Savages

says, “I’ll bet they do.”
    Now she kisses him goodbye and leaves. He puts his pants on, goes into the kitchen, and pulls a beer from the refrigerator. Sits down and watches some stupid talk show on television.
    It’s nice to relax for a few minutes.
    Then his cell phone rings and it’s Delores.

168
     
    Gloria comes into the shop and puts on the black smock.
    Teri, grabbing a cup of coffee, smirks at her.
    “Why do I do it,” Gloria asks, “when it just makes me feel dirty and degraded?”
    “You just answered your own question,” Teri says.

169
     
    Lado sits in the bleachers behind home plate and watches Francisco’s setup. His feet are too close together, and Lado makes a mental note to tell him when they get home.
    “You been making the pickups with these new people,” he says to Hector.
    Hector nods.
    Francisco goes into his delivery and throws a nice breaking ball, low and inside, for a called strike.
    “You been doing anything else, Hector?”
    Hector looks confused. “What do you mean?”
    Francisco sets up and Lado knows he’s going to come with the fastball this time. Out in left field, Junior looks half asleep. Knows the ball isn’t going to come his way. He’s right, Lado thinks, but he needs to look sharper anyway.
    “You’re not double-dipping, are you?”
    “No!”
    It’s the fastball, straight down the middle but the kid’s swing is behind it. Hector’s a good man, been with them, what, six years? Never a problem, never any trouble.
    “I wouldn’t want anyone to think,” Lado says, “that they can take advantage of these
gueros
just because they’re new and a little soft. People need to know that they’re under my protection.”
    “Understood, Lado.”
    You bet your brown Mexican ass, understood. If you’re under Lado’s umbrella no rain falls on you.
    “Good,” Lado says. “The next pickup needs to go smooth.”
    “It will.”
    Francisco wastes the next pitch, just like Lado knew he would. He’s a smart kid, Francisco, up two in the count, no sense in wearing out hisarm, throw the kid a bad pitch to see if he’ll swing on it. Smart.
    “How’s your brother?” Lado asks. “Antonio? He still selling cars?”
    He can hear Hector’s heart stop.
    “Yes, he’s fine, Lado. He’ll be pleased you asked for him.”
    “And his family? Two daughters, is it?”
    “Yes. All well,
dio gracio.
”
    Francisco goes into his windup. The stance is still too narrow, but the kid has that long whip arm so he gets away with it. Breaking ball that drops like it fell off a table and the batter swings and misses.
    Two down.
    And now Hector knows that if he’s playing games with these
yerba
shipments he’s dead, but not before his brother, sister-in-law, and nieces back in Tijuana.
    “Delores! Hello!”
    Lado turns to see Delores edging her way down the bench, saying hello to the other mothers. She sits down next to him.
    “So
I’m
on time and
you’re
late,” Lado says.
    “I was waiting for the roof guys,” she says. “Of course they came late.”
    “I told you I’d take care of it.”
    “Yes, but when?” she asks. “It’s supposed to be a wet winter. Has Junior batted yet?”
    “Next inning probably.”
    Francisco throws a low ball, pure junk, but the batter bites on it and pops up. Lado stands and claps as Francisco trots to the dugout, his glove folded casually under his arm.
    “Let’s take the boys to CPK after the game,” Lado says.
    “Fine with me,” Delores says.
    She can smell that hair-cutting whore on him.
    The least he could do is take a shower.

170
     
    She can smell him.
    His sweat, his breath
    As he comes toward her.
    O twists her head away but
    He stands right over, breathes into her face, stares
    Into her face with those
    Cold black eyes
    She
    Cries she
    Chokes on her panic she
    Can’t turn it off.
    Yeah, but you have to, girl, O tells herself.
    She makes herself take a deep breath. Time to stop being girlie-girl about this. Time to cowgirl up, show some ovaries. She gets off the bed, walks to the door, and pounds on it.
    “Yo!” she yells. “I want Internet access!”

171
     
    Yes, she wants fucking Internet.
    She wants Internet, a computer to
use
the Internet, she’s hoping like hell they have Wi-Fi wherever the fuck they are and not DSL or, God help them,
dial-up.
She wants all that plus she wants a TV, satellite TV—if I miss one more episode of
The Bachelorette
I’ll never catch up—an iPod and access to her iTunes account,