by Nick Salomon
*
It’s been three days. I think. I count the days by how many times I’ve gone to sleep after several hours of sitting in this spot, too fearful of losing it to a new resident of the homeless ecosystem. Luckily, non-profit volunteers come down a couple times every so many hours with carts full of orange-boxed meals. I’ve even gotten some spare needles. Not like I’m going to use them but I still hold on to them. Might come in handy, if my suspicions of them being used as ad hoc currency in this underworld are true.
I remember there used to be a gag-inducing smell. A fetid emulsion of feces, urine and semen. But after three days in the warm, damp protection of this underground parking lot, I detect nothing. My senses have gotten used to their new home. All I can smell is a sort of damp earth. Not even the constant murmuring and the noises of the crazies going about their self-awareness free existences bothers me. Maybe I’ll stay down here. It’s somewhat cozy. Not having to worry about the police or paying taxes. I can see now why some choose the lifestyle. Yeah, maybe I’ll find a mate down here. We’ll have sooth-covered children. We’ll raise them to be upstanding members of the tent city society. Yeah, this is where I find happiness, Among the shit, empty needles, filled condoms and dried piss.
*
Its’ been… uhhh… 2 weeks? Give or take a couple days. I’ve learned to understand the microcosmos down here. Made a friend. Scotty was his name. Shared some of his heroin a couple days ago. I had never done drugs before. Just not my thing. But Scotty gave me a low dosage, entry level. Maybe Scotty was feeling generous or maybe he wanted to get me hooked up. One more junkie to sustain the tent city economy. The high came and went. Haven’t seen Scotty ever since. I know how these things fuck with your pleasure receptors in the brain bit I still want more. I want the high again. I just have to ignore the need and it will go away before I’m lost to it. I hope it goes away.
Scotty also mentioned who runs this place. A local cartel representative that goes by ‘El Talegas.’ Between giggles, Scotty translated the nickname to ‘The Scrotum’ or ‘The Testicles’. Makes one wonder how Mexican cartel officers keep straight faces when addressing each other with such names. Or how the nicknames came to be to begin with. Supposedly El Talegas has an office down in the 4th sublevel. All the way down there, shielded from police interference, just like I though.
A non-profit dude left an orange meal box next to me while I was passed out. So hungry. I open the box and find a turkey sandwich, orange juice, napkins, utensils and an alcohol wipe. I devour the whole thing within seconds. Well, except for the inedibles, of course. I wipe my hands clean with the wet towelette.
My whole body aches. Between grunts and out loud swearing, I manage to sit up. No way I can stand up, with my brain still so fucked up. I touch my face. I find 2 weeks’ worth of unkempt facial hairs and a goop composed of layers of dried-up sweat mixed with dirt. Between crawling and holding on to a wall, I make it a few feet to the row of buckets where hobos shit in the open. Luckily the overflowed ones have been switched by a nonprofit or another one. The first few days, I was too self-conscious to relieve myself in front of others but by now, all dignity is gone. Plus it’s such a common sight, no one cares to stare at the fat guy taking a shit. No wonder my spot was empty and no one has claimed or attempted to take it from me. It’s just too close to the shit buckets. I guess even some hobos have standards.
I do the crawling on all fours trip back to my spot and lie down. I’ll need a couple more days to purge the substance out of my brain.
*
A few days ago, I came up with a plan to get out of here. These cartel types have all kinds of resources. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind carrying a gringo out of the US, across the border. I could then somehow make it through Mexico, past Central America and down to Brazil or Venezuela. I think those two don’t have extradition treaties with the US. I just have to somehow get my life savings out of the bank to pay for it. I’m a fugitive now, my accounts are probably frozen. But these cartel types surely have the resources to get that money out too.
I stood up and said good-bye to the filthy piece of floor that was my bed and dwelling for the last few days. Dirt and sweat have caked underneath filthy clothes. I feel the dried crust grind to dust as I walk down to the second sublevel. It’s not so much different from the first. The next one is about the same. Eventually, I make it to the 4th sublevel. Ventilation is not as good. It’s hotter too. It’s like a damp sauna, shit particles floating in the air. Untold bacteria and filth enter my body as I breathe in. Beyond the escalators, on the other side of the wall, I see a section of the sublevel that has been walled off with pieces of steel containers. It’s anyone’s guess how the huge panels were brought in. Probably stolen from the abandoned port of San Pedro, cut to specification and lowered on sidewalk elevators. Thick, strong steel that would withstand most firearm calibers. The perfect fortress for a last stand, in the event police was allowed by the city to storm the place.
