They drove listening to reggaeton on the radio. Cars came from all directions. Riverbed saw people cuss at him through the view-mirror. They popped Xanaxs. They had rented a small, economy car, and it was quite maneuverable. Riverbed avoided collisions because his car was small and quite maneuvaerable. The small car had made it possible to find parking through the tight streets of Old San Juan. It made going up and down the hills with curves easy. It only cost thirty bucks to fill its tank. The car-dealer drove Riverbed and Cleaver. He wore a dress-shirt, estaba asicalao, meaning he seemed to have just walked out of a salon. He smelled like expensive cologne. The person he spoke to on the phone—though he wanted those in the car to believe it was all about business—was a seventeen-year-old girl that he’d told he loved. He wanted to marry her. He talked into his cell and to them in the car at the same time. “¡Si! ¡Si! Ahora mismo. Estare ahí,” he said, giving Riverbed eye contact. “¡Siento pulsones de almendras en mi cabeza y me pico el gallo!” He checked his watch, adjusted his time, and blew kisses out the window. He was able to write down the girl’s digits and maneuver the car so that it missed two cars trying to cut him off at once. He dropped them off en Old San Juan.
***