I push the guy up against a sweet, shiny black Camaro, one that probably cost more than my mom
makes in a year. “Here.s the deal, Blake,” I say. “You either pay up now, or I break somethin. of yours.
Not a piece of furniture or your fuckin. car… somethin. you.re permanently attached to. Get it?”
Blake, skinnier than a telephone pole and as pale as a ghost, is looking at me as if I just handed him
his death sentence. He should have thought about that before he took the Big 8 and bounced without
paying up.
As if Hector would ever let that happen.
As if I would ever let that happen.
When Hector sends me to collect, I do it. I may not like doing it, but I do it. He knows I won.t do
drug deals or break into people.s homes or businesses to steal shit. But I.m good at collecting… debts,
mostly. Sometimes it.s people, but those get to be messy affairs, especially because I know what.s gonna
happen to them once I haul them back to the warehouse to face Chuy. Nobody wants to face Chuy. It.s
way worse than facing me. Blake should feel lucky I.m the one assigned to look for him.
To say I don.t live a squeaky-clean life is an understatement. I try not to dwell on it, the dirty job
I.m doing for the Blood. And I.m good at it. Scaring people into paying us what.s ours is my job.
Technically my hands are clean of drugs. Okay, so drug money does touch my hands quite frequently, but
I just hand it over to Hector. I don.t use it, I just collect it.
It makes me a pawn, I know. As long as my family is safe, I don.t care. Besides, I.m good at
fighting. You can.t imagine how many people break down with the threat of their bones breaking. Blake
is no different than the other guys I.ve threatened, I can tell by the way he.s trying to act cool while his
spindly hands are shaking uncontrollably.
You.d think Peterson would be afraid of me, too, but that teacher wouldn.t fear me even if I shoved
a live grenade into her hands.
“I don.t got the money,” Blake blurts out.
“That answer ain.t gonna cut it, man,” Paco chimes in from the sidelines. He likes coming with me.
He thinks of it as playing good cop/bad cop. Except we play bad gang member/worse gang member.
“Which limb you want me to break first?” I ask. “I.ll be nice and let you choose.”
“Just smoke his sorry ass, Joe and get this over with,” Paco says lazily.
“No!” Blake shouts. “I.ll get it. I promise. Tomorrow.”
I shove him against the car, my forearm pressing on his throat just enough to scare him.
“As if I.m gonna take your word for it. You think we.re stupid? I need collateral.”
Blake doesn.t answer.
I eye his car.
“Not the car, Joe Please.”
I take my gun out. I.m not going to shoot him. No matter who I am and what I.ve become, I.d never
kill anyone. Or shoot anyone. Blake doesn.t have to know this, though.