Around the corner where steel walls meet, there is a door, cut into the container panels. Two amigos stand in guard. They wear pointy snakeskin boots, expensive-looking jeans and button-up shirts and even white-pearl cowboy hats. Who wears cowboy hats underground? I walk up to them and they stare me down. Might as well try and break the ice.
“Hello, friendos,” I say, voice slurred and legs trembling from the effort. The two cartel soldiers look at me stone-faced, then at each other, then back at me. The one on the right walks up to me and faster than I can react to, punches me in the gut. I bend over then fall to my knees, struggling to breathe so I don’t pass out.
It takes considerable effort to recover well enough to look up and see the cartel soldier who punched me squeezing a hand sanitizer packet in his hands. His friend, arms crossed, motions away with his head and says “orale, a la verga puto gringo.”
I only understand the last word, but I don’t really need to know ghetto Spanish to know I’m being told to fuck off. At least I’m being allowed to walk away with my head still attached to my neck. How nice of them. I nod and get up then somehow manage to walk away. I don’t make it all the way to the broken-down escalator to the third sublevel when I hear slurred giggling behind me. I turn and see Scotty. He’s an ancient-looking dude who wears a wifebeater, which covers about half of his pot belly, a filthy pair of jean shorts and plastic surfer sandals. No doubt freebies from the non-profit’s pile outside.
Scotty walks up to me laughing then hits me in the back, real hard, I have to tense my muscles to stay upright then says, voice coarse from smoking one herb or another, “you wanted blow why didn’t you come to me, friend?”
“No,” I mutter then gasp for air. I can’t finish my sentence and shake my head instead. Scotty laughs again, loudly, then leads me away from the escalator to a pile of cardboard boxes where he sits down and motions for me to follow. Stumbling about, I do.
“What are you doing down here, dude?” Scotty asks, way too close to me. The stink of rotten teeth wakes me the fuck up.
“Talegas…” I mutter. “I have to talk to the boss man.”
My companion with the assortment of months-fermented bodily odors snorts and lets out thunderous laughter. “No way, Jose. Only way to see El Talegas is if you have business with the Cartel or if you’re about to be cooked alive inside an oil barrel.”
“Help me,” I say, mustering energy from who knows where. “I want to buy my way out of the US. I need to make it to Mexico.”
“Ah,” Scotty says, uncharacteristically serious. “Man on the run, I see.”
No answer from me besides a nod in acknowledgement. No need to get into specifics.
“How much you got?” he asks, getting even closer to me. I can see the black gaps in between meth-melted teeth. Like I’m going to tell him.
“That’s for El Talegas to know,” I say.
Scotty goes back to his former merry self and explodes in laughter. From that close, I feel my ears ringing from it. “That’s fine, keep your
secrets,” he says, nodding. “Let me see what I can do for you.”
My new friend stands up and walks towards the men with the snakeskin boots. I doubt they’re going to listen to him. In fact, I pay attention to the scene to watch them kick the shit out of him. But he talks, and laughs and motions to them, then points back at me. The cartel soldiers stare at him, then at each other, then back at him. But there is no ass kicking. Instead, one of them says something in Spanish and motions to Scotty to get away from them. Well, at least he tried. Scotty pulls up his loose jean shorts to cover his ass crack and waves and laughs as he makes his way to me.
“I told you, it’s all good,” he says, as he sits back next to me.
“What do you mean?”
“You sit here and wait your turn, they’ll come get you when El Talegas is ready to see you.”
“Really?” I ask, incredulous. “That was easy.”
My pot-bellied friend laughs loudly then says “amigo, down here I’m the top sales dog. You got any idea how much these guys make through me, peddling their fine wares? I got pull with these guys, you see.”
