After her father has a stroke, Carmen Morales is summoned back to the Kern County home she was kicked out of twelve years before, by the Grandmother – “Abuela” – who refused to intervene. Over the course of the weekend, as Carmen attempts without success to determine whether her father — padre — has insurance, she reconnects with several members of her extended family, including her younger brother Joachim (“Ximo”), who doesn’t appear to have grown up much. Carmen stays with Kelsey, the only family member who had known she was trans, but the situation is complicated by Kelsey’s boyfriend Dace. Dace treats Kelsey poorly; he also reminds Carmen of his younger brother Diego, Carmen’s first crush.

Kelsey and Dace are fighting when Carmen leaves their house on Monday morning, expecting to return to her Orange County home later in the day. After a visit to her father’s employer and lengthy telephone calls, she determines that he does not, in fact, have any health insurance. She rails at him in his hospital bed, but he remains in a coma, unresponsive.

Chapter 10: Challenge and Response

Dwayne picked up on the first ring. “Carmen! What’s the word? Is your father better?”

Finding a quiet place to make telephone calls in a hospital – other than in padre’s room! – had been a challenge, but eventually I’d found a couple of chairs in an out of the way part of the main lobby which no-one was using. In a low voice, I gave my boss the update, which was far from positive.

“He’s still in a coma; no change. And, it turns out he’s uninsured.”

“Oh, no!”

“I know, right,” I agreed, disgusted.

After a moment, he said, “What’s your plan?”

“Well, I need to get him enrolled in one of the state programs, pronto. But of course, he’s got nothing like a power of attorney, or . . . well. Anything.”

“Shit. That’s gone from bad to worse.”

“Exactly. So . . . we’re going to have to get a conservator appointed. I expect it’ll take a couple days to work it out. I was wondering whether I might be able to work remotely while I get that taken care of.” He didn’t answer right away, and I hastened to add, “I should be fine after this week.”

“Ahhhh . . . .” Dwayne sounded distinctly uncomfortable. “Carmen, you know I’d love to say ‘yes.’ But we just got everyone back in the office full time. Corporate made it real clear they don’t want to be making exceptions.”

“Oh.” My heart sank.

“Obviously, you should absolutely feel free to take any sick leave and vacation days you’ve accrued, and you’re entitled to take additional unpaid leave under FMLA. But I just don’t have the leeway to approve remote work right now.”

Between school and my transition surgeries, I didn’t have a lot of paid time off built up. And unpaid leave would put me in a real bind – I wasn’t quite living paycheck to paycheck, but it’s not like I had a lot of savings, either.

My job was important to me, and Dwayne was both a good boss and a decent human being, so I tempered the disappointment that washed over me. “That’s okay. Really. It was worth a shot. I’ll find a way to make it work.” Thinking furiously, I added, “I’ll need to be up here one more day, and I should be able to cover that and today with sick leave. But I’ll be in the office Wednesday morning.”

“Understood. I’m really sorry, Carmen. I wish I could help – especially because you’re one of our very best employees. I know you’d never abuse remote work.”

I thanked him and promised to keep him posted.

It was 1:45, and I had a lot that I would need to get done to keep the promise I just made. I shot a text to Katie. Hey, wild woman. Can I pull you away from work for a minute? Need a favor.

Rather than send a text, she called. “What’s up, girlfriend? How can I help?”

I sagged with relief. “I take back all the terrible things I’ve ever said about you.”

“That’s just it. You never say terrible things about anyone.”

“My family might argue,” I chided.

“Well, if you did, they deserve it,” my roommate replied. “So what’s going on?”

“Well, it turns out my idiot father doesn’t have insurance. I’ve got to get him onto a state plan, but we need to get a conservatorship in place so someone can sign the papers.”

She was suddenly all business. “You need to talk to Al, our family law expert. He’s a great guy.”

I shook my head, though she couldn’t see it. “I can’t afford to hire your firm to do it, Katie! I took family law last fall. It wasn’t one of my best classes, but I know enough to fill out the necessary paperwork. I’d just feel a whole lot better if someone could look it over, you know? I can probably afford an hour or two of his time.”

