Carlos found a pistol in the back of his abuela’s closet. It was very old and very rusty. As he carefully picked it up, turning it over in his hands, he wondered why in the world she would have an antique pistol hidden in her vast Imelda Marcos collection of shoes. “That’s mine,” came a voice from outside the door. Carlos dropped the pistol like a hot burning coal, and bolted out of the closet, running straight into a solid brick house of a man. “Oye, careful there, chico.” Carlos looked up at this man standing in the middle of the hallway. His eyes were dark and piercing, and his skin was like polished mahogany burnished by a lifetime of exposure to the sun. His most outstanding feature, however, was a large black mustache stretching well beyond the confines of his upper lip. He did not smile. It seemed to…