"Everything okay?" Porky asked. "Just my cousin. I'll call him later," Tony said. "Send the girl home and give the guy another chance to tell us who did Ruben." There was some ugly business after that, but it didn't go anywhere. This was not Tony's favorite part of the game, but he was a practical guy, and sometimes you had to motivate people to tell you shit. But beating guys up for nothing, that was just depressing. They dusted him off and let him go with the usual threats and disclaimers--mouth off and we'll finish it, blah blah blah. Offer valid for thirty days in counties ending with the letter S. Void where prohibited by superior force. Two hours later it was just him and Porky sitting at Porky's place, drinking Coors Lite because Tony hated the idea of getting fat. Porky's place was a couch, a card table and four folding chairs. The only decoration was a plant that Porky's ex-girlfriend had left behind. It was dead. "Man, this place is depressing as shit." Porky took a pull on his beer. Porky was barefoot, wearing only shorts, and fat. He had tattoos all over his shoulders and gut, dragons and knives and clouds, and a beautiful Buddhist sunrise over his poochy man-tit on the left side. On his back in black gothic letters was a giant TST , though these days he mostly hung with Tony's Eastside Social Club. Tony was cool with the TST guys, but he liked to be his own man. He worked hard to make allies instead of enemies, which was another reason the Mi Casa bastards pissed him off. "So who do you think did Ruben?" he asked. Not too hopefully. Porky was not what you'd call a deep thinker. Ruben was the third guy who'd been killed since the summer movies started coming out. And Tony needed Ruben. Ruben had a head on his shoulders. Ruben could do the math. "What was it?" Porky said. "A .22? Like the Sopranos ?" Porky loved that show. "Nine mill." Porky looked disappointed. "Paco C. took Ruben's corner." "Not Paco. It was Mi Casa, man." "But it was like the way Paco did that dipshit in Central. Dropped him right on the street." "But Paco isn't Mi Casa." "Casa ain't the only people with guns," Porky said reasonably. "Screw Paco. Mi Casa been on us all summer. Nobody gave them the speech about healthy competition." Porky scratched under one tit. "They don't care for that," he allowed. Mi Casa had been on them like white on rice. Any move ESC made, the cops were right: but Mi Casa walked around like someone put badges in their Cap'n Crunch. They were an epidemic, eating all the gangs, getting bigger and bigger. In three years they'd gone from just like everyone else to heading towards Crips and Bloods levels of organization. Like they were gonna franchise and go national. Tony swore in Vietnamese. It was a better language to swear in than English. More satisfying. Also, those were about the only words of Vietnamese he could reliably produce. Using them was part of affirming his heritage. Porky got another beer. "Who do you think killed Ruben, Tony?" "Man, I don't know," Tony said. "But it's been a bad summer for the Eastside Social Club."
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