Savages

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 his arm, 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.