As revealed to Alf, The Poet, in a dream:

I am called Chico.  It is in the basements, back alleys, and sewers of
San Diego that I make my way.  In the night, the souls of the lost
belong to me.  I wander through the blackness, away from the greasy
street lights where the whores fill their purses again and again with
the pitiful offerings of the gringo.  I am tired, day is near.

This morning, like every morning, Maria comes to me, her spirit as empty
as her wallet, and cooks for me before bed.  There is little to say and
less to eat.  I pinch her ample bottom as she stirs the rice, and she
slaps me.  I smile.  We share a table as the daylight cracks the window
shade, then we sleep.

Maria is awake before sundown.  I never rise before her, wouldn't even
if I could.  Breakfast is cold, whatever is left from this morning, and
a little wine stolen from a sleeping drunk behind the warehouses.  I
ache for tequila, knowing I won't see any for weeks.  Maria smiles a
smile that is not a smile, caressing my neck as she leaves for the
night.  I wonder how she always smells like roses.  I fill the sink with
tepid water and splash some on my face.  I find some clothes behind the
sofa and dress for my nightly rounds.

Outside it is cold.  It's always cold; sometimes I think it's not the
weather.  I pull my thin jacket closer and head south.  It's a long way,
and not always easy to stay out of sight.  As usual, I dream as I walk. 
I dream of taking Maria away from the crumbling buildings.  I dream of
returning to my family, to the little town called Mejave Mai where I was
born.  I dream that Maria and I spend our days and nights laughing and
making love.  I dream that we are happy.

I never hear the noises of the city.  Cars, sirens, the banging of
garbage cans, none of these exist.  I hear things the businessmen,
housewives, and children do not - the shuffle of a stray dog, perhaps,
or the sound of money changing hands, of someone selling herself, of
someone dying.  These I must hear to stay alive.

Just past the old courthouse, I rest between rotting crates.  Every day
it is more difficult to walk, and more necessary.  In a pocket I find
half a cigarette and one match.  The match won't light, so I save the
cigarette for later.  There is no moon tonight.  Again I dream.

I feel the sound more than hear it.  A faint scrabbling in the alley,
near the corner.  Nothing to worry about, it's a sound I've heard many
times before.  Then, suddenly, I hear the clear tinkle of breaking
glass, a whoosh, a strangled cry.  Then silence as I peer over the top
of a crate.

I see two men.  No, it must be a man and a child.  But the child is
strange, very fat, and wearing a large hat.  The man has something over
his head, a hood of some kind, and the child is leading him down the
alley by a string on the hood.  They are heading toward me.  I duck down
behind the crates again, quietly.  I'll let them pass, as usual, then
continue on my way.

They approach, very close now, and to my surprise they stop right in
front of me.  I am hidden in the blackness, not even I could see myself
in the shadows, but the child appears to be looking right at me as if it
were broad daylight.  Does he see me?  Is he looking for a place to kill
the man?  I am afraid even to breathe.

I am shocked when the child speaks, not a child at all:

"Wha'for are jou hiding down there, eh?  Dis one weel no hurt jou.  Come
out!"

I come out of my hiding place, unable to stop myself, not knowing what
to expect.  I notice a pronounced odor of cigar smoke and hair oil.  The
short, fat man speaks again:

"OK, dat ees better!  Now, jou find hees wallet, eh?"  He points to the
hooded man, who has not moved or spoken.  He is wearing an
expensive-looking business suit, but no shoes or socks.  Though the hood
has no holes in it anywhere, he seems able to breathe.  He even seems
calm, peaceful.

I stammer, "What?"  This is like nothing I have ever seen.

"Hees wallet!  Jou are no stupido!  I know, I know jou very good. 
Rapido!"  He spits this last at me with such a force of breath that I
nearly faint from the stench.  Not knowing what else to do, I look
through the hooded man's pockets.  He offers no resistance, and I find
the wallet in the inside pocket of his coat.

"Bueno, muy bueno!" the little man says, snatching the wallet from my
hand.  He examines the contents without interest.  Credit cards, drivers
license, pictures, all these he throws into the gutter.  The cash,
however, he keeps, counting with his fingers.

"OK, jou take thees," he says, handing me the bills.  "Me, I weel take
heem!"  He laughs out loud, his enormous belly lurching.

"I can't take this," I insist.  "What's going on here?"

"Bof!" he exclaims.  "Jou just tell Juanita to look for me before de
spreeng, eh?  And don' spend eet all on tequila!"

"Who are you?"

"Jou know me, jes jou do.  Now go before I geev jou de headsack too!" 
He takes another of the strange hoods from his belt and shakes it in my
face, laughing.

I run away as fear grips me.  Somehow, I know I do not want "de
headsack."  Stopping at the corner, I look back.  The hooded man is now
sitting on the ground, his ear level with the fat man's mouth.  The fat
man whispers something, smacks the side of the hood, and disappears into
the darkness.  The hooded man doesn't move.

I run as fast as I can back to my room, even taking to the main streets,
forgetting to stay out of sight, as I have all these years.  People
stare as I rush past, but I pay no attention.  Safe inside, I sit and
stare at the money in my hands, more than enough for food, for new
clothes, for back rent.  And much more than enough for the dream that is
no longer just a dream.  I take two worn suitcases from under the bed
and start packing.  Oh, when Maria gets home...