“If you say so,” I say, rubbing the mouth of my stomach, wishing I had found Scotty before I attempted reasoning with the bad hombres.
We sit there for what feel like hours. Scotty tells me stories about his time in the Marines, guarding poppy flower fields in Afghanistan and I mostly ignore him, waiting for the cartel soldiers to call my number. Or my name. Or whatever. But they haven’t moved from their spot. Not since I got punched. How are they going to tell Mr. Talegas that I’m waiting for an audience? At some point, Scotty excuses himself and gets up, maybe to go sell some more drugs or maybe to use the shit bucket. His words slur past me and I forget immediately. I haven’t eaten anything in over a day. I guess the non-profits chefs don’t venture all the way down here with the lunch boxes. So weak. So sleepy.
*
There’s a loud clap and a stinging pain on my face and I’m woken up by Mr. Pointy Boots with a hard slap. I become fully alert within a second and stand up to see him crush another hand sanitizer packet between his hands. His friend motions with his head towards the door in the back and says “orale, vamonos, pinche gringo puto.” Again, I only understand the last word but I get it, I’m being escorted into the inner lair of El Talegas.
Unexpected Acquaintances
Behind the steel door, I find what looks like a poorly lit breakroom. Seems to be a sort of common hall, with some other doors in the far walls, maybe leading to Cartel narco tunnels, or maybe backdoors for the men with the pointy snakeskin boots to come and go without having to suffer the indignity of walking by the unwashed mass of homeless humanity.
There are several tables and chairs. Discarded fast food containers, empty soda bottles. Against the walls by the door we came in, there are a few tables with coffee machines, disposable cups and so on. I even spot a big box of hand sanitizer packets, like the ones used by the cartel soldier. The guy leading me in pushes hard enough that I almost lose my balance, but I somehow keep myself from falling on my face. I turn around and see them standing guard by the door, each holds a shiny handgun with arms down in front. The cartel soldier on the left holds a silver-plated gun, the one on the right is gold-plated. They both have intricate patterns of skulls, smaller guns and what seems to be some sort of female skeletal deity. Silver-plated gun guy waves with his hand for me to get away from them. I nod and obey.
I take a few steps into the center of the room. It’s still kind of dark, I stumble upon a chair and hit my pinkie toe on its steel frame. Fuck, it hurts, but I don’t let it show. Before I continue further in, I notice a third cowboy-hat-wearing person sitting at a table. He’s eating a taco. There is a Corona beer next to his plate. I figure this is my host, the illustrious Señor Talegas. I get closer to him. There are several chairs around me but choose to stand, until told otherwise. So I stand there while the short, chubby, brown skinned man with a Hitler-like mustache enjoys his snack.
The man looks up to take a glance at me for a second, then down to continue working the massive taco into his mouth. I’m not one for Mexican food but I haven’t eaten in over a day. I wish Mr. Talegas would share.
“So you want to cross the border,” the chubby narco asks, heavy accent and all, never looking away from his plate. It’s got black refried beans, rice and sour cream. I notice a slice of avocado too.
“Uhu…” I mutter. Saliva fills my mouth. No choice but to swallow it.
“It’s going to cost you,” he says, looking at me, then grabbing the Corona to take a sip.
“I have money,” I say, shaking from hunger. “Just have to figure out how to get it out of the bank.”
The chubby man who hasn’t actually introduced himself nods, wiping his hands with a dirty napkin. “And therein lies your predicament,” he says. Sounds like Shakespeare being narrated by a Mexican peasant. “I dare say, my friend, you may not wish to agree to the cost.”
“Huh…” I mumble. The fat man nods again and picks up a second taco then takes a bite off it. Somehow half of the huge thing is gone.
No other choice but to stand there awkwardly as he chews patiently. After a couple minutes, he washes the taco down with a sip of Corona then says, “you want to talk to El Talegas.”
“Huh… I thought you were El Talegas.”
The unnamed chubby narco chuckles and shakes his head as he says, apparently to himself, “pinche gringo pendejo.”
I understood the second word. “So, when can I see this Mr. Talegas?”
