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Authors: Charles DeLint

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BOOK: The Painted Boy
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He wasn’t hard to look at, Rosalie thought. He seemed about seventeen—her own age—with the soft jet-black hair that you couldn’t get out of a bottle, only from your genes. His eyes were so dark they almost seemed black, and he was sinewy rather than scrawny, as she’d thought from her earlier glance. His well-worn jeans were a boot cut, though he was wearing running shoes. His white T-shirt had no logo and could stand a wash. He had a gray hooded jersey tied around his waist.
“Thanks,” he said.
She nodded.
“So, what did you do to piss off the Kings?” she asked.
“The Kings?” he repeated. “What, are those guys in a band or something?”
“Try gang. They were members of the Presidio Kings and seriously, you don’t want to mess with them.”
He held up a hand to stop her.
“I swear I have no idea what they wanted from me,” he said.
“Then why were they chasing you?”
“I don’t know. I got into town on the ten o’clock bus. When I got off the bus I noticed these guys—you know, the baggy pants, shaved heads, all the tattoos on their faces and everything.”
She gave him a surprised look. “You saw the Kings at the bus station? That’s weird.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s 66 Bandas turf.”
“I didn’t mean it was the same guys who were chasing me,” he said. “They were just, you know, similar.” He gave her a puzzled look. “Is it all gangs around here?”
She shrugged. “There’s, like, two worlds,” she said, interlacing her fingers and holding them up. “The world most people see and then the one that belongs to the
bandas
—the gangs. They don’t really mix—lots of people don’t know much more about the
bandas
than what they read in the paper—but if you pay any kind of attention, you can see them both. Here in the barrios, we don’t really get a choice. They’re always around and all you can do is try to keep out of their way.”
“I wish I’d talked to you before I got off the bus.”
“So, what did you do to get onto the 66ers’ radar?”
“Nothing.” He paused, then added, “Well, I talked to a cop.”
She rolled her eyes. “Nice move.”
“What? I was just asking him directions to some Chinese restaurants.”
“You don’t like Mexican food?”
“I love Mexican food. I was looking for a job. I went to this one a couple of blocks south of the bus station called the something Gardens—”
“Shanghai.”
“Right. The Shanghai Gardens. The cook there said he’d heard the Imperial down here in Barrio Histórico was looking for help. When I stepped out of the restaurant, those guys were waiting for me and told me to hand over my knapsack. I got away from them and—”
“You got away from
two
different gangs?”
He shrugged. “As soon as I saw them, I recognized them from the bus depot, so I just took off. I’m a fast runner. But here’s the funny thing. When I was crossing that bridge over the San Pedro . . .” His voice trailed off and he gave her a puzzled smile. “Why exactly do you have a huge dry riverbed in the middle of the city?”
“It’s only dry until it rains in the mountains. Then it’s a torrent that’s so strong it can easily wash a car away. Some years it even overflows its banks.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “So, you were crossing the bridge . . . ?”
“Yeah, and those guys were hot behind me, but when I got halfway across, they just stopped and stood there watching me run to the other side.”
“That’s because this side of the river is Kings’ turf.”
“The point is I’ve got no idea why those first guys were after me. And then, as soon as I started walking away from the bridge, I picked up the two you just saw and took off through the alleys to try to lose them.”
“They must have seen the 66ers chasing you and wanted to know why.”
“
I
wouldn’t mind knowing why.”
“Maybe they think you’re a drug courier.”
“A
what
?”
“You know. You’re going into a Chinese restaurant, which could be a front for the Triads.”
He shook his head. “Right, and we make our meat dishes with cats and dogs that we catch in the alleys.”
She pulled a face. “I didn’t mean it that way. But you hear people talking about it at school—how Asian gangs are supposed to be trying to muscle in on the
bandas
’ turf.”
“Asian street gangs are a far cry from the Triads. That’s like comparing cockroaches to wolves.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Well,” he said, “I’m not Triad and all I’m carrying is a change of clothes. No drugs. No secret agendas.”
“I believe you.”
Rosalie leaned over the wall again to check that the alley was still clear.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
“Sure, but—”
“C’mon. I was just having a late lunch. You can join me if you like.”
She headed back to the lower part of the patio and he trailed along behind her.
“I’m Rosalie,” she said as she indicated he take one of the chairs at the table where she’d been sitting. “What’s your name?”
“Jay Li.”
“Like Bruce Lee,” she said, and faked a few kung fu moves.
He smiled. “No. My name’s spelled L-I. And I don’t really know those kinds of martial arts.”
“Me neither.”
“I can tell.”
“Be nice, or you don’t get any lunch. Rice and beans okay?”
“Anything’d be great.”
She went into the kitchen and quickly made him a fat burrito. She put it on a plate with some tortilla chips and a little container of salsa.
“”
She looked up to see her uncle leaning against the door that led to the restaurant. He had sideburns, his dark hair slicked back in a look that had been popular back in the fifties. Peeking out from under the rolled-up sleeves of his white shirt were faded
bandas
tattoos.
“” she said, speaking Spanish as he had.
Her uncle looked past her to where he could see Jay through the window.
“” he asked, smiling.
“friend
friend. And I didn’t even know he might be one until I met him a few moments ago.>”
Her uncle shook his head.
“” he said. “”
She ducked her head in embarrassment.
“” she said. “”
Her uncle’s features darkened. “” “” she said. “”
“”
“”
Her uncle laughed, but then his features grew serious again.
“” he asked.
“”
Her uncle looked out the window again, then shrugged.
“” he said.
“”
He shook his head as he walked back into the main part of the restaurant. “”
It was true, Rosalie thought. She couldn’t resist them.
