Chulito Read Online Free PDF Page A

wanted to get up and run inside; instead he tried to relax and bopped his head to the music. The cops pushed Kamikaze against the wall and frisked him. Finding nothing on him, they let him go. The four men walked down the block toward Chulito. With every beat his heart climbed up his throat. There were two Latinos, a Black and a white cop. The white guy was red-faced and as he passed Chulito he said, “Stay away from scum like that, little brother.”
    Chulito wanted to deck him. He definitely was not little and he was not his brother. Chulito watched the cops disappear around one corner and Kamikaze around the other. The gun and bundle shifted inside of his hoodie, and as Trick Daddy sang about baggy jeans, gold teeth and saying “fuck!” to the police amidst a chorus of children agreeing with his every word, Chulito knew he’d crossed a line.
    Kamikaze reappeared, walking slowly this time. He wore a bright yellow running suit with sky blue tank top underneath it, matching sky blue Timberlands and a bright yellow bandanna—definitely not a cop-dodging outfit. Without needing to be told, Chulito stood up and went inside his building as Kamikaze followed. He reached under his hoodie but Kamikaze touched his arm.
    “You live here, right?” Kamikaze asked.
    Chulito nodded. “My mom is out.”
    When they got into the apartment, they went to Chulito’s room.
    Kamikaze howled and hooted as he looked out the first floor apartment’s window. “Your name is Chulito, right? You just saved my ass, little bro. Big time. Those stupid fucks almost had me.” As if the room were his, he plopped down on the bed.
    Chulito lifted his hoodie, and the bundle and the gun dropped next to Kamikaze.
    “Thanks, bro.” Kamikaze sat up and put his feet on the floor. “I owe you.”
    Chulito uttered, “Nah” and the word got caught in his throat. His underarms began to sweat, and, as one cold drop slid down the side of his body, he collected himself. “It’s cool. You don’t owe me nothing.”
    “Bullshit! My ass was grass, bro. I was thinking, ‘what am I gonna do,’ and then I turned the corner and boom! There you were. I was hoping you were smart. I was right.” Kamikaze looked up at the ceiling and whispered. “Thank you, my nigga.” He turned to Chulito. “Yo, I know my boy Willie was looking out for me ‘cause I’m wearing his color today. You musta known him? He lived in this building.”
    “I knew Willie,” he said simply.
    Everybody knew Willie. He and Kamikaze were always together and Willie always wore yellow. Not gang gold, but yellow, nice and bright. He did wild shit like wear snake eye contact lenses and gold teeth that looked like fangs. Willie also had a sweet face and by the time he was seventeen he could stop traffic just by stepping out of the building wearing a tank top. The girls swirled around him, and he played with them all. It was a miracle that he didn’t leave any Willie juniors behind before he died in a car accident racing revved up low riders over on Edgewater Road.
    Chulito remembered when the makeshift shrine went up in front of his building—a couple of cardboard boxes and plastic milk crates filled with candles, pictures of Willie, flowers (both plastic and real), Hennessey bottles, 40s, and cigars. The centerpiece was a picture of Willie dressed in yellow and Kamikaze dressed in his signature blue toasting with piña coladas out at City Island for Willie’s nineteenth birthday. A snapshot version of that photo hung from Kamikaze’s rear view mirror.
    Willie died the previous summer on August 22nd. For one whole month Kamikaze wore Willie’s yellow and had Tats Cru make T-shirts that read “Willie R.I.P. I miss you.” Now the 22nd of every month, Kamikaze wore Willie’s color in his memory.
    Kamikaze tightened the yellow bandanna around his braids. He looked out the window and since they were only about six feet up from the ground it took little effort to scope out what was