Following Chico’s lead again, Fernando and his friends crossed over to the buckling garage. For all that it was open at both ends, the garage was a big, dim, musty space, cluttered up wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling with almost as much junk as the yard outside.
Rap music pounded from huge speakers at the far end, rattling the scrap metal and glass. The air reeked of rust and old grease. So too did Chico’s thug of an older brother, who emerged scowling from underneath the low red truck, which occupied the sole clear square of floorspace.
Chico’s brother’s name was Pedro. How much older he was than Chico, Fernando could only guess. But judging by the sheer number of other urchin siblings roving about the premises, probably only around two years or so.
Pedro was heavy-browed like Chico, but otherwise bore little resemblance to him. He was shortish, stocky and rather plain like their mother, which told Fernando that Chico must favor their unremarked-upon mystery father Esteban instead.
Pedro was muscled and thick-necked, heavily tattooed even on his shaved head. He wore a sweaty white wife-beater and a big silver cross on a chain. At their approach, he stood and spat. He glared over at Chico, who sauntered up to him at once and started in on him about Saguero. Pedro’s scowl deepened.
Fernando, meanwhile, turned to the truck. It was an old hunk of junk that had clearly been fixed up a good deal. Fernando didn’t know shit about trucks, but he could tell from the shine which parts had been most recently replaced. He was eyeing the chrome front bumper when Pedro drew up beside him.
“Yeah,” he grunted, as if they’d been in the middle of a conversation, “that bumper was a bitch to find. I had to go two towns over. The cabrón who owns the place tried to gouge me, but I checked him. Looks good, huh?”
Hands in his pockets, Fernando admired the fresh bright gleam. “Yeah, it looks good.” He glanced to Pedro. “You do the detailing, too?”
“Nah, my boy Nacho did that.” Pedro spat again. “I don’t do that artsy-fartsy shit.”
Fernando nodded. “Just the real shit.”
“Yeah,” Pedro said, snarling a smile at him. “The best shit’s under the hood, though. I’ll show you.”
Lifting the hood, Pedro began extolling at once on the truck’s inner virtues. Most of this went well over Fernando’s head. But all he needed to do was point at one part or another, and Pedro would expound enthusiastically upon it.
By this point, Chico and the others had drifted over. Pepe nodded so sagely at intervals during Pedro’s long sermons that Fernando could see he knew something about trucks himself. So too did Chico, who argued over some particular with Pedro until both started to go red in the face.
“How does it drive?” Fernando asked, interceding.
As Pedro turned to answer, Chico smirked at him, wheedling, “Yeah, yeah. There’s talk, and then there’s demonstration. The drive to Saguero would give a good feel for it, wouldn’t it, hermano?”
Pedro scowled back at his younger brother. Glancing between him and Fernando, he grunted at last, “Bien.”
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