pier lights

Who would believe that Porfiro was not the guilty man?
Even his mother ran from his defense.
"He is a different son than the the one I once had," she said, her eyes glistening. Then she added in a rather theatrical flourish, "I know him not."
The detectives rolled their eyes.
His friend Tuto was the only one who could provide the liberating truth in the matter, although to do so would mean, in all likelihood, his own death. Tuto's wife Justina had said very clearly just one week ago: "If I catch you with another woman again Tuto, I'll fucking kill you. You think I'm playing?"
Tuto did not think Justina was playing.
Porfiro and Tuto were with the women from the Silhouette Lounge when Patsy McBride was stabbed. Everyone knew that Porfiro despised Patsy. Everyone knew that Porfiro would cut Patsy as quick as he might cut the neck of a chicken. Everyone.
But these women were like sirens to Tuto and Porfiro. They were defenseless in their gravity. Moerover, Tuto was also powerless over Justina. That was just his nature.
"No, man I was nowhere near Porfiro that night," Tuto told the detectives. "Shit, man if I was with those whores my wife would kill me. I ain't lying."
The whores from the Silhouette Lounge knew better than to protect Porfiro. Patsy's cousin owned the Slihouette. They were silent.
This dingy street world was very small, and Porfiro was given up by it. Survival spoke selfishly.
Porfiro was gone now.
His mother cried.
Porfiro was gone.