I'm a week into my bartending gig when I first start contemplating suicide.

"For the last time, I'm cuttin' you off, I don't give two shits how we're related." I swear this is actually one of my cousins, though I can't remember who, Julio or Julián or something else, but my point still stands— I refuse to keep supplying him until he starts throwing bottles around. "You can't even walk in a straight line."

"Your ma's a whore with a fat ass, anyone ever tell you that?" I've called her worse myself. "Pinche pendejo, come on, one more shot—"

"Get out or I'll kick you out," I say like it doesn't make a difference to me either way, though I'm hoping it doesn't escalate there. Brandish the towel in my hand at him, too, like that'll make me look more intimidating than some eighteen-year-old kid up against my... second cousin, who's definitely killed someone before, judging by the teardrop under his eye.

He tips over two chairs and mimes throwing one of his empty glasses at me, but he finally heads out the door after flipping me the bird, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. This job might become slightly more tolerable if I could drink on it— and I'm close to sticking my head under a tap when, just my luck, Luis strolls into the establishment.

He's got yet another broad on his arm, in a little black dress that's too short for the weather— I don't ever bother to learn their names, it's a waste of my mental energy to keep track of every Rosita and Gloria he brings around. He hasn't had a serious relationship since he ended things with his second baby mama. "I'll just take a Modelo," he says, settling himself in a stool in front of the bar, "and the lady wants a tequila sunrise, don't you, querida?"

Judging by the soppy, lovestruck expression on her face, she wouldn't have objected to him ordering her a glass of liquid shit. I don't have the heart to tell her that he goes through eighteen and nineteen-year-old girls like underwear; barely notice her at all, in fact, when I turn to my uncle. "How's the job going?" he asks with a smirk. "You enjoying the company?"

"Please." I'm not above begging. At this point, I'm not above getting on my knees, though I lean across the bar and move closer to his ear, don't need to be making a scene in here. "I'll dig ditches. I'll scrub toilets. But this is too much. All these cabrones are a million times worse drunk."

"You know what your problem is?" Oh, I just can't wait to hear it. "You're real smart, I'll give you that much, you got a good head for strategy and all that shit." I brace myself for what's coming down the pike— all of Luis's compliments have a little backhanded slap somewhere. "But people just don't like you. You got all the charm and charisma of a raccoon that's been run over by a semi."

"I love you too, tio. Our relationship really just warms my fucking heart."

"What can I say, Timmy, I'm tryna teach you a valuable life lesson here." He smirks at me again, like he's got all the time in the world. "Now, I'm not so sure about this drink. Think Carmen wants a little more ice."

Gun to the head is the quickest method, right? Maybe I'll take him out first.

When Rafa pulls up outside the dive at the end of my shift, he might as well be the angel Gabriel to me. "You need a ride?" He grins as he shoves his head out the window of the driver's seat, shakes a bottle of Jim Beam at me; I accept it gladly as I slide in, take a larger sip than I should. Great, a week spent working at that goddamn speakeasy, and I'm starting to develop about the only vice I didn't have before— a drinking problem. "Maybe we oughta hit up a place where you're on the other side of the counter."

"Just get me out of here," I mutter— I should know better than to hop into a car with Rafa, who's fumbling to even turn the key in the ignition, but I'm desperate enough that I'd hoof it. "Let's get off the whole Ribbon. Go to the Dingo or some shit."

The Dingo is your typical drive-in on the east side of town, by which I mean, you got about three Mexican hitchhikers there at once and the possibility of a knife fight to bet on whenever. It's exactly the kind of joint I want to hit up by the time we somehow make it there alive, a solid amount of whiskey burning a hole through my belly— kind that spells trouble, and I'm surprised that for once it finds me instead of the other way around.

"Ain't that the broad you were messin' around with at Buck's place, on your birthday?" Rafa stumbles out of the car, his limbs flowing like water. "What's she doin' with him?"

I narrow my eyes a little as I scan the crowd, but it's definitely Gabi, talking to some guy I don't recognize at all— takes me a second to realize they're arguing, though, as I step closer to them. "I thought you were gonna become a priest, last time we talked." When she huffs, she blows a strand of hair out of her face. "Live a life devoted to God. Last time we talked, the only thing I ever did was distract you from his vision."

"Maybe I changed my mind," he says, high and reedy. "I want you to be my girl again— I'm never gonna find anything better than what we had."

"Priesthood doesn't really come with an exemption clause, does it?" and I actually stifle a laugh with my knuckles, she's got him there. "You can't possibly have both, and I ain't stupid enough to not figure out what you're gonna pick."

"I'm in love with you," he insists, enough fervor in his voice that even I'm briefly swayed by it. "We got history, we been together since we were fourteen, I don't know how you can just throw all that away—"

"I said we're finished." She gives him a hard sniff, turns to walk away from him. "Go home, Tenoch. You're drunk as all get-out."

