Mexican WhiteBoy: List 2

Raul swings the passenger-side door open, starts freestyling over the syncopated beat Lolo lays down by slapping at Raul’s headrest.

Uno tilts his head to the side, furrows his brow.

Guita takes a stick of celery from her feed bag, tentatively pushes it out toward one of the goats.

Everybody says she could be a model. If she wanted to. But she doesn’t. She’s too modest.

As Raul steps to the makeshift mound, Uno instinctively blows into his fist.

“Even had a professional ump in here to calibrate it.”

He goes right into his windup and heaves the ball with a deep guttural groan.

Lolo whips around and makes a move for a pack of frat guys near the back of the small crowd. But Uno corrals him again, tells him to calm down.

A buzz of voices slowly builds in the crowd. Someone shouts, “Give him three more!” Others echo the same sentiment.

Chico and Raul slap him on the back and Sofia musses his hair.

On the one hand, if it came back that his eyes were bad it would explain why he was so erratic on the mound.

It was bad enough he was at a private high school, wore a preppy uniform and made the honor roll every semester. Could he really take it a step further and don a pair of Coke-bottle glasses?

After an hour or so of pitching solo, Sofia’s sister, Vanessa, and her boyfriend, Jesus, pull up in a revamped Mustang.

Ray gets up from the couch, goes over to Gram’s sewing table and scoops up a pad of paper and a pen. He hands them to Danny, explains the gist of how he wants the letter to go, and Danny starts writing.

If it ain’t money they talkin’ specifically, it’s some pseudonym of money. Some materialization of the concept. Maybe they usin’ a different word. Like dividends. Dough. Funds. Scratch.

Or maybe they talkin’ around money. They talkin’ food stamps or government cheese. Supplemental housing. Unemployment checks. Disability. Welfare.

Uno and his boys can always make out Sofia by her walk. It’s the perfect mix of fading tomboy and budding diva.

“Okay,” he says, getting up, going over to get his mitt, the errant ball.

What if they hustled guys around San Diego using Danny’s pitching prowess?

All the girls have a cell phone in hand, occasionally sending or receiving texts between murders, their mesmerized faces made bright by the horror flick showing on National City’s rundown drive-in screen.

The girls are absolutely riveted, but Danny’s finding it hard to pay attention.

Me and my best friend, Uno, made this traveling San Diego all-star team. It’s totally prestigious.

He keeps his mouth shut whenever he smells tequila on his stepdad’s breath. Knows that when Ernesto’s been drinking tequila he’s liable to swing an open hand.

His stepdad stands over him a few seconds longer. Gritting his teeth. Seething. Pointing a stiff index finger. Then he storms off.

You just had bad karma that night.