– Fuck you.

He goes to Paul, points at the powder on the sheet.

– That it?

Paul shakes his head.

– No, man, that’s like a stage you go through. Jeff told me about it.

Hector steps into the garage, toes the plastic jugs next to the wall.

– How’s he know?

– Working for Security Eye. He was guarding that house out in Springtown for an insurance company, the one that burned down. That was a crank lab that blew up. He talked to a detective or something. Guy told him.

George steps into the garage.

– See, the shit blows up, that’s what happened to Richard Pryor.

– That was freebase, fuckwad.

– Same thing.

– No it’s not. Freebase is smoking coke. Crank is crystal meth.

– Fuck you.

– Fuck you. I know.

– I don’t give a fuck what it is, let’s get out.

Hector whips his new chain at one of the lowrider pinups, ripping it through the middle and leaving a gash on the dirty drywall behind it.

– Arroyos are dealin’ crank. Bikes must be a fucking hobby.

Paul rummages in a cardboard box. Dirty kitchen utensils, tangles of rubber bands, newsprint coupons for Mountain Mike’s Pizza, more bits and pieces of bicycles and PVC.

– Maybe. Might just be making it. Selling to a dealer.

George is looking at the homemade chemistry set cobbled together on the table.

– Jesus, they’re making a lot.

Andy opens a paint smeared Kelvinator refrigerator in the corner.

– Yeah, they are.

Paul is fingering a rusty Buck knife with a broken tip, he looks up.

– What?

Andy points at the contents of the fridge.

– They’re making a lot.

The top shelf of the fridge is loaded with six large Ziploc storage bags, each stuffed full with yellow crystals.

Hector, about to slash a Oui centerfold, pauses to look.