“Yeah, yeah, I gotta get movin’,” she answered. “Hey, baby, can you help with dinner this week? The cupboard’s pretty bare, know what I’m sayin’?”
King knew exactly what his mother meant. In the Ruiz household, just like in the North Rampart Lobos, the end always justified the means.
“Sure, Mama,” he replied. “I’ll see what I can do.”
As soon as his mother left for work, King called Slice, who had to be awakened. They planned to meet at the AM/PM market down the street. He slid his hand under the mattress of the sofa bed and pulled out a thirty-eight. Returning to Luis’ room, he opened the closet and took an old shoebox from the shelf, placing it on the bed. King opened the chamber of the gun, removed the lid to the box and grabbed a handful of cartridges. He started loading his gun when he again heard someone stick a key in the lock. Startled, he closed the bedroom door, leaving himself a small opening to peer. His breath caught in his throat as he watched Luis stumble and fall to the floor.
King rushed to his brother and stared for a few seconds at the sight of him lying on his stomach with his hands over his face, sobbing in a soft, steady rhythm. He dropped to his knees and eased Luis over onto his back. He gained relief at the realization that Luis hadn’t been shot, or even stabbed. Looking into his brother’s eyes, however, red-rimmed and puffy from crying, he noticed the same kind of fear and confusion he’d witnessed when one of his camaradas lay dying in the street.
“I’ll kill the fuckin’ Lobo who done this to you,” he told him. He reached out and fingered some of the dried blood on Luis’ forehead. “You got a big bump on your head, man. What’d they hit you with?” Luis didn’t answer. King sensed Luis wasn’t ready for any questions yet, but he wasn’t gonna let him remain silent much longer. He felt like a snarling dog tethered to a chain. King helped Luis get to his feet and half-carried him to the bed, propping him against the pillows before hurrying to the refrigerator for the last beer his mother wanted. King pulled back the pop-top, took a large swig, and offered the can to his little brother.
“You ready to talk about it?” he asked.
Luis accepted the beer with a shaky hand and drank a large amount before speaking. “Juice…Juice is dead.”
“Juice?” King responded. “What happened? The Diablos kill him?”
With a vacant stare, Luis shifted his glassy eyes slowly upward, meeting King’s angry gaze. “He wasn’t killed by anybody, man,” he said in a soft voice. “He just…died. I saw him grab his chest and just…die.”
King exploded. “What the fuck you mean, ‘he just died’? Tell me, God damn it! And what happened to you?”
Luis bit his lower lip and squinted before taking another swig from the can. His eyes shifted to the floor as he started to speak. “We was gonna jack somebody at that new club on First Street. Juice knew someone who worked in the kitchen there.” Glancing at King, Luis turned his head and stared at the blank beige wall, using a slang term for Caucasians as he continued. “He said some rich blancos stay real late every Sunday night drinkin’ wine and playin’ poker with the owner. Juice told me he could use some reinforcement. He was gonna teach me some shit. So I went over to his house about eleven. We hung out for a while and watched some TV. Then we talked about the way things would go down.”
* * *
“My friend tells me about all those rich pinchi blancos walkin’ back to their Benz, or their shiny SUV’s, all drunk and laughin’, and shit,” Juice said, throwing his head back in an imitation. “Those white assholes ain’t got a care in the world.” Grinning, he added, “They gonna taste real life tonight, man.”
Luis smiled. “Where we gonna hide?”
“They got some big-ass bushes around the parking lot,” Juice told him, waving his hand in a circle. Darker than shit around there, man. Ain’t nobody gonna see us.”
“So what am I gonna do?”
“It’s all about force, man,” Juice replied. “Two guns are better than one. You and me’ll both be packin’ tonight. You all right with that, cholito?”
“Fuck you, Juice!” Luis roared. “I ain’t little no more. I’m a cholo, man!”
Juice laughed. “King’s learnin’ you right, little brother.” Grabbing his crotch he added, “You growin’ big cajones.” Juice reached into his pocket. “I wanna show ya somethin’. This Lobo’s got balls, too, vato!”
