The day was warm, especially for this time of year. Mallen stepped out of the medical building and crossed the sidewalk to the 1965 Ford Falcon that belonged to Gato, his friend and companion. The small wiry man was behind the wheel, dark shades on his eyes, white t-shirt blazing. “Anything hit the streets yet?” Mallen asked as he got in the front passenger seat. Gato only shook his head in reply. “Lupe’s pimp will show, man,” Mallen said. “You know those guys don’t stay underground for long. Trust me: we’ll find him. And if the trail should run dry? Well, I have some sources I can use if we need ’em.” “Sources,” Gato echoed. “I’ve heard about some of your sources, vato. More like steel traps waitin’ to trigger, if you ask me.” “Maybe. Sure. But let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves, yeah?” Gato replied with a nod of his head. “I don’t like it though. None of Teddy Mac’s stable has seen his ass for days. I don’t like it.” “He’ll surface, and we’ll be there when he does.” He knew it didn’t sound as reassuring as he’d intended. Gato’s sister’s pimp going missing at the same time the sister did? Not a good sign, at all. “I’m sure Lupe’s fine,” Mallen added. For an answer, Gato started up the car and put it in gear. “How’d the test go?” “Like a blood draw. You know what?” “What?” “I don’t like needles.” Gato laughed as he pulled into light traffic.
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