Dead Boys Read Online Free PDF

to us like a ghost.
    “You know, Trace, fuck,” I say.
    “What a hassle. Sorry.”
    A hot wind scours the street, flinging dust into our eyes.
    T HE RESTAURANT IS on a side street, a couple blocks away. We don’t say anything during the short walk. Men in cowboy hats cook steaks on an iron grill out front, and we pass through a cloud of greasy smoke to join the other gringos inside. It’s that kind of place. I order the special, a sirloin stuffed with guacamole.
    Tracy pretends to be interested in what Liz is saying, something about Cassie and Kendra, but her restless fingers and darting eyes give her away. When she turns to call for another bottle of water, Liz shoots me a quizzical look. I shake my head and drink my beer. The booze has deadened my taste buds so that I can’t enjoy my steak. Tracy cuts into hers but doesn’t eat a bite. The waiter asks if anything is wrong.
    We go back to Revolución to get a cab. The sidewalks are crazy, tilting this way and that and sometimes disappearing completely. You step off the curb, and suddenly it’s three feet down to the pavement. Tracy begins to cry. She doesn’t hide it. She walks in and out of the purple afternoon shadows of the buildings, dragging on a cigarette, tears shining.
    “Must be one of those days,” she says when I ask what’s wrong.
    We leave it at that.
    She cleans herself up in the cab, staring into a little round mirror, before we join the long line of people waiting to pass through customs. We stand shoulder to shoulder with strangers, and the fluorescent lights make everyone look guilty of something. There are no secrets in this room. Every word echoes, and I can smell the sweat of the guy in front of me. Four or five officers are checking IDs. They ask people how long they’ve been down and what they’ve brought back with them. When it’s my turn, a fat blond woman glances down at my license, matches my face to the picture, and waves me through. We’re all waved right through.
    Tracy’s mood brightens immediately. In fact, she laughs and laughs as we leave the building and board the trolley. Everything’s funny to her, everything’s great. The train is less crowded this time. We each get our own row of seats. Just some marines at the other end of the car, talking about whores. “Oh, this little bitch, she went to
town,
” one of them groans.
    Tracy reaches into her purse and takes out a bottle of pills, opens it and pops one into her mouth. She smiles when she catches me watching her.
    The trolley clicks and clacks like it’s made of bones. I stretch out, put my feet up. The reflection of my face is wrapped around a stainless steel pole dulled by a day’s worth of fingerprints. Tracy dozes off, head lolling. Liz, too. I watch the sun set through rattling windows, and all the red that comes with it.
    The trolley lurches, and Tracy’s purse tips over. It’s one of those big bags you carry over your shoulder. A half-dozen bottles of pills spill out and roll noisily across the floor. I chase them down, mortified. Tracy opens one eye. I spread the bag wide. It’s full of pills, maybe twenty bottles, all with Spanish labels.
    “You’ve got kids,” I whisper. “Beautiful kids.”
    “That’s right.” She grabs the bag away from me and hugs it to her chest.
    “Tracy.”
    “Look, I didn’t ask you to show up; I just didn’t say no.”
    “I wanted to help.”
    “I fully realize that.”
    I try to talk to her some more, but she pretends to be asleep. Nothing I say means anything anyway, because she thinks I’ve had it easy. Liz is suddenly beside me. She takes my hand in both of hers. The jarheads are rapping.
Bitch. Skeez. Muthafucka.
I could kill them. I could.
    W E CAN SEE the fire from the freeway. The entire hillside is ablaze. Tracy’s condo is up there somewhere. Flames claw at the night sky, and smoke blots out the stars. I don’t even know how you’d begin to fight a thing like that. Maybe that’s what the helicopters