Re: Ocean's Eleven - Seven Hills: Neil, Cris & Sam
[Cris wasn't a spectator. He wasn't someone who stood idly by for anything, least of all something like this (I'll handle this. Esto era un chiste.) He was a little too involved to be benched. And he hated to be made to feel useless, like he did now, like the only reason the gringo had brought him along was to teach him some lesson about his place, like you have your badge, but no one cares about that here, watch them respect me. And, honestly, he didn't care much about being respected. He wasn't his father. It wasn't that. He just didn't do well with los ricos, white people who looked at him like he was nothing. He was used to it, sure. He'd come up against enough of them at work and everywhere else, but most of his life, his barrio, his home, there were no gringos around. Even the gangs, who thought they were untouchable, understood the bone-crunch of a fist to the face or the weight of being turned out by their friends—their family—if someone happened to get the wrong idea.—Cris worked hard and he'd come a long ways. The badge he flashed didn't mean nothing, he wore suits and ties, he code-switched the way people breathed, and most days, even the gringos knew not to fuck with him—but then, there'd be a guy like this director, like Neil. Who only responded to like, to other gringos ricos, and he'd be lying if he said it didn't bother him.
It did. It lit across his skin like powder touched off by flame.
His jaw twitched, teeth ground hard against one another, as the small, beady eyes of the director found him unflinching, like he was some annoying bug, and Cris ignored the directive from Neil. He wasn't here to take orders, even that's what everyone else seemed to think, given how much darker his skin was than theirs.—He didn't like the way the orderly was touching Sam, even to release her from the bite of jacket, and he moved forward, to put himself between the man and girl. He shoved at the guy, butt of palm aimed at the white bandage like it was a target, and he held on, fingers curling around thick forearm, squeezing hard on the recent wound. Cris practically spat.] Don't touch her. [He pushed the guy at the wall, away, all the force meted through that bite mark, before he turned to Sam.
Cris moved the couple inches to her side, where she swayed as she stood, the jacket loose white under black halo of hair. He shuffed the fabric off of her shoulders and let it fall to the floor, where he kicked it away from her. One arm wound around her waist and he held her close, upright. One black-washed, violent glance to the director and all he said was,] You couldn't say it before. It's Detective Cristián Martin-Argüelles, comepinga. [Confirmation that he was, in fact, the visitor they'd tossed out.
It was true he was probably playing right into their ideas of Latinos, Cris didn't care. He spat on those scrubbed tiles. At the array of front doors, he didn't tell Neil to move, but shouldered past him instead. If he wanted the heart so bad, he could get it himself.] Venga, vámonos, mami. Larguémonos de aquí.