The Mexican

I had stopped at the mouth of the alley. Same Ford. An old one; like a classic. Nice shape to. Maybe somewhere in the sixties, but I wasn't good with cars like that. I only knew old, classic, nice looking. Nobody around. Of course, that didn't mean there was no one in the car. I hesitated for only a second, and then walked quietly down the alley, staying in the shadows as I went.As I stole silently up the driver's side of the car, I found the Mexican slumped over behind the wheel. Blood dripping down the side of his head. What looked like a 45 on the seat beside him. Another guy was slumped over into the floorboards on the passenger side: That one was dead for sure. A large, bloodless hole on one side of his chest. An even larger hole behind that shoulder I saw when I reached over to move him.And why are you still here, a little voice in my head whispered. Why are you touching him? What are you doing? But I pushed those warning voices away and continued to look.There was blood and gore all over the seat on that side. The coppery stench of blood was thick and nauseating. Something else mixed in with it, tugging at my brain: Blood and... Fear? Something. That was when the Mexican spoke in all that silence and nearly made me jump out of my skin.Don't call the cops! and... No Policia. His head came away from wheel.  He shook it and drops of blood went flying. I felt a drop hit my face, but I was still too stunned to move.Hey! ... You hear me, blanquito? Habla English? ... No Policia? He muttered under his breath Dios Christos, he focused his eyes on me once more. What's the matter with you?I thought you were dead, I managed. I should've run. I chose to talk.Yeah... I get that a lot, but I ain't dead. He picked up the 45 from the seat and before I knew it, it was in my face. Come around the side, blanquito. Get Lopez out of the car. He waved the pistol and I moved.