He pulled out a large Rolex watch. “Got me this off some old man today,” he told him. “Broke into the fucker’s house when he was supposed to be gone, you know?” He shook his head. “If the stupid ass hadn’t gone and given me a hard time I mighta let him live.” As the two of them admired the new jewelry, with the gold face and diamond settings representing every number, Juice placed the shiny steel and gold band around his wrist. “We’ll leave at two-fifteen,” he said.
“Why so late?” Luis asked.
“My friend says they do their bullshit every Sunday night ‘til about three. I promised him a take of whatever we get.” Juice’s tone turned serious. “You always go after the bitches. A man gives up his money real fast that way.”
When they arrived, they hid behind the thick-leafed shrubbery of the parking lot. Luis felt the nervous excitement of a hunter readying himself for the kill. Juice’s friend got it right. The remaining two cars were expensive ones, a black Escalade SUV and a gold four-door Lexus.
“We need one of ‘em to split before the other one,” Juice said. “Can’t take no chance one of ‘em escapes and calls the police.”
After a long wait, they heard the approaching sound of loud, festive talk. “What time is it?” Luis whispered.
Bringing his watch close to his face, Juice muttered, “It’s about fuckin’ time they showed up. It’s goddamn three-forty.”
They peered through an opening in the bushes. Two couples, white, young and rich looking, moved toward their cars. Forced to watch and wait, Luis thought of what Juice said earlier and hoped they wouldn’t leave together. The disappointment hit him hard when both couples got into their cars and started their engines.
“Shit,” Juice whispered under his breath. “Fuck it, Luis, it don’t look like...”
Their luck changed in an instant when the Escalade drove away while the Lexus owner popped open his trunk and stepped out of his car.
“Yeah, baby, oh yeah,” Juice whispered.
“This is it!” Luis said to himself.
“Remember, show the bitch what you got in your hand, like I told you,” Juice instructed, making sure Luis kept his gun pointed at the woman. With a quick nod of his head, Juice gave the signal and the two of them rushed from the bushes.
“Motherfucker, don’t move! Don’t fuckin’ move!” Juice shouted, pointing his gun at the man as he stood by his trunk.
“Get out, get outta the fuckin’ car!” Luis hollered at the woman, approaching her from the passenger seat side. But the woman disobeyed, lunging toward her door and locking it instead. Luis froze in confusion.
“She locked the door!” he yelled.
Keeping the gun pointed at his victim, Juice darted over to the open driver side door, overpowering the panicky woman desperate to close it. “Get out you white bitch or I’ll blow his fuckin’ head off!”
“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot! Please!” the woman pleaded, exiting the car.
“Give him your fuckin’ keys!” Juice commanded, nodding his head toward Luis.
“Don’t hurt us! I…I don’t want to die!”
“Shut up, bitch!” Juice shouted. “Where’s your purse?”
“On the seat!”
Luis grabbed the small, black evening bag and held it up for Juice to see.
“Take the money out,” he told him.
Luis opened the bag and found the cash inside a zippered compartment. “I got it!” he declared, waving the bills like a flag before securing them inside his pants pocket.
Juice directed his attention back to the man, pointing the gun at his head. “Now give me your fuckin’ wal�
�Aah! Aaaahh!” Still holding his gun, Juice dropped to his knees and grabbed his chest.
Luis stood paralyzed in disbelief. Not knowing what else to do, he aimed his gun at the couple. “You better fuckin’ stay right there!”
Looking pale and unsteady, Juice rose to his feet. “Why’d it get so fuckin’ cold?” he hollered. His shivering intensified into a strange kind of shaking. He looked to his left, then his right. “Who said that?” With an awkward lurch forward, Juice stuck the gun in the man’s face. “What the fuck are you sayin’?”
“No, please!” the trembling man pleaded, closing his eyes and turning his head away. “I didn’t say anything!”
In numb panic, Luis determined Juice must be on some crazy drug making him hear voices. He seemed involved in a conversation with someone, sometimes yelling, like those loony homeless dudes walking down the street.
“You’re talkin’ crazy, asshole!” Juice roared. “Shut the fuck up! Where are you?”
With the gun in his left hand, Juice flung his right hand over the side of his face. “My eye! What the fuck? I can’t see! I can’t see! I’ll kill your ass, God damn it!” Stumbling in awkward circles, Juice seemed as if he was close to collapsing.