I'll admit it, I hesitate to interfere here. Despite what Joe seems to think, a year spent as lab partners and a fuck on my birthday, that doesn't make her my broad— or my problem. I try not to get involved in other people's business, especially domestics, which can blow up like a home firework all over you. I got enough of my own to handle.

Then he puts his hands on her. He's a skinny guy, not real tall either— the sort of build you see in the downtown outfits, where boys don't get nearly enough to eat and turn out all hungry and desperate— but he's big enough that her wrist twists back in his grip, and I step forward. Saw too much of this shit growing up, saw my mama slapped around by every man who walked into her house, whether she deserved it or not. "What you doin'?" Rafa asks, his gaze unfocused. "Tim—"

"Just give me a minute," I say, walk on over to them before I can talk myself out of it. I don't need to get my courage from a bottle, but I can't deny that the liquor's made its mark on me already. "Hey," I call out. Don't do anything dumb and rash like reach for my switch, there's always time to escalate later, especially at a hangout as wild as this. "What's goin' on here?"

"Nothin', nothing's goin' on," the holy brother says. He's not from any outfit at all, most likely— not with that cagey, frozen expression, or those soft hands, or the fucking argyle sweater vest he has on. Guess all kinds can slap a woman around. "Just catchin' up."

I turn to her, not really interested in hearing out his side of this; she's looking at me with a mix of apprehension and anger, and I've already started to regret this, but I've never been much of one for admitting when I'm wrong. "He bothering you?"

"Tim, it's fine, it's nothin', like he said." She toys with the straps of her purse; there's still red marks on her wrist, the imprint of his fingers clearly visible. "We were just talkin'."

I wrap an arm around her waist, real possessive like, close enough to smell the perfume she has on. "This shit ain't cute." It's not exactly hard to stare him down, I wouldn't have been surprised if I saw a dark stain form on the front of his chinos. "Get the fuck outta here, and don't let me catch you touchin' my broad again."

If he had a pair of balls, he would've tried to fight me over that last bit, but instead he just skitters off like a spooked deer— it's Gabi who ends up having the courage, out of the two of them. "I ain't your broad." She jerks away from me like I'm the one who smacked her. "Last I checked, anyway."

"Well, ain't you somethin', princess," I drawl, more annoyed than I have a right to be. "Then how come I got the leader of the Kings rollin' up on me, sayin' as much?"

"What? I definitely didn't ask him to." She blushes and crosses her arms, looks away from me. "Why would Joe do somethin' like that?"

I don't want to turn the machete's edge of my sarcasm on her, it's not really the time or place for it, and there's no answer I can give about Joe that isn't deeply mocking. Nor do I want to start grilling her about her brother. "He hit you before? Jesus—"

"You expect me to believe you never hit a girl before?" She shrugs a shoulder, shifting her purse strap down as she does it. "It's not a big deal, Tim, he was just upset. It won't bruise or nothing."

"What, because I'm a hood, you think I put girls through walls now?" Ed hit my mama often enough when I was a kid, and while I'm not fond enough of Mary Magdalene to run interference, Luis smacking her into counters makes me feel something dangerously close to pity for the bitch. I don't do that shit. "I told you, my ex screwed around on me, I didn't even hit her then."

I don't admit to her that it was less nobility that kept me from it, more pride, when I beat the hell out of that Brumly boy once I caught up with him. I didn't like to use my fists when I knew words would cut her a lot deeper.

"Look, I'm sorry... I have to go," she says, out of breath like she's just run a mile. I think she might want to cry, but she's too proud to do it in front of me. "I wasn't going to stay, I didn't expect him to be here—" She's not dressed for a party, I note for the first time, looks more like she belongs at a diner in her poodle skirt, hair tied up with a big pink ribbon. "I have to go haul my sister out of here before our daddy figures she's gone, he's gonna string us both up by our thumbs."

I should offer to help find her, as she heads back into the crowd, even if I can't drive her home without leaving Rafa passed out on the sidewalk. But Christ, seems like I've done more than enough already, and the liquor churning in my stomach starts to eat away at me like acid.

I don't enjoy maintaining discipline in the crew, I'm not quite that kind of psychopath (by which I honestly mean Alberto). But after having to fix their latest fuck-up on my inevitable hangover, when I approach Alex in our abandoned lot, I can't say this is going to move me to tears, either.

"Funny story I heard from the Brumly boy tryna pick up our mota today," I start, low and careful, like I'm luring an animal into a trap. "I gotta use the word try, 'cause turns out, there wasn't much for him to pick up. Now, was he too drunk or just too plain retarded to notice you, or did you leave your corner?"

Fortunately, nobody from Brumly is all that bright, or even has an IQ in the triple digits. Someone from a bigger outfit might've suspected we'd gone back on the deal; all I had to do was promise to buy Gary a drink Friday night, and put in a good word for him with my buddy Esteban's sister. But it's the principle of the matter, I can't just let this slide.

