“You must be blazed on lean,” Booze said. “Do you know who you fuckin’ with?” The midget got behind him, reached under his shirt, and took the .357 Magnum out of his shoulder holster like he knew it was there. Booze felt the midget struggling to get the five-pound gun under his shirt, fumbling around, getting frustrated. He didn’t want this muthafuckin’ dwarf to accidentally pull the trigger. “Y’all be cool now,” he said, “I ain’t going nowhere.” Booze was scared of accidents. He’d modified the trigger bar on the gun, bringing the pull down from the standard six pounds to two. A hair trigger. He was trying it out and accidentally shot his little toe off.
“Fuck it,” the midget said, dropping the big gun on the carpeted floor. “Don’t try nothing, pendejo,” he said, “or I swear to fucking God I’ll pop you.”
Dodson had gone out with Lupita Tello for three months, long enough to pick up the accent and learn some vocabulary. Mostly things she called him. Pendejo, puto, pinche, cabron, and a few others. At the moment the only thing he could remember was pendejo.
“Put your hands behind you, pendejo,” he said. Booze obeyed, not unfamiliar with the procedure. Dodson looped a zip tie around his wrists and yanked it tight. “Let’s go, pendejo.” Dodson frog-marched Booze down the hall, raising his chin to see over the gangsta’s mountainous shoulder, his view partially blocked by the back of Booze’s head, the tiny knots of cornrows perfectly tied, shiny scalp between them, wet heat coming off him that smelled like almonds and coconut.
Booze limped like a man with one leg shorter than the other. “Hey, come on, dog,” he said. “Take it easy.”
“Shut the fuck up, pendejo,” Dodson said. By the time they reached Junior’s door, Booze was whimpering, his face squashed with pain. “Get me in, pendejo,” Dodson said. “Be a fucking hero and you’re fucking dead.”
“It’s me,” Booze said, knocking on the door. Dodson could barely hear over his thundering heartbeat, his hands dripping wet inside the gloves. Another flash of panic. Nobody else in the gang had a revolver. What if Junior recognized it? The chain was rattling. Do or die.
Junior opened the door carrying an Adidas bag, the Sig Sauer in his belt. Dodson pressed the barrel of his gun into Booze’s temple. “Drop the bag and put your gun on the floor or I’ll blow his fucking head off.”
Junior looked like he’d been asked to do something so ridiculous it was insulting. “Is this a jest or are you an ignoramus?” he said. “Your mind has depreciated extensively if you think your objectives will be finalized with this kind of activity. I think you need to reconsider yourself.”
“I said drop the bag and put your gun on the floor,” Dodson said, pushing the gun in harder.
“Hey man,” Booze said, “y’all take it easy with that thing.”
“Look here, brutha,” Junior said. “Let me try and clarify your perilous circumstances. You are in danger of lifelong extermination if you proceed with this foolishness.”
According to Dodson’s airtight plan, Junior was supposed to be scared and cooperating, not scolding him like Auntie May with a bigger vocabulary. “Do what I told you, pendejo,” Dodson said, “or I’ll shoot this motherfucker. I swear to God I will.”
“I don’t think that’s prudency on your part,” Junior said. “Repercussions will manifest beyond your ability to cope. Now I suggest you evacuate while you still have the mobility to maneuver your ass on outta here.”
“The fuck you doin’, Junior?” Booze said. “Don’t you see this nigga got a gun to my head?”
“You think I’m playing, pendejo?” Dodson said. “You want your homie to die?”
“No he don’t, he definitely don’t,” Booze said. “Tell ’em, Junior!”
“Why do I have to justify my postulations to this farmworker?” Junior said. “If he was credible he would have proceeded with your death by now.”
“Oh I see what you doin’,” Booze said. “You want this nigga to shoot me so you can shoot him.”
“Give up the bag and drop the gun or I’ll pop him right fucking now!” Dodson said, the plan turning to shit. He thought about turning the gun on Junior but that would leave Booze unguarded.
“Give it up, Junior, damn!” Booze said.
“This is what happens when you don’t consummate your duties properly,” Junior said. “You have formulated a problem of your own causality.”
“I’m gonna get you for this, Junior, I swear to God.”
Dodson knew he couldn’t shoot Booze in the head, not at this range. “This is your last chance, motherfucker,” he said, knowing it was his own. “Give it up or he’s dead.”
“Becalm yourselves,” Junior said, talking to the both of them now.
“Junior, did you just hear the man say this is my last chance?” Booze said.
“This man is lying mendaciously, Booze. Can’t you ascertain a falsehood from a factuality?”
Cock the gun, Dodson thought, but before he could put his thumb on the hammer, Junior had darted back into the apartment and Booze was pushing off with his good foot, backpedaling into him, the big shoulder forcing his gun hand up, the momentum knocking him backward and to the floor. Booze fell on top of him, his rock-solid butt cheeks landing on Dodson’s midsection. Dodson felt an explosion of pain, every molecule of oxygen leaving his body in one breath. He doubled up and let go of the revolver.