“I’ll kill you, man! You don’t scare me, you ass…Ohhh! Aaaahh!” Juice dropped his gun and grabbed his chest with both hands, collapsing in a heap on the ground.
“JUICE!” Luis shouted. Ignoring the couple, he hurried over to help his downed friend. He dropped to his knees before jerking back in horror at the sight of Juice’s swollen right eye, covered in a sickening puss-like crust. Under the overhead parking light, the eye appeared colorless, or maybe even slightly blue. Fighting back nausea, Luis continued shaking Juice’s limp body in several futile attempts at reviving him, and for a moment, he thought he saw Juice’s head turn upwards. He placed his hand just above his friend’s mouth to check for breathing, and felt the momentary encouragement of some air. When he touched Juice’s face, however, his hopes for a recovery vanished in the shock of his ice-cold skin. Turning his gaze to avoid the freakish, protruding eye, he caught a glimpse of the diamonds on Juice’s Rolex, glittering under the parking lot light. Without a reason for noticing, his mind still noted the time: three fifty.
Luis didn’t care about the man and woman anymore. He started to rise to his feet, preparing to give them their keys from his sweatshirt pocket, but was unexpectedly tackled from behind and knocked forward. He extended an arm to break his fall but part of his forehead struck the unforgiving surface of the parking lot and the pain flared like a blowtorch. Hands and knees held him down as other hands tugged at his sweatshirt. When he finally staggered to his feet, unsure how long he’d been down and feeling blood trickling down his face, he realized those rich blancos had taken their keys and driven away.
An unsettling noise startled him from behind. When he spun around, he stood transfixed in terror as masses of black rats, too numerous to count, ran across the empty parking lot from the same bushes where he’d hidden earlier, leaping onto Juice’s body and smothering every inch. The scene reminded him of ants attacking a dead bug, swarming the carcass until you could barely see any part of it. Luis vomited in violent waves until he thought he might faint. What the squealing rats were doing to Juice was too terrible to watch.
He screamed at the sudden feel of something warm crawling down his leg. Jumping in panic, Luis started beating his leg with his hand. Feeling the wetness, he recognized the warm sensation as his own urine. He knew at that moment he had to leave his friend and get out of there. Looking around, frantic at the thought the rats might attack him, he ran as fast as he could. Through his pain and fright, the only thing he wanted to do was just…
“…find my way home, Miguel. I didn’t want no Diablos or police to see me, so I hid in bushes. And behind walls.” Luis choked back a sob. “I was scared I wouldn’t make it back.” Tears welled up in his eyes again. “I don’t fuckin’ understand what happened to Juice,” he said. “That last time, when he fell on the ground for good, he didn’t make a sound, but…he…turned his head like he was listening to somebody. But not me, you know? Somebody else. I thought I could shake him awake, but I felt his face and he was like…like fuckin’ ice, man. And his eye. It looked blue and full of gooey shit. And the rats! All those fuckin’ rats!” Luis shook his head wildly several times, as if he could loosen the image from his mind. “Never seen nothin’ like that. Never.” Luis grew quiet, returning the can of beer to his lips.
* * *
King wasn’t aware at what point in Luis’ story that he rose from the bed and walked over to the window. But there he stood, a caged lion staring out from behind the bars, wanting to rip someone’s head off. But who? What was the answer? He felt confused, more than he could ever recall, and he hated this feeling of helplessness. Of weakness. He was King, God damn it! He lived for payback. Chingasos man. Kicking some ass. Living the crazy life. Mi vida loca. But what was this shit? WHAT WAS THIS SHIT?
“FUCK!” King yelled. He needed something, anything, to release his anger. He walked, stiff and brooding, over to the coffee cup his mother had used. Staring with destructive intent at the blue and white mug, as if delivering a telepathic reading of its last rites, King lunged at the cup like a live grenade, hurling it with all his might. As the fragile ceramic pieces exploded like fireworks, leaving brown streams bleeding down the wall, King stood transfixed in his frustration, barely hearing the renewed sobs of his brother filtering through from the bed.
