Antonio watches for a few more minutes—the movie is great but he’s seen some real stuff, the video quality not so great but what was being filmed could never be sold in public—but you take what you can get.

When the movie is done, he slides his Galaxy off, feels his stomach grumble.

Oh, one more sandwich. Why not.

He pulls around and goes through the drive-through, and a sweet little blond Anglo girl with a big bust under her ugly uniform passes over his order. She’s cute but her face has broken out with acne, but so what. That’s what pillows or paper bags are made for.

He smiles at her, says, “Gracias,” in his most polite and sweet voice, and drives off with his second McDonald’s meal of the day. God, the scent of that food…he starts eating before he even leaves the parking lot, and when he gets on North School Road, he wipes his fingers with a bunch of paper napkins, steering with his knees.

Up ahead a police cruiser is coming straight at him, lights on, siren wailing.

What?

He checks his speed, sees he’s right at the speed limit, as he always drives—how many of his friends have come here to the States and ended up in jail because of speeding or having a broken taillight?—and he just keeps on going.

The cruiser slides into a turn, heading right down—

Linden Street!

He swears softly, thoroughly, and with great enthusiasm, and he slows down just a bit more.

All right.

Slow enough not to get attention, but fast enough to look like an innocent resident, wondering what all the excitement is.

Madre de dios!

There are two police cruisers pulled up in front of their house, and an ambulance and fire truck are parked nearby. Cops are there, weapons drawn, huddled behind the police cruisers.

What the hell happened in the short time since he left?

More curses.

The warm and tasty food in his belly has just turned into heavy, wet, cold cement.

He has screwed up.

The words of his jefe come back to him.

Don’t draw attention to yourself. Keep things quiet. One of you to be awake at all times. No drinking. No drugs.

And most of all…

Don’t leave the house.

Another siren cuts through him, and he sees another cruiser fishtailing around another corner, heading straight toward Linden Street.

Like a good, law-abiding citizen, he pulls over.

Don’t leave the house.

All right.

Something has happened, something bad.

He chews on his lower lip.

He can still make it work.

He’ll call the jefe and tell him…something. He had to leave because…

Because the chicken was ill.

That’s right.

Their guest was ill, and he had to get medicine at the local drugstore.

While he was there, something bad happened.

It was a stroke of fortune, to be out of the house, so he could tell the jefe what happened, be a witness.

His boss will be angry, but will be understanding, Antonio is sure. For the jefe’s concern was that the old man be kept safe and secure until the norteamericano showed up.