Illegal

SIXTY-NINE

"What do you mean you're going out tonight?" Tino asked.

"Something I gotta do, that's all." Jimmy keeping it nonchalant. No way he would tell the boy he was setting out to kill a man.

"So you're leaving me alone in the hotel?"

"You want a babysitter?"

"Not unless she wants to watch the titty channel with me."

They had just finished dinner at a barbecue joint, attracted there by the hickory smoke wafting over downtown Rutledge. Ribs, chicken, tri-tip, baked beans, and sweet potato fries. For a skinny kid, Tino could pack it away. Now they were walking back to the hotel, their conversation interrupted by frequent burps and the occasional fart.

"How long till you're back?" Tino asked.

"It'll be late. You'll be asleep."

"You hooking up with that waitress?"

"What waitress?"

"Ay, Himmy. The one you were hitting on, the one whose hair smelled like carne asada."

"Nope."

"Why the big secret, vato? You afraid I won't understand?"

"Exactly."

But that was a lie. Tino would surely understand. He'd expressed the very same emotion a number of times when confronted with someone who would hurt his mother. Tino knew very well the driving force of bloodlust and the bone-deep need for revenge.