“If you need money, all you got to do is ask,” Real Deal says, joking.

“I don’t need your fucking money,” she replies.

She gets back on her bike and rides until she comes to a liquor store in a Mexican neighborhood. Real Deal follows her into the parking lot and turns off his engine when she does. Three men leaving a bar next to the store stop to admire her Harley.

“How much you pay?” one of them asks her.

“A million dollars,” she says. “Two million.”

The guy makes a face and repeats what she said in Spanish to his buddies. They scoff too. “No two million dollars,” the guy says to her. “Two million pesos.” His buddies laugh, and all three climb into a pickup bristling with gardening tools and drive away.

Real Deal runs a hand over his closely cropped afro. It comes away sweaty.

“What are you up to now?” he says.

Yuma walks into the store without answering. He follows. An old Mexican couple is behind the counter. The wife’s sitting on a milk crate, watching a soap opera on a tiny TV; the husband’s at the register, a cigar stub wedged in the corner of his mouth.

The store shelves are overflowing with merchandise. The place sells groceries in addition to booze—cans of beans and hominy and menudo, sacks of rice, wilted vegetables—and also odds and ends like toilet plungers and tamale pots. Dramatic music plays on the TV as Yuma goes to the beer cooler without so much as a nod to the old man. Real Deal tries to be friendly, saying “Buenas noches” and pretending to be interested in a display of car deodorizers—pine trees, Playboy bunnies, Mexican flags. The old man ignores him. He’s watching Yuma in a round mirror mounted on the ceiling.

Yuma grabs a six-pack of Coors tall boys and lets the cooler door slam. She asks the old man for a pint of Cuervo. When he turns to get it off one of the shelves behind him, she shoves a fistful of Slim Jims into the pocket of her jacket. The old man sets the bottle on the counter and rings it up. His wife’s standing now too, staring at Yuma.

Yuma grabs the beer and tequila and walks out without paying.

“Hey!” the old man shouts, all of a sudden holding a pistol. The old woman has a machete in her hand.

“It’s cool,” Real Deal says. “I got it.”

He lays a twenty on the counter and backs out of the store.