"It never is," Rucio said. "But go. The gates open at dawn. Be gone before the spirits get hungry."
Waiting for him was "Chato," a skinny kid with tattoos crawling up his neck like ivy. Chato was fourteen, maybe fifteen. He held a rusty pistol low by his side. cementerio de cholos
Rucio pulled a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. He didn't light one. Instead, he tucked it behind the ear of a statue of an angel that had lost its head years ago. "It never is," Rucio said
Toro looked at the Molotov. He looked at the army of shadows that had materialized from the graves. The mythology of the place suddenly felt very real. The fear of the supernatural, the deep-seated respect for the ancestors that even the hardest gangster carried, won over. Be gone before the spirits get hungry
Toro hesitated. He looked toward the row Rucio indicated. The tension was thick enough to choke a horse.
"Put it down, boy," Lucho rasped. "Before you wake up the babies."
"Open up, carajo," he muttered to the silence. "It’s me."