine this time.
“Good afternoon,” one of them slurred. “What happened to your car?”
Uncle waved but didn’t say anything. The three of them went inside the studio. Paul was in the back taking a family portrait—father and mother and four children in clothes that were ironed so well the creases were sharp as knives.
The three of them tiptoed into the photo shoot. Uncle waved to get Paul’s attention. Paul had his back to them. He was tickling a girl’s chin so that he could get a smile on her sullen face. Finally Uncle whispered, “Hey, Paul, can I use your lab?”
Uncle didn’t want to return to his apartment, not just yet. Since Paul’s darkroom was all set up, he figured it would be easier to develop the film there. He was dying to see who the guys were.
Paul squinted in their direction, hand over his brow in salute as the studio lights beamed in his eyes. “Julio?” he asked. “Is that you?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Can we use your darkroom?”
“Go ahead. Mi darkroom es tu darkroom.”
They went into the little room, Hector and Mando feeling like old pros. They helped Uncle mix chemicals and fix the timer. Using metal tongs, Uncle dipped the unrolled film into the solution and rocked the pan as the timer clicked. Slowly the images emerged. Some were blurry and strange-looking, like a TV out of focus. One was a jarring image of the Ford’s ceiling. Another was of Uncle with his eyes closed and another was of Mando’s left ear.
“Here’s one,” Uncle said. The negative lay on the bottom of the pan, but the image deepened and became clear—Freddie grinning menacingly at them. Uncle brought it out of the solution with tongs and remarked, “Damn, he’s ugly.”