by Glenn Trust
“Hey, Benny!”
The SUV pulled along the curb before the two Cent Killers could turn. Slice sat behind the wheel, Ape in the passenger seat, Cheech and Keet in the rear.
The Cent Killers backed away an inch so that they could turn and face the newcomers. Ben remained motionless, only his eyes moving toward the SUV. He gave a nod to acknowledge their presence.
“¿Qué está pasando aquí, pendejos?” What’s going on here, assholes?
The Cent Killers moved another couple of inches away from Ben.
Keet leaned out the rear window, grinning. “Hey, Benny. We been lookin’ for you. Climb in.”
Triz decided it was time to meet this overt challenge to their control of the situation. “You in the wrong place DM. You best get your ass off our street.”
“Don’t think you’re in any position to be talkin’ so tough.” Slice grinned and held the pistol up, pointing it at Scar’s face.
The Cent Killers were not novices and had their own street cred to consider. A pistol pointed at them from a car would not be enough to scare them away.
“You thinkin’ about startin’ a war here on our turf.” Triz laughed. “You fuckin’ outta your mind. We’ll kill you and your mother and your dog. Hell, I’ll even kill your sister after I fuck her.”
“Our friend Benny is comin’ with us.” Slice turned his head to the others in the car. “Ain’t that right.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” Keet lifted a pistol and leaned out the window toward Rip. Ape opened the front passenger door and stepped out, leveling a short-barreled shotgun at Triz.
Ben began to think he might survive the encounter without the beatdown. The trick now was to extricate himself from between the two Cent Killers and get into the SUV before the bullets started flying.
He turned his body sideways and stepped toward the curb, trying not to brush against either of his captors. Still holding the pistol on Rip, Keet pushed the door open and stepped out so that Ben could climb into the middle. When he was seated, Keet reentered the SUV as did Ape. The only gun visible now was Slice’s, still pointing at the Cent Killers from the window.
“We’ll be goin’ now.” He grinned and put the car in gear, squealing the tires as he roared away.
“Eres pendejos muertos!” You’re dead assholes, Triz shouted after them.
“Not today, motherfucker,” Keet shouted back.
Slice roared past the high school at the end of the block.
“I need to get out here,” Ben said. “Exams today.”
“No school today.” Slice watched him in the rearview mirror.
“It’s all good, bro.” Keet clapped him on the back. “You gonna see.”
***
Slice drove them through the city on a sort of tour. Here and there he would slow and point out a corner where another gang sold drugs, or had a safe house, or where there had been a drive-by shooting the previous week, or where the DMs had found another gangbanger trespassing on their turf and had sent him away with a beating or worse.
Sometime during the drive, Keet passed him a joint, then another. He mellowed out, sitting back and taking in Slice’s orientation tour.
They ended up at an old warehouse. A bay door opened in the rear and Slice drove the SUV inside.
As they climbed out of the car, Ben saw a group huddled around a bloodied young man hunched over under a fluorescent light on the other side of the room. Slice led the way to the group and paused in front of them to stare down at the young man on the floor. His face swollen and bloody from the beating they had given him, he looked up with pleading eyes.
Slice turned to the apparent leader of the group. Tall and impossibly skinny, his long narrow head swiveled on a pencil neck. An uneven three-day growth of whiskers covered his scruffy cheeks and a missing front tooth made it hard not to stare at his mouth. Like many gang members, he earned his gang name from his dominant physical attribute.
“What’s up, Thin?”
“He short.” Thin turned to Slice. “Went out with ten eights and come back with a grand. Shoulda been almost two grand.”
Growing up in the neighborhood, Ben knew enough about the drug culture to understand that the young man on the floor was one of their dealers who had been sent out to sell ten eightballs of cocaine. Thin said he only brought back a thousand dollars, when the price should have been almost two thousand.
Slice looked down at the young man, not more than sixteen years old, shifting his feet nervously as if he might try to get up and run. “Why you shortin’ us Edgy?”
“I was gonna pay it back, Slice. I swear.”
“You steal from your brothers, you know what happens.”
Edgy began sobbing. “You know, I know. You think I would steal from my brothers?” He shook his head, and tears flew from the sides of his red cheeks. “Never. I swear. I only needed a loan … that’s all just a loan. I woulda paid it back from my cut when I got it. You got to believe me.”
“A loan?” Slice’s eyebrows crinkled like he was examining a curious insect on the sidewalk before stepping on it. “What the fuck that mean?”
“My sister … she’s sick. My mother took her to the clinic. They gave her a prescription, but we needed money to pay for the medicine.” He looked up, his eyes begging Slice to believe him. “I took some money for the medicine and the doctor, but I was gonna pay it back. I swear it on my mother’s life … on my sister’s life!”
Slice was silent for several seconds before looking around at the group. “Alright. Edgy’s sister is bad sick. Throw in what you can to help out.”
Rolls of bills came from pockets. Ape walked around collecting the cash and handed it to Slice who thumbed through the wad of bills, counting. “Looks like about a grand here.” He held it out to Edgy. “Take it … from your brothers.”
Hand trembling, Edgy reached up to receive the roll of bills. “Thank you, Slice … I mean thank you all … I didn’t know what …”
“Stand on your feet,” Slice ordered.
Edgy rose from the floor, wiping the tears from his eyes. They stood face to face, eyes locked for several seconds before Slice spoke.
“You need something, you come to us. You understand?”
Edgy nodded without speaking.
“You take from us again … from your brothers … and you die. You understand that too?”
Edgy nodded again.
“When someone takes from Demonios de la Muerte, there has to be blood.”
