LITMIR.BIZ

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felt her heart drop. “Yes,” she said. “He’s at the warehouse overseeing the packing. We’re stocking it with fruit preserves and jellies for the Internet business.”

      “Okay,” she said. “Thanks.”

      If it had been anyone else, Glory would have gone back to the kitchen. But the woman fit the description Consuelo had mentioned, and she was curious. She watched as the other woman approached the big warehouse out back. Rodrigo spotted her and his whole face became radiant. He held out his arms and she ran into them, to be swung around and kissed heartily on the cheek.

      If Glory had needed reminding that Rodrigo was handsome enough to attract almost any woman he wanted, that proved it. She turned and went back into the house. It hurt her that Rodrigo wanted someone else. She didn’t dare question why.

      He didn’t bring the visitor into the house. They stood together under a big mesquite tree, very close, and spoke for a long time. Glory wasn’t spying. But she was looking out the window. She couldn’t help it. That those two had shared a close relationship was impossible not to notice.

      Finally Rodrigo took the blonde’s hand in his and led her back to the SUV, helping her up into her seat. She smiled and waved as she drove away. Rodrigo stood looking after the truck, his smile gone into eclipse. His hands dug into his jean pockets and the misery he felt was evident even at a distance. He looked like a man who’d lost everything he loved.

      Glory went back to her canning, pensively. She wondered what had gone wrong for Rodrigo that he and the blonde woman weren’t together.

      She asked Consuelo, against her better judgment.

      “Who is that blonde woman who comes to visit Rodrigo?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

      Consuelo gave her a stealthy look. “I don’t know,” she said. “But it’s obvious that she means something to Rodrigo.”

      “I noticed,” Glory replied. “She seems very nice.”

      “He’s fond of her, you can tell.” She set the timer on the pressure cooker. “But if you look close,” she added gently, “you can tell that it’s only fondness on her part. She likes him, but she isn’t in love.”

      “He is,” Glory blurted out.

      Consuelo glanced at her curiously. “You’re perceptive.”

      Glory smiled. “He seems like a good person.”

      “He’s the best. We all like him.”

      “I noticed that he seems…”

      Before she could finish the sentence, the back door opened and a tall, handsome young man with wavy black hair, dark eyes and an olive complexion came in through the back door without knocking. He was wearing jeans and a pullover shirt, and broadcasting gang colors and tattoos.

      Glory didn’t dare voice that summary. She wasn’t supposed to know about gang symbols. But she did. This young man belonged to the infamous Los Serpientes gang of Houston. She wondered what in the world he was doing in the kitchen.

      Before she could ask, he grinned and hugged Consuelo, swinging her around in a circle and laughing the whole time.

      “Hi, Mom!” he said in greeting.

      Consuelo hugged him back and gave him a big kiss on both cheeks. She turned, her arm around his muscular waist. “Glory, this is my son, Marco!” she announced.

      4

      CONSUELO’S SON? GLORY had to hide her consternation. The young man was good-looking and personable, but he was unmistakably a gang member. She was worried that Rodrigo might not know. He came from Mexico, from a ranch in a rural area that probably didn’t have any gang activity.

      “This is Glory.” Consuelo introduced her son to the younger woman.

      “Hi,” he said, smiling. “Nice to meet you.”

      “Same here,” Glory replied, and tried to smile normally.

      “Where’s the boss?” he asked Consuelo.

      “Out in the warehouse,” she told him. “You be nice,” she added firmly.

      “I’m always nice,” he scoffed. “He’ll love me. You just wait and see!”

      He winked at his mother, gave Glory a brief glance and went out the back door whistling.

      “Isn’t he handsome?” Consuelo asked. “He looks just as his father did, at that age.”

      Glory had been curious about Consuelo’s husband. She never mentioned him.

      “Is his father still alive?” she asked delicately.

      Consuelo grimaced. “He’s in prison,” she said bluntly, watching for Glory’s reaction. “They said he was smuggling drugs across the border. It was all lies, but we had no money for a good defense attorney, so he went to prison. I write to him, but he’s in California. It’s a long way, and expensive even to take the bus there.” She sighed. “He’s a good man. He said the police had him mixed up with a man he knew, but he got arrested and charged just the same.”

      Glory sympathized, but she wasn’t convinced. The state had to have a certain level of evidence before it proceeded to charge anyone. No prosecutor wanted to waste taxpayer money pursuing a case he couldn’t win.

      “Marco looks just like him,” Consuelo continued, smiling as she washed more canning jars and lids. “But he trusts people too much. He was arrested last month in Houston and charged with trespassing,” she added curtly. “Stupid cops! He was just lost, driving around a strange neighborhood, and they assumed he was involved in a drive-by shooting, can you imagine?”

      Drive-by shootings and gang wars over drug turf were commonplace in Glory’s world, but she didn’t dare mention it. As for the police mistaking a lost motorist for a drive-by shooter, that was unlikely. It was obvious that Consuelo thought her son was the center of the universe. It would do no good to point out that an innocent boy wouldn’t be likely to sport gang paraphernalia and tattoos. It was fairly obvious that Consuelo didn’t have a clue as to her son’s true nature.

      “He’s very good-looking,” Glory said, feigning innocence.

      “Yes,” Consuelo said, smiling absently. “Just like his father.”

      Glory had lost track of the good-looking muscular boys who’d passed through her office on their way to prison. The whole culture of low-income teens seemed to glorify doing time, as if it were a status symbol for young men. She recalled a social crusader who went into the poor sections of town trying to convince gang members to give up their lives of crime and become useful members of society. In other words, give up the thousands of dollars they made running drugs or manufacturing them to work behind a counter in a fast-food store for minimum wage.

      Someone who had never seen the agonizing poverty that produced criminals had no idea how difficult it was to break out of the mold. She’d lost track of the number of poor mothers with absent husbands trying to raise multiple children alone on a minimum wage salary, often with health problems as well. The older children had to help take care of the younger ones. Frustrated by their home lives, when they lacked attention there, they found it in a gang. There were so many gangs. Many were international. Each had its own colors, tattoos, hand signals and methods of wearing clothing to express their particular affiliations publicly. Most police departments had at least one officer whose specialty was the gang culture. Glory knew the basics, because she’d had to prosecute gang members for drug peddling, homicides, burglaries and other felonies. She never stopped feeling rage at the conditions that produced the crime.

      She glanced at Consuelo. “Is Marco your only child?” she asked suddenly.

      Consuelo hesitated, just for a heartbeat, before she turned. “Yes,” she replied. She noted Glory’s curiosity. “I had health problems,” she added quickly.

      Glory

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