“Let me see if I can sweet talk him out of a couple hours at a discount. He owes me.”

“Owes you?” My tone was maybe a bit sus. Katie had a rep, after all!

“Get your mind out of the gutter!” she laughed. “He’s a smart boy, but he’s clueless about networks. I took an evening and set up his whole house for him.”

“Oh! Well . . . . it’d be great if he could do it.”

“Ya, sweets! So . . . what’s your timing?”

“I need to be back at work Wednesday morning, so I’d like to file everything with the Probate Court tomorrow if I can,” I said, working backwards from the deadlines I knew I was dealing with. “I’ll need a letter from the treating doctor, assuming I can find her. But I should be able to get a draft of the rest of the package prepared by the end of the day. Maybe 6:00?”

She grunted. “Well . . . I know he’s in the office today, though I don’t know his availability. Let me call him right now and find out if he’s got time to help, okay?”

“Katie, you’re a lifesaver!”

“Not yet, I ain’t,” she warned. “But I’ll for sure try my best.”

“Thanks!”

Katie hopped off the call, and I went out to the car to get my laptop. I knew I was going to need it. Then I returned, with a sigh, to the ER and padre’s quiet room. At the nurse’s station, I asked whether it would be possible to speak with Dr. Chatterji some time in the afternoon, and was told she would be around later.

Confident that Katie would come through – she can be very persuasive, and I had no doubt the lawyers at her firm appreciated just how good she is – I buckled down and got to work. Probably half an hour later, deep in my research, I got the “ping” alert of an incoming text.

Rather than the confirmation from Katie, though, it was a picture of a dilator and a half-full jar of lubricant, sent from an unknown number.

My dilator.

“What. The. Fuck!” How I managed to keep my voice low is beyond me.

Ping. “Why you want this babe”

Ping. “When you can have THIS?”

“This” being, naturally, a fully erect, tumescent penis – a photo taken at extreme close range, to make sure I didn’t miss any of the fine details.

“You son of a BITCH!” I knew exactly whose junk was displayed in the photo, and I had a strong desire to hunt him down and feed it to him, bite by horrid bite. That fucking cochino had gone into my suitcase right in front of me, while I was sleeping. And while Kelsey was in the other room, all frickin’ dolled up for him!

Ping. “you know you want it”

Ping. “she’s out. Daddy’s home. Come and get it.”

My hands balled into fists, my jaws clamped down hard, and my voice came out in a hiss. “You Goddamned . . . .”

There was only one functioning streetlight in the parking lot, completely insufficient to the space it was tasked with illuminating. It was 2:30 in the morning and black as a tar pit; I could barely make out the surrounding buildings.

“Not the best part of town,” the trucker said, as if making an observation about the weather. “But I gotta get goin’.”

I nodded, trying to keep my fears from showing. It had been so strange, coming down the south side of the mountains, seeing the storm of lights. It’s not like I’d never been, but . . . I’d never thought about living here. LA was vast, impersonal, and overwhelming. I was seventeen. Cut off from everyone and everything I’d ever known. Scared.

“I could take you somewhere nicer,” he said. His voice sounded odd. Suggestive.

Oily.

“That . . . that would be . . . .” I tried to get the words out, but my brain was skipping.

He ignored me. “I need you to do me a favor though.”

I turned my eyes from the blackness outside to look at him, and saw to my horror that he was undoing his belt.

“Gets lonely, truckin’.”

I shrank back. “No!!! No! I’m not like that!”

His pants unbuttoned, he reached in and freed his dick, which was half way between on and off. “C’mon now, sugar,” he wheedled. “I did you a solid.”

“No! Please!”

“Your lips say ‘no,’ your eyes say ‘yes,’” he teased in a sing-song voice, like he was repeating a line he’d heard in some sick porn flick. “You know you want it.”

