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| She felt crazy standing there in the park, waiting for her dead brother Ricardo. Crazy because, though she already called him that, he wasn't. Not until the Jefe got ahold of him anyway. So why was she just standing there shifting her feet in pink Mary Janes beside the statue of some civil war hero? Well, that would be the gun in her pocket. It was a hot day, Hell, it'd been a hot week and she'd stood right where she was every day from noon until dark feeling the weight of that pistol in a denim jacket that made her sweat so bad she'd stopped wearing make-up on the third day. Nothing was grosser than tasting your eyeliner mixed with lipstick. For Ricardo to die properly, he needed his gun and she'd be there to give it to him when he came. She'd say goodbye to her dead brother, then go home to her cat, Peter. |