From the foundling cats and dogs that lived in and around her trailer at the back of her uncle’s yard to the kids at school whom the other kids picked on.
But someone had to take care of those who couldn’t take care of themselves.
Not that Jay didn’t look capable of looking after himself, she thought as she brought the plate out to him. But everyone could use a kind word or a helping hand sometimes.
“Wow,” he said as she set it in front of him. “This is a feast.”
“You haven’t eaten for awhile?”
“Just truck-stop food when the bus stopped.”
She poured him a glass of water and slid it across the table.
“So, why do you want a job in a Chinese restaurant?” she asked.
He started to answer, but his mouth was too full.
“I grew up working in one,” he said when he’d swallowed, “and it’s pretty much the only thing I’m good at. Besides—apparently—getting into trouble.”
She regarded him thoughtfully for a moment.
“Have you ever tried working in another kind of restaurant?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I’ve only ever worked in my parents’ place, but I know the business from the ground up. I’ve been a dishwasher, busboy, waiter, and cook. I know how to clean up, order supplies, make the food, and work the cash.” He took another, smaller bite from the burrito. “I need to get a job. And find out where the Y is so I’ve got a place to sleep tonight.”
Rosalie nodded. “So are you on March break, or have you already finished school?”
“You mean like an accelerated program?”
“I guess.”
He smiled. “Just because I’m Asian doesn’t mean I’m an academic whiz. Maybe it’s in my genes, because I’ve got a brother who’s a doctor, and a sister who’s a lawyer, and another sister who’s the CEO of an NGO helping kids in Africa. But it never took with me. I’m a dropout.”
“Were your parents disappointed?”
“You’d think. But Paupau told them—”
He broke off at her puzzled look. “Sorry. That’s my grandmother on my mother’s side. She’s kind of like Marlon Brando in
The Godfather
. Everybody in the family—heck, everybody in the neighborhood—defers to her. Anyway, she told my parents that this was something I was supposed to do, so I left with their blessing.”
“I don’t get it. What are you supposed to do?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? She just told me to go someplace that feels right and then I’d figure it out.”
“And your parents were really okay with your doing this?”
“Not really. I don’t even know that I am. But you don’t argue with Paupau. She has a lot of strange ideas, but like I said, everybody pretty much does what she says. So I stuck my finger on a map and it came up Santo del Vado Viejo—which I’ve got to tell you, I’d never heard of before—and here I am.” He smiled. “And who knows, maybe those guys chasing me and me hiding out in your tree is all part of some bigger plan.”
“You don’t believe that,” she said.
“Paupau says there are no coincidences, there is only the fate that you must follow.”
“But you’re—” She hesitated, then plunged on. “You’re just a kid like me. You should be going to school, hanging with your friends, enjoying your March break . . .”
“Which would beat being chased by a bunch of tattooed guys who want to kick my head in. I can’t argue with that. So what about you? What’s your story?”
He took another bite from his burrito and gave her an expectant look.
“There’s nothing much to tell,” she said. “I go to school. I work here in my uncle’s restaurant. I hang out with my friends.”
“And stay out of trouble.”
“Usually, yes.” She studied him for a moment before adding, “You know, my uncle’s looking for a cook. Maybe he’ll give you the job if I ask him.”
“I don’t know anything about preparing Mexican food.”
“You can learn. It’s not hard.”
“I don’t want to impose.”
“It’s cool,” she said. “Really. Unless you really
have
to work in a Chinese restaurant.”
“It’s not that. It’s just . . . I’ve got this letter of recommendation that Paupau said I should show any prospective employer. I don’t know what it says, but I guess that’s why the guy at the Shanghai Gardens was so helpful.”
“You don’t know what it says?”
He shook his head. “It’s in Chinese. I know, I know. But I was born in Chicago, not in Hong Kong or the main-land. I can speak Mandarin, but I can’t read it. Everyone in my family speaks Cantonese except for Paupau and my mother. Anyway, the point is your uncle wouldn’t be able to read it, either.”
“Tío Sandro makes his own decisions about who he thinks’ll fit in here.” She smiled. “And since I’m putting in a good word for you, I know the job’s yours if you want it.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“And until you can get a place of your own, you can sleep on my couch.”
He raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“Are you this nice to all strangers?” he asked.
“I just like helping people.”
“And I totally appreciate it.”
“Oh, and before you get any ideas,” she said, “I’ve got a boyfriend.”
“’S cool. I’ve got a girlfriend.”
There was a laugh in his dark eyes that made her ask, “What’s her name?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t met her yet.”
“Has that line ever worked for you?” she asked.
“What? You don’t believe in romance and true love? That somewhere out there is the one person who’s going to make you complete?”
“Is this more of your grandmother’s wisdom?”
“Nope, this is all my own.”
She shook her head. “Life’s not a pop song, it’s a rap song. And around here, it’s a
narcocorrido
.”
“Say what?”
“Do you know what
corridos
are?”
“Some kind of Mexican music?”
She nodded. “They’re part of the
norteño
tradition and usually have a polka beat. In the old days they would tell the stories of the Mexican ‘Robin Hood’ bandits like Malverde—‘the generous bandit’ who stole from the rich and then shared his loot with the poor. There’s even a song about how at the end of his life, he got one of his own friends to turn him in so that his people would benefit from the reward money.”
“Cool.”
“If it’s true.”
“But now . . . ?” Jay said.
“Now bands sing
narcocorridos
praising the murderers and drug lords who rule the
bandas
. It’s weird, but in Spanish the word for band and gang are the same, and now these stupid kids are showing us why.”
BOOK: The Painted Boy
6.53Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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