“You moved in here. You’re one of us now,” Esteban said, and pressed on.
When it was over, she said, “I bet you’ve done a lot of girls on this couch.”
“A lot,” Esteban said.
“Anyone as hot as me?” she said.
“No, no, baby, you’re the hottest.”
There was no sound of Spanish in his voice. She wished there were. It would be more romantic. She wasn’t sure he even spoke Spanish beyond a few phrases.
“So who’s this dude, shot Puerco?” Esteban said.
“Wilson Cromartie,” she said. “He calls himself Crow and he says he’s an Apache Indian.”
“I don’t give a fuck he’s a martian, you know? What’s he want with you?”
“My daddy hired him to bring me home.”
“Your daddy?”
“Yes,” Amber said. “Daddy hired this guy to find me and my old lady, and kill the old lady, and bring me home.”
“What’s your daddy’s name?”
“Louis Francisco,” Amber said.
“That your real name?” Esteban said.
“Yes. Amber. Is that a sappy name? Amber Francisco.”
“Yeah. Where’s Daddy live?”
“Miami,” Amber said. “He’s very rich.”
Esteban nodded.
“What’s he do?”
“I don’t know. He’s in a bunch of businesses.”
“You like him?” Esteban said.
“Hell, no,” Amber said. “He’s in on all kinds of shady shit, you know? And he sends me to the fucking convent school. You know? Nuns. Jesus!”
Esteban nodded.
“And he wants your old lady killed?”
“Yeah.”
A couple of Horn Street Boys came into the garage. Amber rolled over onto her stomach. Neither of them paid any attention to her. They got beer from the refrigerator, sat down on a couple of rickety lawn chairs, picked up the remote from the floor, and turned on a soap opera. Amber hated soap operas. Her mother used to watch them in the big, empty house and drink beer until she fell asleep on the couch. Amber wished they’d shut it off. She wished she had her clothes on. She wished things were different.
“I think I should talk to your old man,” Esteban said.
29.
Crow was sitting under the small pavilion at Paradise Beach, talking on his cell phone.
