For Once She Can Breathe.

There's no use walking around angry all the time.

There is little to save a man when Hell beckons and the ground opens up beneath his feet. Only the streets, jail, and the morgue are strong enough to break his fall. A woman, however, can count on a detour to appear just before she hits bottom—something that keeps her from falling any further and sometimes even offers a way back when nobody and nothing else will.

SOLICITANDO CHICAS says the sign. There's one on this block and the next and the next. Pride is the first thing she'll swallow. Once the money starts rolling in there's no looking back. For once she can pay the light bill before they cut it off again. For once she can pay the protection money that keeps her baby-daddy alive in jail. For once she can buy her son a toy instead of putting it back and watching him start to cry. For once she can breathe. She makes her peace with it after a while. There's no use walking around angry all the time.

Alguien piensa de otra manera.

Juana took the first one. Bits of skull and brain hit the wall behind the desk. Blood spattered over the ledger that kept track of which girl did what and when and a half eaten order of tacos from Tlaquepaque on Rayón. Just wasn't her day.

Pepe was next. Then Carlos. Then Claudia across town. Then the media caught on, and things got crazy. No stopping. Carlos Salazar. Diego Montemayor. Platón Sanchez. Reforma. (That was a triple--three in one block.)

¿Abierto?

Cerrado.

Broad daylight. Dusk. 3:00 AM. Somebody is taking down those who run los masajes, one well-placed bullet at a time.

The subway fare went up again. Tortillas too. Do you know who sells the best pozole in this town?

The chicas keep giving servicios. The tipos keep paying.

A bullet has the last word.

BACK.

It hurts. It costs. La máquina no da cambio. MORE.