They’re doing nothing. But theirs is a tense nothing, a studied nothing, a nothing filled with something. Hands in pockets, leaning on a parked truck, eyes left and eyes right, nobody talking, just standing there, on a corner, three men, white vests, sinewy arms, little rat-tail haircuts.
Boys, really. Our car stops. Shadows from the crude barrio buildings fall across the rain-wet road, their edges softened in the damp.
“Don’t take their photograph,” Rigo Garcia whispers. “Don’t even look at them. They’ve killed people.” He leans forward, whistles, then shouts, “Olé."
Read the story by Will Stoll for Esquire.co.uk.