They looked up the street, where two small boys were darting glances between the gang and the boom-box. Two of the gang took off to deal with the kids, but the one I’d injured and his other two friends stayed near me. Petra was still inside the Mustang, but when her door was clear she uncoiled herself from the passenger’s seat and hopped out to the pavement. They turned to look at her, even the one whose lip was bleeding.

“Any of you boys know Señora Andarra?” I’d done a Lexis search last night for the names of the current occupants.

“Who wants to know?” one of them, who sported Latin Kings tattoos, asked.

“Because I want to talk to her. And I’d hate to have to tell her someone in her family was acting like a punk out on the street in broad daylight.”

They started muttering among themselves, and finally backed a few steps away from us. “We watch you. You bother her, we take care of you.” It was the Latin King again.

“You her grandson? That’s good. We grannies like to know the little ones are looking out for us.” I put my arm around Petra’s shoulder and pushed her onto the sidewalk and up the short walk to the front door.

It felt queer to ring a bell at a place I’d gone in and out of freely for twenty-six years. We listened to the sound die away in the house. After a time, while the Latin King moved up the walk behind us, the door opened the length of a short thick chain and a short old woman peered through the crack at us.

“Your turn,” I said to Petra.

My cousin explained in Spanish what our mission was, but Señora Andarra was adamant. We could not come in, no. Perhaps we meant well, but how could she tell? And with only Geraldo out there on the walk … no. If her son were home, it would be another story. But too many people wanted to rob you, and told you stories. Petra pleaded and wheedled as best she could in her classroom Spanish, but we couldn’t budge the woman.

We turned around.

“Keep your head up, look confident. You own this sidewalk.”

“What do we do if they attack us?” Petra whispered.

“Say our prayers,” I said, then called out, “Geraldo! Your abuelita is worried about you. She doesn’t like to see you just hanging around, nothing to do with your time. She wants to see you with a good job, not ending up in the morgue like your buddies!”