"Maldita sea, man.." He runs his fingers through his greased-up hair, messes it up in the front. Won't meet my eyes, either; everyone else around us quits shooting the shit, doesn't want to miss the show. "Maria Teresa got in a wreck and I had to take her to the hospital, sabes Ma's workin' day shifts now—"

"I don't need your excuses," I force myself to say, instead of asking how Maria Teresa is, "you got any idea how lucky you are that it was just some Brumly burro, that I was around to clean up your mess? What if my uncles thought you ran off with the product?"

Alex grimaces, but he still clenches his jaw, like he'll take anything I give out and do it all over again. I've worn that look enough times myself, and I don't like seeing it now. "What if it was Angela? What would you do?"

I'd like to think I'd have the good sense to put business first, but I know myself, and I'm not so different from him after all. Can't say that, though, not when I spent five months away from my crew and swear I've had these little rebellions popping up ever since. "Don't talk back to me," I say, and roll up my sleeve. "You so sure you made the right decision, you can pay for it, then."

A tense, crackling silence settles over the lot, the kind that came right before a beating when Ed used to live with us; I try not to think about that. "Stand still," I say coolly, cock a fist at him. You want their fear, not their love, Luis once told me, you're real young, so you want them to know they have to take you seriously. I've already been gone for five months and been paying for it ever since; Rafa did his best in my absence, but he doesn't have the gravitas to lead. I do.

He closes his eyes, and I've never been more conscious of all the people watching me, including Curly, who's too young to have a stomach for violence. I can't hesitate, show them any exploitable weakness, so I bring my fist down on his nose, hard enough to break it with an audible crack. He stumbles back from the blow, cusses and clutches at his face, blood spilling through his slightly-parted fingers and soaking into the dirty fabric of his shirt; I let him work his way into the circle again, into his friends' sympathetic looks and pats on the shoulder. "Anyone else think my orders take second place to whatever personal bullshit they got goin' on?"

Even though I'm sure at least three of them do, no one says a word. "Get him cleaned up, he's a damn biohazard at this rate," I bark at Nate and Rafa, who are flanking him, "and Alex?" He looks at me through filmy eyes. "You pull something like this again, I'm gonna whip you with a fucking dog chain. Entiendes? Or you learn your lesson now?"

He bares his teeth at me, gleaming red like I smacked him in the mouth. "Yeah. I learned it."

"You shouldn't have done that to Alex," Curly says as he slumps into my passenger seat. His bottom lip is bloody, like he's been chewing straight through it. Thought he'd given up that habit when we were kids.

"Yeah, you think, manito?" I say with a laugh, not taking him seriously at all. "I've done a lot worse than give someone a damn nosebleed, trust me. Broke Nate's arm when he stole those acid tabs."

I don't mention that I threw up in the shower at home, clogging the drain— I'd only been fifteen, and Alberto had stood over me the entire time, made sure I did the job properly. I'm not such a little maricón anymore.

"He's callin' you a puto pendejo." He kicks a foot up on my dash. "His sister was in a car wreck, Jesus—"

"Unless she's on life support, I don't really want to hear it," I cut him off sharply. "If he didn't just spin some story to try to get out of trouble, that is."

"He was your best friend when we was kids—"

"He's not my friend when it comes to this, I don't play favorites." I parrot Luis's words. "Ain't no room for friends in this life." Ain't nobody you can trust but family, Timmy. You'll figure that out soon enough.

"You sound like one of them corny cartoon villains with Russian accents."

"Listen to me," I say with more irritation than he deserves, like I'm trying to justify it to myself. "This is serious business, Curls, okay? We ain't sellin' Girl Scout cookies here. If someone's not on their corner when they're supposed to be, or anything else goes wrong— people get arrested, or they get shot, they get killed." Like Dad, lies unspoken between us. "He's lucky I'm the one who caught him, not tios. Luis probably would've gone straight for the chain."

"You gotta hit them, though?"

"You know what, kid, you're right. I think next time, I'll tell his mama he's been a very naughty boy, and maybe she'll send him to bed with no dessert." I crank up the radio, hope I Get Around can drown out him yakking at me. "Grow up, puto. You're too young to be jumped in, if you're gonna start crying over some lil' bump in Alex's nose."

"Would you do it to me?" he asks, looks at me out the corner of his eye. Like he's just had to work out the intersection between Tim, his menacing but ultimately harmless brother, and Tim, his gang leader, for the first time.

"I'd rather not," I admit as I floor it, want to cut this conversation short. Curly knows he's my weakness; both my siblings are, in different ways. "So don't make me have to."

The silence between us pulses with a life of its own. "You wanna make fun of Leave It To Beaver with me when we get home?" We always used to do that, especially that one Hispanic kid they put on the show to give it a shred of realism— I'm still waiting for Ward to act like a normal father for once and throw some plates or something at his boys, instead of maintaining that eerie serial killer calm. "There's probably beers left in the fridge."

"Yeah, sure," he says, but he's faking any enthusiasm for it. Stares out the window, as we drive past the abandoned liquor store I made him tag last week, and I don't push him further.