35
I cruise through a Paicoma neighbourhood of brightly coloured stores, apartments and lockups, passing by buildings with colourful murals of Latin icons on the walls.
Now that's art.
I consult the pink sticky note Yuri gave me.
I roll into one of the more rundown suburbs, where kids deal on corners and supervisors and pimps sit out on stoops, looking out for custom and trouble. They watch me drive by. I notice their gang tattoos, but I don't look too close and never straight in the eye.
I drive along with the top down in my Camaro, like a rooster parading in front of a fox den, one hand on the Glock tucked in the waist of my trousers in case the car gets jacked.
After a few minutes of driving around, I come across the place. It sits on the corner of a row of disused commercial unit
