You think Fabián was pulling chicks before, you should see him now. Fabián has M-O-N-E-Y. He’s twenty-one years old and living large. The other guys see it, the other sons of doctors and lawyers and stockbrokers. They see it and they want it. Pretty soon, most of the guys who hang around Raúl’s little circle at El Arbol—doing karate and blowing yerba—are in the business. They’re driving the shit into the States, or they’re making their own contracts and kicking up to Raúl. They’re in it—the next generation of the Tijuana power structure—up to their necks. Pretty soon, the group gets a
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