I yanked the door open and tumbled to the pavement, landing painfully. But I didn’t stop to take stock of my injuries. Scrambling to my feet, I took off, reaching for the shadows, his mocking laughter ringing in my ears.

In moments, the darkness swallowed me.

I shook my head angrily, dispelling the memory that clung and reeked like Dace’s pinche weed. Through my still-clenched teeth I said, “I’m not seventeen anymore, and you are fucking with the wrong goddam woman!”

I hammered my response and hit send. “Cops are going to love looking at your dick, asshole.”

Ping. “Cops know what to do with tranny bitches.”

Ping. “And so do I.”

I blocked the number and sat, fuming. I really didn’t want to deal with either the Bakersfield Police or the Kern County Sheriff’s Department. It would be just one more spider thread binding me to this place, one more loose end I’d have to tie up. And . . . Dace might be all-too-right about how they would treat me. Fuck!!!!

I was going to have to tell Kels, though, even though I knew it would cut her like razor wire. Even though it might well blow up the new, fragile, tentative friendship we had forged over the past few days. She needed to know.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!!!! I don’t have TIME for this!

~o~O~o~

The call was just about as awful as I thought it would be. She ended it abruptly, just as I made the turn onto padre’s street.

Put it aside, I told myself. Stay focused. One disaster at a time.

Joaquim was waiting outside, shoulders hunched, hands deep in his pockets. “Do you really need me for this?” he asked as he lowered himself into the passenger seat. “You know the old witch don’t like me.”

“I’m not looking forward to it either,” I said, maybe a bit more sharply than I intended. After my crapper of a day, I wasn’t in the mood for his whining. “Don’t feel bad; she doesn’t like anyone.”

He opened his mouth with another protest, but I cut him off. “C’mon, Ximo, Buckle up. He’s your padre too.”

“Don’t I know it.” He sounded put upon, but he clicked the seatbelt into place and shut the door. “Let’s get it done, okay?”

I put the car in reverse and got us on the road. “Anna waiting for you?”

“Nah, she’s got something going with her fam.”

I thought of old man Aguilar’s face, as I’d seen it at the Frosty Freeze the day before. Weathered, competent. Fierce. And that’s probably Anna’s GRANDfather! “You don’t want to mess around with that family,” I warned.

He laughed. “You’ll be tellin’ Abuela how to sew, next.”

I drove another block, up past Uncle Angel and Aunt Maria’s house. “Are you two serious?”

He shrugged. “We have fun,” he said, sounding defensive.

“Okay, ’mano, but . . . seriously –” I didn’t get any further.

“Just stop, okay?” His voice was even sharper than mine had been, with a burn that felt it had been building for a while. “You want me along, fine. I’m here. But you can’t dance in after twelve years and start telling me how to lead my life, okay? Anna’s my business. Not yours!”

I was silent as we drove the last two blocks, then parked the car. When he reached for the door handle, I put a hand on his arm. “Ximo . . . you’re right. I was out of line, and I’m sorry.”

He looked down, and out the window. Anywhere but at me. “It’s just been me and the old man,” he said after a moment, his voice low. “And he’s, like, whatever. You, Momma, the baby . . . all of you were gone. I can’t . . . .” He shook his head, trying to come up with a way to articulate what he was feeling. “I can’t be a little brother anymore. I don’t know that gig.”

Oh, Ximo! “I wasn’t much of a big brother,” I confessed. “And I never got to be a big sister, so I don’t know how any of that works, either.”

“Okay.”

“We good?”

He nodded. “Let’s do it.”

Gaby answered the door, looking a lot more like the Lupe I remembered than Lupe herself currently did. Though . . . no. Lupe had been the complete, unrivaled high school queen. Gaby was pretty – even very pretty! But not that.

She was giving me as close an inspection as I was giving her, and whatever she saw caused her to giggle. “You really are a ‘Carmen,’ aren’t you? Did you –”

“Don’t,” I said, cutting her off. “Just don’t.”

“Well, fine,” she pouted, letting us in. “Be that way. She’s in the living room.”

