Page 72 of The Slayer
“I shoved you first,” Tino reminded him. “That makes me just as guilty as you.”
“This is all very touching,” Clay said drily. “But there’s one thing y’all are forgetting. Tino’s shoulder’s dislocated.”
“Oh fuck.” Wyatt looked to Tino. “Really?”
“No, no, it’s okay.” Tino pulled himself up to a sitting position. His hand was on his arm, and he looked to be willing himself to do something really painful. “It’s an old injury. I can fix it.” He lifted his head to Chuito. “You just gotta jerk it back into place.”
Well, that sounded like the last fucking thing Chuito wanted to do today.
He’d done it before, because gangsters didn’t like going to the hospitals where questions were inevitable. Like Chuito had observed, cement wasn’t very forgiving. He’d done lots of first aid in his days as crew leader of Los Corredores.
“Tino, I gotta call Tommy and get him to take you up to Mercy,” Wyatt said with a sigh. “I’m sorry, but—”
“Man, you can take me to jail, but don’t take me to the hospital.” Tino was still gripping his arm.
Apparently mafia didn’t like hospitals either.
Chuito crawled over to him before he could change his mind. At the same time, the Mexican, with a show of unity, got down on his knees behind Tino. He draped one arm over Tino’s good shoulder and across his chest, holding him tightly, making it apparent he’d done this before too.
“Uno, dos—” the Mexican started counting, obviously sensing the urgency of getting it done before Clay and Wyatt got the paramedics out there.
“Don’t!” Wyatt shouted.
At the same time the Mexican said, “Tres!”
Chuito jerked Tino’s arm.
“Caaaazzo!”
They all winced at the pop Tino’s arm made when it snapped back into place.
“Oh my God.” Wyatt groaned. “I ain’t never dealt with that one before. Tino—”
Tino doubled over, putting his head on his knees as he breathed deep. “It’s okay,” he finally choked out. “Madonn’.”
“Jules will have a fucking fit if you don’t call Tommy and get him to Mercy,” Clay warned.
“Just arrest me.” Tino moaned with his face still pressed against his knees. “Do it, Wyatt. Don’t take me to the hospital.”
“You motherfuckers are hard-core,” the Mexican said in Spanish as he sat behind Tino. “I don’t love the hospital, but it’s better than jail.”
“I got a brother who can get us out on a technicality,” Tino answered him in English. “It’s cool.”
The Mexican looked shocked, and Chuito explained in Spanish, “He understands some Spanish. He doesn’t speak it.”
“That sucks,” the Mexican said in English, looking at Tino suspiciously.
It was obvious he was worried about their gang conversation in Spanish earlier. Tino explained it better than Chuito could. While Wyatt and Clay stood up and had a debate over what to do, Tino turned and lifted his shirt, showing off theOmertátattoo on his stomach. Anyone who had made their living in the underworld knew the word for the Italian mafia code of silence.
The Mexican stared at it with wide eyes.
“De veras,” Chuito agreed with how insane it was. “¿Que locura, eh?”
The Mexican stuck out his hand. “I’m Javier.”
Chuito shook it and said in Spanish, “Welcome to the wasteland for washed-up gangsters.”
“There’s no nightlife,” Tino added. “But crazy shit is always happening. You won’t get bored.”