King regained his senses enough to ask Luis a question. “Hey, you got the Rolex?”
“Covered with fuckin’ rats, Miguel,” he answered.
“Shit!” King growled.
Reaching deep into his pants pocket, Luis pulled out several crinkled bills. “I still got the money,” he said. “Got me two hundred twenty-three dollars.” With his voice trailing off, he added, “I was gonna split it…with Juice.”
King walked over to the bed, counted the money, and placed an affectionate hand behind his brother’s head. “You did real fine, hermanito,” he said, using the term for little brother. Juice would be proud of you, man. Real, fuckin’ proud.” King recounted the money. “Mama said we ain’t got nothin’ to eat or drink, so she’ll be happy, okay? We’ll get some food and beer for the house and me and you will use the rest for other shit. Mama knows not to ask no questions. When she comes home, tell her you never made it to school. You got jumped and hurt your head. Got it?”
Luis nodded and took a deep breath. “Whatever you say, Miguel,” he said, offering a tiny smile. “You always know best.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Kevin applied added pressure to the scouring pad, attempting to scrape the burnt spaghetti sauce off the pan. That’s what happens when you’re cooking and not paying attention to the time, when your mind is so clogged up with shit that it’s impossible to keep a clear head. He figured the double scotch he tossed back after work would relieve his frustration from the chastising he received at work, but the alcohol functioned more like gasoline to a fire.
His boss specialized in speeches about “deadline failures and disappointing attitude,” and Kevin found himself on the receiving end earlier that day. He kept his mouth shut during his boss’ reprimand, but inspired by that scotch, he imagined all the things he yearned to say. “Cut me some slack, damn it!...” “Big deal if I was late with some articles, it’s not the end of the world…” “Yeah, I missed an important meeting, but was it my fault my hair-trigger nephew went off on one of the Mexican kids the same day?...” “He has no friends anymore. Who else was going to pick him up?...” “Put yourself in my shoes!”
Kevin’s anger at the day’s events prevented him from discussing the idea of a tutor, a Mexican-American tutor, to Seth. He felt tempted to lash out at him, telling him how his rebellious attitude sucked, but he didn’t need another confrontation so he kept quiet. He poured his after-dinner dink and heard the television turn on in the other room. Poking h
is head through the kitchen door he asked, “Don’t you have any homework to do, Seth?”
“I did it at school,” he replied, his eyes remaining glued to the television.
“Any tests coming up?”
“Nope.”
Seth’s backpack sat leaning against the back of a chair. Kevin realized that he hadn’t seen any weekly planners from Seth’s teacher in a while, and he wondered if there was one inside the bag. “Should I look?” he asked himself. Kevin stared at the backpack, unsure whether to rummage through Seth’s things without his knowledge. He gazed into his scotch, as if searching for the answer inside the copper-colored liquor. He brought his lips to the glass, inhaled the aroma, and swished some around the inside of his mouth before swallowing. I’ll be damned if I’m going to stand by passively and let Warren’s kid do poorly in school.
Kevin removed the familiar blue-framed Clearpoint newsletter and then discovered another one, folded in half, tucked away at the bottom. He reached down, plucked it out, and proceeded to read the contents. Before he finished the final sentence, he was already on his way to talk with Seth.
“Why didn’t you show me this note from Mrs. Fisher? he asked. “It’s from last Friday.”
“Where’d you get that?”
“From your backpack.”
Seth, who had been sprawled on the couch, jumped to his feet. “You can’t look through my stuff! That backpack’s mine!”
Kevin read the note out loud. “Dear Mr. Palmer: I am asking for your help in trying to get Seth to understand the importance of putting in the necessary work at school. There has been a general lack of effort in all of his subjects and his grades are suffering as a consequence. Please sign the bottom of this letter and return it to me next week. I suggest that we arrange a meeting in the near future. Sincerely, Eloise Fisher.”
Kevin took a large swig from his glass. “You weren’t going to show this to me, were you?”
“I don’t know!” Seth blurted. “Yeah…maybe.”
Kevin took several steps toward Seth. “Don’t you understand you might fail if you don’t straighten up? Can’t you see that?”
The Poe Consequence Page 9