We knew the way, of course, and mercifully, Gaby didn’t follow us.

Abuela was sitting in a straight-backed chair, her hands curiously still. In my memories, her hands were always in motion. Cooking or cleaning or sewing and mending. She turned her face to the doorway as we walked in; if I didn’t know she was blind I wouldn’t have guessed.

“You have news.”

I took a chair that faced where she was sitting; Ximo sat to my left. Keeping my attention on her face, I said, “Yes. The test results aren’t good. Dr. Chatterji isn’t seeing any sign of improvement. The most she can say is that he’s ‘stable.’”

Her sightless eyes were staring straight at me. Weighing my words, as she had always weighed them.

“How long?”

I wasn’t sure what she was asking. “How long before . . . ?”

“Before they give up.” The harsh tone with which she said “they” proclaimed her opinion of the entire medical establishment. “Hours? Days?”

“It doesn’t work like that. I mean, I suppose it could, if he had a ‘do not resuscitate’ directive on file or something, but he’s got nothing. They’ll just keep at it, hoping he comes around.”

“Even after they decide he won’t?”

“That’s not their decision to make. Which is the other reason why I needed to talk to you both.”

Abuela nodded, understanding the heart of the issue even if she didn’t know the details. “We need to decide who decides, then.”

“Right,” I agreed. “But it’s not just decisions affecting his medical care. We also need to get him signed up for one of the state programs for uninsured people. And, to qualify, we’re going to have to itemize his assets, which means we’ll need to have access to all of that information.”

“I’m pretty sure his checking account is at BofA,” Joaquim offered, speaking for the first time.

“Do you know where his checkbook is?” I hadn’t seen one when I went through his papers. I hadn’t seen any bank statements, either.

He shook his head. “He just does stuff on the phone, you know? Same as me.” It was apparent that Ximo thought the idea of paper checks was as outdated as whale oil.

I hadn’t thought padre would be the type to do online banking, but it could make some things a lot simpler. “Do you have his passwords?”

“What? No, of course not!”

I sighed. So much for “easier.”

“So,” Abuela said, bringing us back to task. “What do we need to do?”

“There’s a process. A legal process, through the probate court. They have to appoint what’s called a ‘conservator.’ Like a guardian, but for an adult. Someone who can act on behalf of padre, while he’s incapacitated. I did a draft of the papers this afternoon, and I’ve got a lawyer down in Orange County checking my work tonight so we can file tomorrow.”

“You are in a hurry?” Abuela’s question might have been sharp, but it was more curious instead.

“Yes. The hospital fees are going to destroy him, assuming he’s got any assets to begin with. We’ve got to get him in a state program.”

“The government only moves fast when it wants something,” she observed. “How long will it take?”

“It’ll be a few days at least,” I acknowledged. “Even though we’ll be filing a motion for an emergency appointment of a temporary conservator, which they can do while they consider whether to appoint a more long-term one. They still have to send out notices and interview the proposed conservator. And people can object.”

She grunted, indicating that she understood, then sat silent for a moment before saying, “You need to do it.”

“I’ll file the papers,” I agreed.

“No. I mean you need to be the, what is it? ‘Conservator?’” She pronounced each syllable of the word carefully, as if trying it out on her tongue.

I started to shake my head, then reminded myself that she couldn’t see. “No. I’ll get it set up, but I’ve got to get back to my job. To my life.”

Annoyance flared over her face. “I have said, we will not discuss this!”

I’d known that this moment would come, and I’d steeled myself for it. “I don’t plan to ‘discuss’ it. It’s not open for discussion. I’m going home, as soon as I get things settled, and that’s final. I’m sorry, Abuela.”

Her fury was instant. “You’re sorry? That man gave you life! He gave up his dreams for you!”

To my complete shock, Ximo responded before I could, and his voice was harsh. “He kicked her to the curb. So did I. So did you. What you’re asking . . . it’s not right, Abuela. It’s not right.”

Her head turned toward where Ximo was sitting, as tightly wound as I’d ever seen him. “Are you prepared to look after your padre? To do what has to be done?”

