Lucky and CarmelaNick Duretta
Lucky checked the delivery order again. 5602 Woodlawn Street. He looked around. The GPS had directed him to a side street two blocks from an abandoned foundry in East L.A. It was a stretch of asphalt with potholes and weeds growing between cracks, lined with time-worn prewar homes — windows barred, fronted by parched, debris-strewn lawns riddled with weeds, some surrounded by prison-like gates. A few cars sat in driveways or on the street, their paint dulled by the constant sun, chrome plagued by rust, tires bald.
He pulled up to 5602, one of the more presentable homes on the street. Its blue stucco façade was mostly free of pits and scars, and the few small shrubs in the yard looked healthy and cared for. Still, it didn’t look like the house of someone who
