Outside in the hall, I feel Paco wants to say something. I stop and turn to him. He’s a young guy. Thin, stands just shy of two meters, and has jet black hair. When wearing his tough face, he could be in his mid-twenties, but I happen to know he’s only seventeen or so. Hard little cobber for all that. From what I hear, he grew up in the barrios of East L.A., started running with the local Latino gangs and earned his three dots—tattooed in the saddle between left thumb and forefinger—when he was eleven. Then he graduated to the South Central Cutters a year later. He came up here to Seattle two years ago. Nobody knows why and Paco won’t talk about it, but he’s been carving out a niche for himself ever since. With five years in the Cutters, he’s one of the veterans. Give him ten years and he’ll be war boss ... if he lives that long.