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fighting the impulse to tighten my seatbelt, and breathed a sigh of
relief when he finally whipped the vehicle into the parking lot of the police
station and slammed on the brakes. For a man his size, he was amazingly nimble
as he exited the car and trotted toward the entrance to the building, stopping
long enough to speak to a couple of officers he passed on the sidewalk. They slapped
shoulders and spoke briefly before he continued into the building.
    With
nothing else to do while I waited, I glanced through the folders he had given
me. What lay in front of me were some of the pathetic dregs of San Antonio
underlife. Most were petty criminals no one would want to run into in a dark
alley. By the time I finished reading the last folder, Pauli was pulling open
the driver's door. He wedged himself behind the wheel and turned the key in the
ignition and winked.
    "Piece
a cake," he said with a smile. "The shooter is one Fernando Acevedo,
age eleven years and seven months. Just under the limit."
    "What
limit?"
    "Once
a kid turns twelve the state can declare him an adult in serious cases. Under
that and juvenile detention is practically a done deal. Also got an address and
mama's name. Wanna check out the homeboy's neighborhood and shake a few trees
to see if anything falls out?"
    "I
guess so."
    "I
can do it alone if you want."
    "Is
that where the shooting took place?"
    "Naw.
The kid must have used public transportation, or someone dropped him off. They
recovered the weapon, but surprise, surprise, no serial number. A real hunk of
junk."
    "I
feel dumb asking this, Pauli, but where did the shooting happen?"
    "Parkin'
lot of the Light. Stupid little fuck wouldn't have been caught if he hadn't
hung around a little too long."
    Pauli
backed out of the parking space and drove like a man possessed until we were
within a few blocks of Acevedo's address. The area wasn't just economically
deprived; the economy had never reached this section of town. For a fleeting
moment it crossed my mind that if I were a kid living there, I might take a
hundred bucks to shoot someone, too. Drunks from the night before were still
curled up in doorways and down alleys. There were plenty of children around,
but none of them looked like they were on their way to school even though it
was a school day. Everything about the buildings and street was oppressive. I'd
seen better conditions in Fourth World countries. For a booming metropolis —the
ninth largest city in the United States —prosperity obviously wasn't evenly
distributed, and I wondered how many of the people living here were legal.
Pauli interrupted my thoughts.
    "Say,
ain't one of them folders on a guy named Mercado?"
    "I
think so," I said, looking quickly through the folders again. "Yeah,
David Mercado. Why?"
    "'Cause
there the hunk of shit is," Pauli said, pointing to a shaggy-headed man
who appeared to be in his late thirties. He was shuffling down the sidewalk
wearing jeans with holes at the knees and in the back pockets. I had seen kids
shell out big bucks for similar attire, but in Mercado's case, the holes were
not a fashion statement.
    Pauli
swung the car across the street next to the man and rolled the window down.
    "Hey,
Mercado!"
    The
man looked surprised, as if he hadn't seen the car pull over. A scraggly beard
covered the lower part of his face, and he blinked incessantly as he looked at
us. Pauli opened his door and stepped from the car. As I got out, Pauli
motioned for Mercado to join us near the rear of the Belvedere. Mercado looked
around to see who else was on the street before moving. He jammed his hands
into the pockets of his dirty jeans and shifted his weight to one foot.
    "I
heard you was retired, Pauli," he said in a hoarse voice.
    "Can't
believe everything you hear, Davey."
    "Who's
the bitch?" Mercado asked, nodding toward me.
    "New
partner. I need some information about a case."
    "I
need to get laid. So what?"
    "Looks
more like you need a fix to me."
    "Hey,
I'm clean now,