Only after the front door closed did Hector recognize the face of Freddie Bork, the robber in the negative—square face, thinning hair, and teeth that were small and sharp, the kind that were good for tearing into meat. He gulped and swallowed with fear. He turned to Mando, who seemed unaware of what had just happened.
“It’s him,” Hector hissed. “The dude!”
“The dude?” a confused Mando said. “What dude?”
Hector spun around and raced to the front window in the living room, nearly knocking over a lamp. He looked out, hands cupped over his brow. Freddie and Huey were crossing the street in a hurry.
“Come on!” Hector beckoned loudly.
“What’s going on?” Dr. Femur asked.
Hector didn’t have time to explain. He raced out of the house and to the street, legs kicking high as he ran through a pile of raked leaves. The Oldsmobile was already down the street, the taillights winking red as the car braked softly and turned a corner.
Hector slapped his thighs in disappointment. “Oh, man, they know where we live.”
“¿Quién?” asked Mando as he pulled up next to Hector.
“The robber! The guy in the negative.”
“No way, Hector. Chále, ese.”
But Hector was more than sure. The man was too ugly not to be sure. He shivered at what the robber had said—“It’s your turn to have your neck broken.” Once, in fourth grade, Hector had broken his arm while playing basketball. The pain was enough to make him cry in front of three girls, including his girlfriend, who later left him for a fifth-grader with a pierced ear. Now it appeared his whole body would be broken. He imagined with a cringe how much that would hurt.
They hurried back to the apartment. Uncle was lounging on the couch viewing the negatives, a cup of coffee between his legs.
“Unc,” Hector yelled. “I just saw the dude. The one in the negative.”
At first, it didn’t register in Uncle Julio’s mind what Hector was saying. Then suddenly he yelled “What?” and jumped to his feet, spilling his coffee, a stain immediately darkening the front of his pants. The negatives dropped to the floor, a sprinkle of coffee raining on them.
“He was over there,” Hector said, waving vaguely in the direction of Dr. Femur’s house.
“Dr. Femur’s?”
Hector and Mando nodded their heads. Hector explained that he and Mando were going to take up the chiropractor’s offer for a little body work. They had entered the house and the guy was smiling at them. But it was not a nice smile, Hector explained. It was mean and ugly. He could see the man’s teeth were packed with food.
Uncle sighed and paced, head down, muttering to himself, “How did he find us?” He limped over to the kitchen for a dish towel and began dabbing the front of his pants.
“I don’t know, Unc.”
The telephone rang, and all three jumped. On the fourth ring, right before the message machine kicked in, Uncle answered the telephone.
“Hey, Stewart?” Uncle said with relief. He picked up a pen and started doodling on the message pad. “We have another job?” Uncle’s smiling face darkened as the conversation continued. “That’s good, that’s good,” he repeated and then hung up the telephone. He gazed despondently at the boys. His eyes were dead of any kind of light. “Stewart told ’em.”
“He told the robbers where you lived?” Hector said, arms dropping to his side in defeat.
“It’s not his fault. He didn’t know,” Uncle explained in a hush. “He said they were farmers looking for a photographer.”
“We should call the policía,” Hector suggested.
“We’ll do it later, after dinner,” Uncle answered. He didn’t want to wreck the evening. He figured he had a chance for his last supper with Vicky Moreno, a cause for joy in his grief. He had the evening to look forward to. After that, he mused, he might just be a dead photographer with a Nikon 3 tied around his neck. Uncle turned and said, “Hey, don’t let this get us down. We have a dinner to go to.”
While Hector and Mando showered, Uncle remembered the unclamped water hose. He fixed the problem with wire and a T-shirt torn into strips, and then drove to the automatic teller to get sixty dollars, the last of his money. He returned, showered until the grime under his fingernails disappeared, and dressed in good clothes. He was feeling pretty happy. He put on an old Santana album and sang along, beating a rhythm on the bed. But he took off his shirt after he stood in front of the mirror, full face and then profile, and saw that his shirt was sloppily ironed. He ironed the shirt again and put it back on, the warmth sending a herd of goose-bumps racing up his arms. He smoothed his face with the cologne called Lover Boy and then slapped his face so that a little red blossomed on his cheeks.
Hector and Mando snickered playfully at Uncle, who ignored them and said, “You don’t know what love is.”
It was almost six when they left the apartment. They rattled out of the yard in their buckled Ford Escort. They looked nervously about the street, but didn’t see the robbers’ car. They pulled out of the driveway and drove two blocks in silence before Hector pounded on the radio. A bass-thumping country song called “Robbers in the Night” blared in the speakers.