“I, uhhh . . . .” He looked at me, pleading.

“Tell us what this ‘conservator’ will need to do.” Abuela’s tone was undiluted acid.

“Well . . . .” I took a deep breath. “He – or she – will need to track down all of padre’s assets and get notarized statements of account. Checking, savings. Does he have a 401(k)?” I looked at Ximo.

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Well, whatever. You know, pension, all of that. Then, make sure that all his bills are paid and current, so no-one shuts off the power or forecloses a mortgage. And, like I said, file the paperwork for a state health care program that covers indigent people who aren’t insured, and work through that application process. He might . . . no. Let’s be honest. He will need to go on disability. SSDI. Maybe workers’ comp, though I’m not sure.” I thought a moment, and added, “And, of course, deal with the doctors and the hospital about his continuing care.”

“I can’t do almost any of that; I can’t even sign a document without a witness.” Abuela’s hand slashed through the air, radiating the same anger as her tone. “Joaquim?”

“I mean, I could, like, do some of it, but . . . .”

“But.” Abuela put a definitive period on the statement.

“Maybe Uncle Augustin?” I said, sounding hopeless even to myself. “You know I’d help whoever took on the job. It’s not like we don’t have phones. And email. And texts.”

She sat still as an icon for a long moment. This time when she spoke, she sounded tired. And old. “Joaquim. Could you go ask Gaby if she would bring me a cup of tea?”

The speed with which Ximo agreed and vacated the room was impressive.

Watch out, I told myself. Here it comes.

When his heavy footsteps faded, she turned her face back to me. “Carmen. . . . debes tener en cuenta que no hay opción.” You must see there is no choice.

I felt a lump rise in my throat. “You gave me my name,” I whispered.

Her head inclined, casting her face in shadow. “You are who you are.”

I felt tears prick my eyes, and fought them. “I still have to go. You know there is no place for me here. There never was.”

“Sí. Lo sé.” I know. She added, oddly enough, in English, “But this thing – this ‘conservator.’ It is beyond us. All the things that will need to be done, and done quickly? With the courts. With the state. The government. I’d never even heard of such a thing before today. You knew all about it.”

“Like I said, I can walk people through it. You, Ximo, Uncle Augui . . . .”

“And we would just be parroting what you said. What is the sense in that?”

“I can’t lose my job!”

“Would you need to be here every day?”

I thought about that. “Nooo,” I said carefully. “But most of the days I would need to be here would definitely be weekdays. That’s when banks and courts and state offices are open.”

“How often?”

“I . . . don’t know.”

The silence stretched. No, I told myself. No. I won’t do it. I won’t!

“Would you have me beg?” Her voice was almost bitter.

“No!”

“Or apologize, for not keeping you here, twelve years ago?”

“It’s not that, Abuela.” I looked at her proud, ravaged face, and couldn’t keep from adding, “Besides. You aren’t sorry.”

“No.”

More silence. Isn’t that pinche tea ready yet? Fuck, Ximo! Where ARE you?

I scrubbed my face with both hands, thinking hard. “The temporary conservator . . . it doesn’t have to be the same person as the long-term one.”

“Ah.” She leaned back, her face once again oriented perfectly toward mine. “So?”

“I can probably manage the temporary,” I said reluctantly. “But for long term, you need someone else, alright?”

She nodded sharply. “Let’s deal with that issue when we have to.” Maybe it was just me, but she sounded annoyingly smug.

Pinche witch!!!

~o~O~o~

Once we were back in the car, Ximo gave me a knowing look. “She got you to say yes, didn’t she?”

“Oh, fuck you,” I growled.

“She gets what she wants,” he replied, ignoring my jibe. “Every time.”

I started the engine. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

We were almost at Uncle Angel’s when he said, “Sorry, ‘mano. I mean – not ‘’mano.’ Fuck. You know what I mean.”

“Yeah.”

