tires and a loud crash… broken glass tinkling on the pavement… “Take that, pigs”… all the words in a low voice, however… Nestor swings his head toward that part of the room… the tubercular blue glare of a television set… two boys, eleven or twelve years old, maybe thirteen or fourteen… Nestor advances toward them… “MIAMI POLICE! SHOW ME YOUR HANDS!”… Wait a minute, brickhead! The two black kids aren’t even intimidated… the blue glow of the TV screen lights up their young faces in the sickliest conceivable way… The low voice again, like somebody having a conversation in the background… “Up yours, you”
—eleven seconds—
“fatass cops! Gon’ come out through your fucking nose!” Nestor gets a look at the screen… a title comes up: “Grand Theft Auto Overtown”… “Grand Theft Auto Overtown?”… heard of Grand Theft Auto, video game… but what the fuck? This is Overtown!… There is this fucking world in which Overtown has heroes!—brave hell-driving men who don’t give a shit about you cops and all your so-called authority! Fuck you, Officer! Up yours, Officer! And these two children—they’re ready! Some Cuban cop comes in with a badge hanging around his neck and his supremo darkest shades and a holster on his belt, screaming, “Miami Police! Show me your hands!” and so what are they supposed to do—cringe?—grovel?—beg for mercy? Hell, no. They’re going right back to Grand Theft Auto Overtown. Some people recognize Overtown for what it is… a place where dudes got heart… and tell the fucking foreign invaders to go fuck themselves. Whoever made this game knew that much. They say right there on the screen when we show we got heart, you fucking Spanishit motherfuckers! Grand Theft Auto Overtown!
—fourteen seconds—
Another momma! She’s sitting on the floor with a terrified little girl… looks too old to still be sucking her thumb, but she’s sucking it for all she’s worth… This momma’s not fat at all. She looks broad-shouldered and rangy… gray hair pulled back on the sides… but she hates the occupying forces… What is this place?… Who the fuck ever raided a drug den that’s all women and children?… and crying babies!… and resentful children so contemptuous of you and your authority, they’re playing Grand Theft Auto Overtown Fuck the Cops right in your face… eyes and eyes and eyes—and over there—the pure white face again—a young woman—afraid—
—eighteen seconds—
Voice behind him back at the door yelling, “MIAMI POLICE! SHOW ME YOUR HANDS!” It’s Sergeant Hernandez, charging into the hovel behind him as backup… Must have turned the skinny light-skinned kid over to Nuñez… Sergeant Hernandez shouts, “Nestor, ¿tienes el grueso? ¿Localizaste al grueso?” (Did you find the heavyset one?)
“¡No!” said Nestor. “¡Mira a detrás de la casa, Sargento!” (Keep an eye on the back of the house, Sergeant!)
“Speak English, damn you!” It’s the big momma. She’s on her feet, still holding the baby, which is bawling its head off. She’s built like an oil burner, the big woman. She’s had enough. She’s not gonna put up with your army of occupation any longer. “You don’t come in my house jabbering like a bunch a baboons!”
“This is your house?” roared the Sergeant.
“Yeah, it’s my house—and it’s—”
“What’s your name?”
“—these people’s house.” She swung her hand about as if to include everybody in the room. “It’s the co-mmunity’s—”
—thirty seconds—
“What’s your name?” said the Sergeant. He was boring his most intensive Cop Look squarely between her eyes.
But the big momma played it tough. “What business ’at s’pose be a yo’s?”
“S’pose a be you and yo’ big mouth, Momma, are under arrest! Everybody in this room is under arrest! You’re selling drugs outta here!”
“Selling druuuuuugs,” said the big momma with ultimate mockery. “This is a co-mmunity center, man”—and the baby in her arms went off on another wailing jag.
From behind: “MIAMI POLICE! NOBODY MOVES!” and “Miami Police! Nobody moves!” sounded out in a curious atonal harmony. It was Nuñez and García, coming in through the front door. Two more babies started wailing, making three in all. It was damned disorienting. Here was stern Sergeant Jorge Hernandez’s big baritone voice saying, “You’re under arrest! You’re selling drugs!” And a choral response of wailing babies, sometimes three, sometimes two… when one of the trio goes into a terrifying paroxysmal silence—seconds go by—will she ever come out of it or will her little lungs burst?… and then she comes out of it—fully recharged—screaming bloody infanticide… How do you deal with an opera like this? How do you snap everybody to cop-style attention