“Where is he? Yer cousin?” The man slammed the truck door shut, knocking a woman backward before concealing her and the others back into darkness. He pulled a pistol from his waistline, held it at his side. “He better show, Jose.”

Juan’s eyes widened to perfect circles. “Manuel...he come. Please.” Juan searched the alley, but there were only two places to look: left or right. And Manuel wasn’t in either. His throat went bone-dry and the spit he tried to swallow got stuck there and turned into a lump. The taste of acid stung his mouth as his stomach churned. “Please...”

“You got about another two minutes. I got more deliveries to make and don’t have time for this bullshit.” Another wad of phlegm, this one splatted on the toe of Juan’s tattered tennis shoe. The mucus absorbed into the dried filth that was already there.

Juan wondered if he could make a run for it. Even with this shoes no better than papier-mâché, he figured he could outrun this flabby, wrinkled pig in front of him.

“You even think about runnin’ and my pistol will fart a mess of hot lead into yer brown ass.” He pointed the gun at Juan’s chest.

“I’m here!”

Juan and the man turned to their left. Manuel jogged toward them from around the corner, panting, his breaths rattling.

“Keep yer voice down, Pablo. Shit.” The pistol was lowered and placed back behind the man’s belt where a roll of pink fat nearly concealed it.

Manuel trotted until he stood between them, leaned over with his hands on his knees and gasped for air. Juan could see that the American life had padded his cousin: gut hanging over his belt and puffy cheeks glistening with sweat.

“Where’s my fuckin’ money? I ain’t got time for this.”

Manuel pulled a wad of cash from his pocket, handed it to the man. He eyed the money for a moment, then nodded. “It’s all there.”

The man thumbed through the bills, spat on the concrete, walked back to the driver’s door. The truck rocked, then took off.

Juan waved the exhaust out of his face, choked and snorted. He could only hope the rest of the people would get where they’d hoped they would and that whoever was waiting for them showed. He could tell that pistol had spat death into more than a few Mexicans, and that the man’s finger had no trouble with squeezing down on a trigger.

“Cousin. Good to see you,” Manuel said in Spanish, still struggling to catch his breath. Rings of sweat darkened his shirt at his chest and armpits.

“That was a nightmare. A fucking nightmare. I can’t let my family ride with that man.” Juan took deep breaths, and even with the slight tinge of garbage, the air was delicious. “A girl was raped. Right next to me.”

“Look, man. You’re here, right? I kept my promise, didn’t I?” He clapped a hand on Juan’s shoulder. “You hungry?”

A smile cracked under Juan’s black mustache and he nodded.