“I’da helped. I would. I know I owe you. But, fuck. All that pinche paperwork, and courts, and shit? That’s so not my world, you know?”

I gritted my teeth, but however reluctantly, I nodded. “I know.”

“If there’s anything I can do, you know . . . I mean, something, like, normal . . . ?”

I shot him a look before returning my eyes to the road. “You serious?”

“Yeah . . . .” The word came out slowly. Like he didn’t trust me.

And, you shouldn’t! “Something I need your help with right now, maybe.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. Look . . . You know the guy Kels is living with?”

“Dace Guttierez? Yeah, I know him.” The way he said the name indicated that he didn’t have any higher opinion of Dace than I did.

“He . . . uhh.” How to put this? “He did something today that I had to tell her about, and she was seriously pissed. So, I was thinking I’d just like to swing by to make sure she’s okay.”

He didn’t say anything, which was surprising. I looked over to find him glaring at me.

“Pull over,” he glowered.

“Huh?”

“Pull. Over. I don’t want to have this talk while you’re driving.”

I did as he requested, and even set the parking brake. What’s gotten into him?

“Okay, sister. Just what did that cochino ‘do’ today, that had our Amazon warrior bitch of a cousin upset?”

“It’s not important. And it's . . . well, it's private. Just for Kelsey.”

“No.” He shook his head, angrily, his eyes smouldering. “No, it isn’t. Not if he did something to you.”

“Ximo! What is wrong with you?”

“Fuck!!!” His expression mixed anger, loss, bewilderment. “I may not know how to be a brother. A brother to a sister, anyway. But no-one gets to you without getting through me first! Even I know that!”

It would have been funny, if it hadn’t been so touching. I’d survived South Central as a seventeen-year-old, and there hadn’t been any family there to run interference. But however misguided, he was trying, just like he’d tried with Abuela.

I put a hand on his arm and pressed gently, feeling his bowstring-tight muscles under my fingers. “Thank you. Really. But Kels is the one I’m worried about. Let’s just swing by the house and check in on her. If there’s no trouble, I don’t want us starting any.”

He was trying to get himself under control, but his voice was still tight. “Did he touch you?”

“No! No, Ximo. Nothing like that.”

“Alright.” He took a deep breath, and gave me another glare. “I’ll come with you. But –”

I pressed harder. “No ‘buts,’ brother. I don’t need any trouble. And I don’t need you coming in ready to do damage, okay?”

“Then what am I supposed to be doing?” Now he was exasperated, but that was an improvement over “offended in a point of honor.”

“Just look large, male, and hulking,” I suggested with a smile. “It would be good to have a bit of backup, you know. I don’t expect any trouble, but if someone’s with me it’s even less likely.”

“Well . . . “ he said reluctantly. “Dace’s bigger’n me, so I probably won’t intimidate him. But if anything does happen?” He grinned evilly. “I’ll fuck him up.”

It would have to do. I drove over, hoping for the best.

But honestly, not really anticipating anything that could pass for “good.” Kels had been finishing up a job in Bakersfield when I reached her, and she’d been just as furious as I’d expected. At Dace, mostly, but also at me. Which made no sense, while at the same time making all the sense in the world.

By now, she’d probably have been home for a half hour. Things would be working out or they wouldn’t. If they didn’t . . . .

“Fuck.” We could hear the shouting from the curb, just as soon as we got out of the car, so we rushed up the driveway and I hammered on the door.

No answer. They probably couldn’t hear over the shouting.

I don’t need to hear what they are saying. I only need to know . . . .

My “danger” filter was active, but this time it was screaming “red alert.” I hammered on the door again, then turned to Ximo. “Get your phone out. Start recording!”

He looked blank for a moment, then nodded sharply and pulled out his phone.

I hammered again, but then Kelsey’s screaming rose, transforming into a shriek in pain. I tried the door, only to find it locked “Fuck!”

“Stand back,” Ximo warned.

I turned, just in time to see him raise his work boot and slam it sole-first into the door, right next to the nob.

The door flew open and I was inside in a flash.