Without answering, the fat Mexican signals with his head behind him. I see two men walking through one of the doors in the back, then towards us. White men. Men wearing expensive-looking suits. The one leading reaches the table and talks with the chubby Mexican in fluent Spanish. They both look at me and stare me up and down then laugh loudly. In between words I can understand things like ‘gringo’, ‘puto’ and ‘pendejo’. Just what the fuck is going on?
“Alright then,” says the leading man. White, blonde hair, black eyes. Body language that indicates he owns the place.
Mr. Chubby Mustache nods and stands up. He grabs the empty plate and walks away. He meets the two soldiers with the snakeskin boots then they all leave the break room. Mysterious suit #2 stands there in the distance, while Blonde Suit grabs a chair and sits down.
“Go on, sit down,” he says. I immediately comply. We’re now sitting right in front of each other. Mr. Blonde suits rests his hands on his lap, legs crossed way too tightly. Tight enough to crush a man’s balls. It’s an oddly effeminate way of sitting but other than that, the man exudes full composure. Full power.
We sort of stare at each other in silence for a couple minutes. Got to break the ice, so I ask “you’re El Taleg-“
“Theodore Davis,” he interrupts, voice like a small thunder. “Rents an apartment at 780 Figueroa, former Dreamax employee, random easily replaceable IT guy. Stole an expensive piece of equipment...”
“Allegedly,” I clarify.
The man that supposedly goes by El Talegas glares at me in a way that discourages further interruptions, then casually ignoring my comment continues by saying “…with which he built a custom diorama catching apparatus that not only catches an interactive, or ‘lucid’ diorama as he calls them in his Tor marketplace, but kills the user shortly after.”
What the fuck? He knows everything. “What the fuck?”
The blonde suit scoffs then shakes his head with a giggle that sounds as if coming out from a small foghorn. “You stupid fucking simpleton,” he says.
“Hey,” I say, in vain attempting to defend my dignity.
Mr. Talegas interrupts and says “what, you thought you’d be safe selling your smut on Tor?”
How the fuck? No point in answering the question.
“You dumb motherfucker,” Mr. Talegas chuckles then turns to look at his similarly suited partner standing behind him and asks “isn’t he a dumb motherfucker, Mr. Jefferson?”
“Dumb motherfucker indeed, Mr. Hancock,” replies Jefferson, arms crossed, permanent expression in his face like he recently caught a whiff of a silent fart.
Jefferson. Hancock. Obviously not their real names.
“Do you know why you are a dumb motherfucker, Mr. Davis?” asks El Talegas, also known as Mr. Hancock, whatever his real name is.
“Hummm,” I mumble before being interrupted again by the enigmatic suit.
“Because Tor was made by the US Navy, commissioned for by an intelligence agency or another,” explains Mr. Hancock, condescending tone never under control. “An encrypted anonymous Internet routing network, supposedly gives you anonymity online,” he ends the comment with a chuckle. Mr. Jefferson behind chuckles too. “How anonymous do you think you are if I have access to the Tor root encryption keys?”
My turn to chuckle, then say “yeah right. I know all that, to have root keys you’d need to be NSA or CI…” Fuck.
“Now he gets it, doesn’t he, Mr. Jefferson?” The other suit nods in agreement.
“You guys are NSA.”
“Well,” says Mr. Hancock, “we’re something or other. I don’t know, shit changes all the time.”
“Huh…” I mumble. “So you can help me get out of the country?”
This is apparently very humorous to Mr. Hancock, who laughs for a few seconds. He regains his composure then says “there is a warrant for your arrest out there, you retarded waste of oxygen,” abandoning the effeminate sitting stance, instead leaning towards me, elbows on knees, hands held together. “Two counts of premeditated manslaughter, one count assault of an individual experiencing homelessness, one count assault of an individual named Lucia Cortez and one count theft of Dreamax property. Well, this is California so you don’t have to worry about death penalty but for sure you’re going away for a long time.”
“So you’re here to take me in?”
Mr. Hancock shakes his head with a smile then reclines back on his chair. “You have any idea how much they pay me? Why would someone like me bother with a random piece of shit like you? I’m beginning to think your mother used to do cocaine when she was pregnant with you, and then made it a habit of dropping you on your head as a baby.”
