craved.
"Nice talk. Listen to this. This guy's, what is it, suicidal. You wanta die, huh? You feel pretty bad, right? Okay, you die. But we make it take a while, huh?"
"Luis," the short boy said, "we gotta get out of here. Somebody hear the shots and—"
"We go. But we burn this shit first. Manny, I seen some kerosene in the back. Get it." Luis narrowed his eyes and looked at Carlos. "You got some problems, chickenshit ?"
"I got no problems."
"Then you get that chickenshit look offa your face."
They stood in silence until Manny came back with a two-gallon can of kerosene. "Throw it around, man. Get the place nice and wet . . . good, that's good. Hey, careful! Don't get any on our man here. We don't wanta grill him, we just wanta roast him slow like."
When Manny was done, the smooth surfaces of the room gleamed, the fabrics were darkened, the smell was sharply sweet. "Who got a pack of matches?" One of the boys handed a dog-eared book to Luis, who tossed it back into the boy's face. "A full pack, man! Got to be a full pack." He accepted another, examined it, and nodded approval. "Good. Okay. Now who got the purse and the wallets?"
" Yo ." A hand held up the booty.
"All right. Out." They left obediently. Luis stood in the doorway and looked at Jesse. "You wanta die, you go ahead."
He struck a match, set fire to the pack, and tossed it into the room. It landed on a kerosene saturated couch, whose upholstery sprang into fiery life. Jesse watched it burn, watched as the yellow-blue flames crawled onto and across the carpet, enveloping more and more of the room. A door slammed, and when he looked back, Luis was gone. Jesse got ready to die.
The heat seared him, and he imagined his flesh was already burning, popping out in big bubbles that splashed blood geyser-like into the air. He saw the couch on which Donna lay burst into flame, and watched as her body glowed and darkened and disappeared in flame. He thought of nothing. His mind was empty of all but death, blasted by what he had seen and heard in what he expected to be the last hour of his life.
The fire had just begun to touch his daughter, and his mind was slowly becoming aware of how much the individual flames looked like fingers gently cradling his little girl, when the front door flew open and a breeze rushed in, making the fire leap up and roar dully. Then someone was at his side, and a knife flashed, and there was new pressure at the places where the ropes held him, and a voice:
"Fuck him, man, can't do this, ain't right, get you out of here, man, get you out…"
Carlos sawed at the ropes haphazardly, so that several times the knife slashed Jesse's wrists and legs, and each sharp pain sparked him, galvanized him into a clearer recognition of what was happening, what had happened, and why, so that by the time the ropes were off him, and he knew that he would not burn, he had become alive again, alive and full of hate.
His legs, though free, would not function, and he toppled sideways out of the chair. A grunt of pain escaped him, and he reached out toward the fleeing Carlos, who turned, looked back, hesitated, then came once more to Jesse's side. "Come on , man," he said, fitting his hands beneath Jesse's armpits, "we gotta get out ."
Suddenly Jesse twisted in the boy's grasp, grabbed Carlos's left wrist with his right hand, and pulled him across the front of Jesse's body so that the body fell on his left side. As he scrambled for footing, Jesse's arms came up and down, smashing into Carlos's face. The boy moaned and went limp long enough for Jesse to find the knife. He opened the blade and began to stab.
Carlos squealed and tried to stop the knife, but it was useless. Jesse was far stronger, and Jesse was mad. The twists and turns of life and death had sidetracked rationality. He did not care that Carlos had come back at the risk of his own life to save him. The only thing that mattered at that moment was that Carlos was one of them who had done it, who
"Nice talk. Listen to this. This guy's, what is it, suicidal. You wanta die, huh? You feel pretty bad, right? Okay, you die. But we make it take a while, huh?"
"Luis," the short boy said, "we gotta get out of here. Somebody hear the shots and—"
"We go. But we burn this shit first. Manny, I seen some kerosene in the back. Get it." Luis narrowed his eyes and looked at Carlos. "You got some problems, chickenshit ?"
"I got no problems."
"Then you get that chickenshit look offa your face."
They stood in silence until Manny came back with a two-gallon can of kerosene. "Throw it around, man. Get the place nice and wet . . . good, that's good. Hey, careful! Don't get any on our man here. We don't wanta grill him, we just wanta roast him slow like."
When Manny was done, the smooth surfaces of the room gleamed, the fabrics were darkened, the smell was sharply sweet. "Who got a pack of matches?" One of the boys handed a dog-eared book to Luis, who tossed it back into the boy's face. "A full pack, man! Got to be a full pack." He accepted another, examined it, and nodded approval. "Good. Okay. Now who got the purse and the wallets?"
" Yo ." A hand held up the booty.
"All right. Out." They left obediently. Luis stood in the doorway and looked at Jesse. "You wanta die, you go ahead."
He struck a match, set fire to the pack, and tossed it into the room. It landed on a kerosene saturated couch, whose upholstery sprang into fiery life. Jesse watched it burn, watched as the yellow-blue flames crawled onto and across the carpet, enveloping more and more of the room. A door slammed, and when he looked back, Luis was gone. Jesse got ready to die.
The heat seared him, and he imagined his flesh was already burning, popping out in big bubbles that splashed blood geyser-like into the air. He saw the couch on which Donna lay burst into flame, and watched as her body glowed and darkened and disappeared in flame. He thought of nothing. His mind was empty of all but death, blasted by what he had seen and heard in what he expected to be the last hour of his life.
The fire had just begun to touch his daughter, and his mind was slowly becoming aware of how much the individual flames looked like fingers gently cradling his little girl, when the front door flew open and a breeze rushed in, making the fire leap up and roar dully. Then someone was at his side, and a knife flashed, and there was new pressure at the places where the ropes held him, and a voice:
"Fuck him, man, can't do this, ain't right, get you out of here, man, get you out…"
Carlos sawed at the ropes haphazardly, so that several times the knife slashed Jesse's wrists and legs, and each sharp pain sparked him, galvanized him into a clearer recognition of what was happening, what had happened, and why, so that by the time the ropes were off him, and he knew that he would not burn, he had become alive again, alive and full of hate.
His legs, though free, would not function, and he toppled sideways out of the chair. A grunt of pain escaped him, and he reached out toward the fleeing Carlos, who turned, looked back, hesitated, then came once more to Jesse's side. "Come on , man," he said, fitting his hands beneath Jesse's armpits, "we gotta get out ."
Suddenly Jesse twisted in the boy's grasp, grabbed Carlos's left wrist with his right hand, and pulled him across the front of Jesse's body so that the body fell on his left side. As he scrambled for footing, Jesse's arms came up and down, smashing into Carlos's face. The boy moaned and went limp long enough for Jesse to find the knife. He opened the blade and began to stab.
Carlos squealed and tried to stop the knife, but it was useless. Jesse was far stronger, and Jesse was mad. The twists and turns of life and death had sidetracked rationality. He did not care that Carlos had come back at the risk of his own life to save him. The only thing that mattered at that moment was that Carlos was one of them who had done it, who
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