epub or mobi, with thanks to the original sharer
No
one was paying him any mind. Whitey and that lacy trim of his were back in the
section they'd boxed off with baseboard partitions and chintz curtains. A
recorder was bleating a rock and roll number. Pico didn't go for rock and roll.
Afro-Cuban stuff, that could really send him. And the old Mexican folk songs
could set his blood to drumming, rouse ancient, latent memories. But rock and
roll was strictly for the birds and the bums and the goddam lousy Anglos. His
thoughts lingered with contempt over Whitey and Norma. Whitey was a
four-flusher, he'd be yellow when the chips were down. Let him fink just once
or go back on his Pachuco oath, and Pico would sink a shank right into his stinking
heart — and Whitey knew it. Sure, Whitey was the leader, the big boss, but it
was Pico who made him toe the line. And Norma, she was a stuck-up little frill,
with her pale face and her cute ways. She thought she was a real hot piece of
goods, but Pico wouldn't touch her with a ten-foot pole.
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