They drove to Vicky Moreno’s house, a new tract home in north Fresno. Even at night, they could see that the lawn was mowed and everything was tidy. Even the garden hose was rolled up neatly.
“Be cool, you little vatos,” Uncle warned as he rang the doorbell. “And don’t order too much. I only got sixty bucks.”
“Man, I’m hungry,” Hector announced, touching his stomach. “You hungry, Mando?”
“Yeah, man. I didn’t have anything but Captain Crunch for lunch.”
Vicky Moreno answered the door. She was in a flowered dress and a bouquet of perfume hovered about her. Her hair was full of tight curls.
“Hello,” she sang. “Please come in.”
The three wiped their shoes like bulls and entered her house which, like her lawn and garden, was tidy. Roses stood tall in a Chinese vase. The appliquéd pillows were propped up on the sofa. The walls were hung with paintings and photographs of Mexico. Light rock music played in a far room.
“You look stunning, like a night of a thousand and one stars,” Julio said, not wasting time. His eyes sparkled and his chest puffed out like a rooster.
Hector looked down at his shoes. He bit his lip and thought of Bertha Sanchez in order to keep from laughing. His uncle, he thought, was coming on too strong, and they hadn’t even gotten out of the house. He had to wonder what he would sound like after he had a glass of wine.
“Thank you, Julio,” answered Ms. Moreno. “I’ll just get my purse and we’ll go.”
After she left the room, Uncle wheeled around and said, “Nice pad, ¿qué no? A little trendy, but hey, the color scheme’s cool. He bent, sniffed a rose in the vase, and sneezed. “I guess I’m not used to nice things.”
“Is she rich?” Mando asked.
“If she’s a reporter, I doubt it. Must have some money in the family somewhere.” He paused for a second and added, “I wonder how you can get into the family?”
Vicky returned with her handbag, and the four left the house. As they walked toward the Ford, Uncle nervously began to explain that they had a little trouble and some parts of the car didn’t work.
“A little trouble,” bewildered Vicky said as she stopped in her tracks and stared at the car. “What happened?”
Uncle shrugged his shoulders. He went around to the driver’s side and then realized that he didn’t have a door handle. “Oops,” he smiled. “It’s gone.”
“Gone?” Vicky asked with surprise.
“Oh, we just ran into a tree. Unc wasn’t drunk or anything,” Hector said.
“Hey, Hector, don’t give Vicky the wrong impression,” he said smiling as he squeezed the back of Hector’s neck, hard.
Hector, shoulders hunched and giggling, said, “Okay, Unc.”
They piled into the car, with Hector and Mando in the back and Uncle Julio and Vicky in the front.
They rolled out of the driveway and up the street.
“Watch this,” Hector said to Vicky. He leaned forward between Uncle and Vicky and slammed the car radio with the heel of his palm. Country-western music began playing, a song about a cow roped by moonlight.
“How ingenious,” Vicky remarked.
“It’s a one-station radio,” Hector added. He turned the knob from left to right and the same song blared.
Uncle took a hand off the steering wheel and placed it around Hector’s face. Without looking, he gave it a push. Hector went flying backwards, his throat filled with laughter.
Vicky turned and smiled at the boys. “I hope you enjoyed the article.”
“It’s made us a lot of friends,” Hector said facetiously.
“Yeah, we even signed it for this dude in juvie,” Mando said.
“Oh,” Vicky commented, her earrings jingling a tune.
“Me and Hector were in juvie once,” Mando said, elbowing Hector. “Huh, Hector?”
“That’s right. We were locked out of the house and had to break in.”
“Chill the topic,” Uncle said, adjusting the rearview mirror on Hector’s smirking face. “You don’t want to give Vicky the idea that we’re crummy people.”
They drove in silence. The sweetest smell was Vicky and the strangest was Unc’s Lover Boy cologne. Their scents clashed and would have made a mess of the evening except the back window of their Ford station wagon fell out and shattered as they maneuvered around the corner on Cedar Avenue.
Vicky screamed, “What happened?”
Uncle braked, screaming, “What the hell!”
Hector, quickly up on his knees and looking back, said, “Unc, the back window fell out.” Under the street lights, a river of glass glittered.
“Like I said, the car’s falling apart,” Uncle said as he put the car into gear and took off, his eyes on the rearview mirror. Cold air flapped through the car. It stirred up loose pages of newspaper, mussed up Vicky’s hair, and peeled off the sweetness from her skin.