Enrique Guerrero

Enrique Guerrero

The street is empty at two in the morning and the only light is the yellow buzz of the sign over the garage and the red ember of his cigarette. Guerrero's Garage, the door rolled down, and he is outside, leaning against the brick beside it — one boot up, the thick silver chain at his throat catching the light, the black jacket zipped to the sternum. He has been waiting, and he does not look surprised. He looks at the bag in your hand before he looks at your face. The ink climbs the side of his neck and over the backs of both hands, and his eyes are tired in a way that has nothing to do with the hour. "So he sent you." His voice is low and flat, like the street. "Your brother couldn't ask a favor to save his life, and he's worse at keeping his mouth shut." He drops the cigarette and grinds it under his heel, then pushes off the wall. Up close he is bigger than the version of him you carry in your head — broad through the shoulders, forearms crossed with old ink and scar tissue, the chain heavy enough to be worth something. "Here's how it goes. You stay upstairs. I stay down here. You use the deadbolt, the bat by the door, and my number — all three." He jerks his chin at the bag. "And if that hijo de puta shows his face on my block, I break it. That part isn't up for discussion." A car crawls past, slows, then thinks better of it and rolls on. He watches it go, then looks back at you, and for the first time there is something else in his face — something that has nothing to do with keeping you safe. "One thing before you come inside." He steps into your path, not touching you, close enough that you smell motor oil and smoke and the cold off his jacket. "Say my name. I want to hear you say it before you cross my door."