Kels was in the corner, trying to ward off a flurry of blows from an enraged Dace. He spun towards us the instant the sound of the crashing door registered. “Out! Fucking out! Tranny BITCH!”

Ximo started to shout something in return, but I yelled over all of them. “STOP! Dace, step away from her!!”

Instead he charged and was on me before I could move. With one effortless motion of his left arm and shoulder, he knocked me down and away, while his right fist punched forward, straight to Ximo’s gut.

Kels hadn’t moved from the corner. Ximo, winded, was desperately trying to block Dace’s follow-up swings, but he couldn’t keep up.

And I was back in a cold, dark alley, on an even darker night, surrounded by looming shadows, hearing someone coming closer, knowing I was trapped. No place to run. Knowing my only escape was going straight at whatever was approaching. . . .

The thunderclap froze all motion. Overwhelmed all other sound.

My hands were steady as I brought the Ruger down and on target. “You only get one warning shot, cochino. On the ground, spread eagle. NOW.”

I could see the wheels turning in his pinche little pig brain as he stared at me, wondering if he could move fast enough to disarm me.

I took two steps back, hoping to change the math, and made a point of squaring up my shot in a firm, two-handed grip. Just like I’d learned in the courses I had been so glad to take.

His expression suddenly changed and he dropped. “Fuck! What’s wrong with you, bitch?”

“Hands behind your head,” I instructed.

He knew the drill.

I looked at Ximo. “You okay, ‘mano?”

He nodded, shaky.

“Can you call the police? The neighbors probably did it already, but it’s better if they hear from someone here.”

He nodded again and stepped around Dace to retrieve his phone.

Without looking away from Dace, I said, “Meet them outside and bring them in. They bust in here, first thing they’ll do is shoot me.”

“Jesus.” He went outside.

“Kels?”

“Yeah, I’m here.” She sounded shaky, too.

I was about to ask if she was okay, but didn’t. Stupid question. “How bad is it?”

“Not sure. He got me pretty good.”

I thought about giving Ximo a holler and asking him to call an ambulance, too, but that didn’t make any sense. The police would do that, probably.

Without changing his posture, Dace said, “Don’t get the pinche sheriffs involved. Fuckers. Just go, okay? I’ll tell them it’s all a misunderstanding.”

“Too late for that,” I said coldly.

“You were gonna fucking shoot me, weren’t you? Cunt.”

I decided there was no reason to provide him with any information on my intentions. I remembered my Uncle Augui’s smiling face, as he slapped Uncle Fernando’s fingers. “Uhhh-uhh-uhh! You gotta pay to see them cards!”

But there was no sense fooling myself. It was all I could do to keep my hands steady as I replayed the tape of the past few moments in my brain. If he hadn’t dropped when he did . . . .

Yes. I would have shot him. Center mass. My finger was already starting to squeeze.

I had an overwhelming, irrational desire to toss the gun out the window, and had to stop myself. I couldn’t lower my guard. Not just yet.

Red and blue flashing lights announced the arrival of the first police car. I moved as far away from Dace as I could, then safety’d the Ruger and set it down on the couch.

Ximo called from outside. “Carmen?”

“Here.” My voice, at least, wasn’t telegraphing my nerves.

“They want you all to come out, one at a time. Hands where they can see them.”

“Okay,” I called back. “Go on, Dace. You’re first.”

He got to his feet and glared at me.

When his eyes fell to the gun, I said, “They’re out there, right now. Even if you got it, you’d be a dead man.”

“Almost fucking worth it,” he snarled. But he turned around, stretched his hands out, and walked out the front door.

I looked at Kels. “Can you make it outside?”

“Yeah, but . . . fuck. My arm really hurts.”

“We’ll get it looked at real soon.”

She needed my help, but she managed it and followed Dace.

My purse was behind the couch, ripped open, contents spilled. I grabbed my wallet and phone, stuck them, awkwardly, in the pocket of my pants, and decided I’d worry about everything else later. I raised my arms and walked out to face the music.

— To be continued

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