Ava lived a few blocks away. The short walk turned into a long one, Ava nauseated, sometimes stopping to catch her breath, convinced she had food poisoning. She threw up once, then twice, Sebastian encouraging her to keep walking. They were almost home when a white car the size of a boat pulled against the curb. It was a beautifully restored Cadillac Fleetwood, the paint buffed to a shine. Only one person drove that car: Paco Magic, a cholo banger who stood five foot five and always wore baggy jeans and a Raiders jersey. The door opened and here came Paco Magic, gang, occult, and astrological tats running all the way up his neck and covering his shaved head, the ink so black, he looked like he’d been dipped in paint.

Paco had another cholo with him, a tall, mean-looking dude with a big, misshapen head and a busted, scarred face that reminded Sebastian of the pit bulls he’d sometimes see guarding junkyards—scarred soldier dogs missing fur and eyes. The guy wore a crisp white tank and, Sebastian could tell, was itching to administer a beatdown, when Paco Magic said, “Hey, Ava, everything okay?” Then, with a nod to Sebastian: “This chingado here giving you a hard time?”

Ava said she was fine, thank you—straining to be polite and respectful because Paco was a king in training, a guy who demanded respect, and his eyes were on Sebastian when he said, “I’m gonna take your beautiful mija home. I know where she lives.” Sebastian didn’t move, said nothing, his mind stuck on Paco calling him a chingado, a fucker. His heart was running a marathon, not from the insult but from the awful reality of being nearly face-to-face with a guy who had killed at least a dozen people, according to the streets. Selling guns was how Paco made his money—and his name.

Paco placed a hand on the small of Ava’s back and smiled at Sebastian, his teeth looking gray in the dying summer light. His smile widened as he slid his hand down and gripped her ass. Ava pulled away, and she looked at Sebastian with such terror—Don’t let them take me into that car, her expression said. Please don’t let that happen—that Sebastian stepped in front of her. Paco Magic snorted, and Pit Bull reached around his back and underneath his shirt.

Even now, all these years later, Sebastian couldn’t remember what happened next. He had blacked out in rage, but he had fragments—hitting Paco with a solid left hook he used in the boxing ring; a jab-jab-cross that sent Pit Bull collapsing back against the car, followed by an uppercut that knocked Pit Bull sideways, off his feet. What he recalled clearly, though, even now, was Ava screaming at him to stop, Ava pulling him off Paco Magic, who lay unconscious on the ground, his face unrecognizable. Pit Bull was unconscious, too; he had cracked his head open against the curb when he fell. Sebastian learned that later. That and the fact that Pit Bull’s real name was Clarence Romero—Romeo, to his friends and colleagues within the LAPD. Clarence was an undercover cop assigned to gather intel on Paco Magic’s gun operation.