Page 70 of The Slayer
“Fuck it. Let the Mexican explain it to him.” Chuito turned around. “I’m not training a Latin Blood.”
“You can’t leave,” Tino called out when Chuito started walking toward the door. He ran up to him after a moment and grabbed Chuito’s arm when he got to the front desk. Tino looked at the receptionist and pulled Chuito outside. When the two of them stood on the walkway in front of the door, Tino said in a hushed whisper, “You’rethatupset about another gangster? You didn’t lose your shit when I showed up. Is this about Marcos? He’s happier in Miami. You said it yourself.”
“That motherfucker isnotjust another gangster.” Chuito gestured to the door furiously, his voice loud whether he wanted it to be or not. “He’s Latin Blood. They’re our rivals in Miami.Your rivals. Don’t forget, your family is tied up with Los Corredores now too.”
“But he’s not from Miami,” Tino reminded him. “He probably doesn’t know who the fuck Los Corredores are.”
Chuito stiffened with insult.
“Look, you’re gonna get vain about this shit? Having a mark anyone recognizes isn’t easier.” Tino gave him a look of incredulity. “Try walking a mile in my shoes. Madonn’, everyone knows the Morettis are mafia. My birth certificate made me a criminal.”
“So did mine,” Chuito said with a growl. “Are we really comparing? Between the two of us, who do you think ninety percent of these gringo assholes will cross the street to avoid?”
“Get over yourself,” Tino barked. “In case you missed the memo, you’re famous now, dickhead. People cross the street to get your autograph. You got two UFC Light-Heavyweight belts. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, you switched weight classes and just killed it like a boss and won a Heavyweight belt too. Me, I look like some asshole fromJersey Shore.” He winced and then added, “Except I have better hair…and better style.” Tino shook his head. “Just completely forget I ever compared myself to them.”
Chuito snorted in spite of everything and couldn’t resist saying, “You do look like you’re fromJersey Shore.”
“Motherfucker, I’m a New Yorker.” Tino’s dark eyes narrowed. “And I have way more class than theguidoson that show.”
“Whatever.” Chuito shrugged. “It’s all the same difference to me. Short Italian motherfuckers with big attitudes. You pendejos are probably trying to compensate for something.”
“I’m six feet tall. That’s not short! And I’m not from Jersey.” Tino shoved him. “And I have a fucking amazing dick. I can give you a long list of references!”
“Oh wow,” Wyatt said when he opened the door. He shut it quick and looked behind him. “Carrie heard that, Tino.”
“Carrie’s seen it!” Tino shouted at Wyatt.
“Really?” Chuito turned to Tino in surprise. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“You screwed our receptionist?” Wyatt barked at him. “Tino—”
“It was one time.” Tino held up his hand. “That doesn’t count.”
Wyatt opened his mouth, looking back through the glass doors, and then shook his head. “Do y’all want to tell me what’s going on?”
“He said I act like I’m from Jersey.” Tino gestured to Chuito accusingly. “That’s like me saying I can’t tell the difference between him and that Mexican you signed on. Eat any tacos lately,esse?”
Chuito decked him, hard.
So hard, in fact, that Tino ended up on the pavement.
He actually fell down in the face of Chuito’s repressed fury.
“Oh hey!” Wyatt pushed Chuito back, clearly on the defense. “We’re not on the mat!”
Okay, correction, Tino fell sometimes but recovered quickly. He reached around Wyatt and grabbed Chuito’s foot, jerking violently and knocking him off his feet. It had been a long time since Chuito had been in a street fight. He’d forgotten just how unforgiving cement was, but he recovered quickly too.
He ignored the white-hot burn in his forearm and kicked Tino in the ribs, and then he kicked Wyatt too, because the pendejo was in the way. Scrambling his way around Wyatt and fighting off Tino’s blows wasn’t easy, because one of them used to be a hit man, the other was a sheriff, and both of them had spent a lot of years training to be professional fighters.
But Chuito was the only one of the three with several title belts.
When Tino swung at him, Chuito grabbed Tino’s wrist and jerked hard enough to hear a pop. There was white noise all around him, Tino swearing in Italian, Wyatt cursing in English. Chuito might have felt victorious if Wyatt hadn’t got him in a choke hold, tightening his forearm hard enough that Chuito couldn’t breathe.
Tino, dirty fighter that he was, caught Chuito in the eye with a punch that nearly blinded him with the pain.
“Fuck me, Tino!” Wyatt screamed. “Clay, hold him!”
Chuito kicked back, catching Wyatt’s knee, but not hard enough to break free. Tino clocked him again. This time his world spun, and he thought for one moment that he was either going to black out or puke right there in the front walkway of the Cellar.