The knife came out of Slice’s pocket in one smooth movement. The blade passed across Edgy’s cheek before he had time to realize what had happened. His hand reached up to hold the gash closed, but he did not cry out.
Slice nodded his approval and turned to the others. “We got our blood. Bandage him up and give him a shot of tequila.” Then he laughed and added, “Fuck! Give everyone a shot.”
Thin led Edgy away to bandage his face. Afterward, they sat together on a stack of old pallets, passing a joint back and forth in between shots of tequila.
Ben watched the entire scene, standing beside Keet, his eyes riveted on Slice and Edgy, moving from face to face as the drama played out. There was a sort of justice here, hard but also fair in a perverted sort of way.
This was his school now. The things he could learn here would help him survive on the streets. The building he had set off walking to that morning to appease his mother and grandfather had little to offer. The rules here might be harsh but they were clear and easy to understand. Break the rules and pay the price.
And there was brotherhood here too. Slice had shown mercy to Edgy because he was a brother. The forgiveness from the group had been immediate. It was an intoxicating concept for a fatherless young man, looking for his place in the world.
“You see how it is, Benny?” Keet said.
“I see how it is.” Ben nodded.
The Man in the Alley
He was feeling unnecessary. Worse, he was failing.
Ben embrace
d his gang friends more closely and became more distant from his family as the days passed. It was only a matter of time before the Demonios de la Muerte dragged him in as a full member.
Sole knew Ben was not alone. Gang life could seduce young men like a backstreet whore. Lost in a world they did not make, mostly without fathers, the brotherhood and respect of the gang became their reason for living, and sometimes dying.
He needed a better plan. Waiting for the chance to strike up a conversation with Ben was not a plan. Over dinner the previous evening, he had explained his feelings of inadequacy to Edgar and Maggie.
***
“I don’t see that I’m doing much good here. Maybe I should move on.”
Maggie stared down at her plate without speaking.
“Things take time,” Edgar replied, looking into Sole’s eyes.
Maggie remained silent.
“True.” Sole nodded. “Some things do take time, but …”
He hesitated. The truth was that Benjamin might already be lost, one more wasted life in a generation of wasted lives.
“Please don’t give up.” Maggie looked up, her eyes pleading with him.
“Bill has a life to live, Magdalena … someplace else to go.” Edgar patted her hand and turned to Sole. “I see it in you. There’s something you must do and you are only here because we pressured you, and you are a good man who could not refuse a widow and an old man who begged for your help.”
“It’s not that. It’s just …”
“Of course, it is.” Edgar held up his hand. “No explanation is necessary. You have every right to want to move on to your business elsewhere.”
“I want to help,” Sole said. “I’m just having a hard time finding a way to make a connection with Ben.” He shook his head. “I want to help. I’m just not sure how.”
“Stay a little while longer… a few more days even … then leave and take care of your business,” Edgar said. “I know we are not being fair to you. We have no choice. If you could spare us a few more days, we would be grateful … my dead son, Ben’s father, would be grateful.”
Their eyes locked together. Neither spoke. If Sole felt any resentment at the pressure Edgar placed on him, he didn’t show it.
The truth was Edgar had struck a chord in his heart. Do it for the boy’s dead father, a comrade in arms. It was settled. For once, the voice in his head didn’t argue.
“Alright, let’s talk tactics.”
***
The morning rush at Dupart’s Market wasn’t really a rush. It was a procession of older residents of the neighborhood, mixed in with a few younger patrons, mothers or fathers mostly, running in for a gallon of milk, or cereal, bread, and eggs. The older residents mostly just wanted a good cup of coffee, the morning paper, and a chat with Edgar about the latest neighborhood news.
Above, in the second-floor apartment, Sole sat at the kitchen table with Maggie, sipping coffee and waiting. Bumps and thumps coming through the walls signaled that Ben was stirring. He’d come in late the night before and to this point, his only interaction with the Sole had been to throw a snarl in his direction as he stomped by.
Sole stood up from the table. Maggie watched him, coffee cup in hand.
“Be careful. The boys he is with … the gang boys … they are dangerous, vicious like wild dogs in the alley when I take out the garbage at night.”
“I’ll be careful.” Sole nodded and left the apartment.
Descending the stairs, he glanced into the store as he passed. Inside, Edgar leaned over the counter chatting with an old woman. Bundled in a frayed sweater, she folded her arms across her body against the chill of advanced age. Edgar nodded at Sole, then turned back to the woman who passed on some bit of news he would repeat later to others who came in.
Sole went into the alley and sat in his pickup. Ben was missing school, which meant he had found somewhere else to be during the day. No doubt, he was spending time with the DM gangbangers, but Sole needed more information. Where were they? What were they doing? What was Ben doing?
With those pieces of the puzzle, he might find a way to help, or at least stop something bad from happening to the boy. It was now an intelligence gathering mission. Those were the tactics he had discussed with Edgar and Maggie the night before.
In the apartment above, Ben’s bedroom door opened and slammed shut. He appeared, walked through the living room, and ignored his mother.
“Where are you headed today?” Maggie called from the kitchen.
“Out,” Ben snarled in a surly, don’t-fuck-with-me tone.
“Out where? I know you aren’t going to school.”
Ben paused and looked into the kitchen. “You spying on me?”
Future gangbanger or not, he used the usual juvenile misdirection many teens employ when confronted by their parents. He turned the question back on her as if the real issue was whether she had been watching her own son.
“No.” She shook her head and put down the coffee cup. “I don’t have to. The school called and asked me how long you would be out. They said you missed the end of quarter exams, and you might have to repeat the year if you don’t make them up.”
“I don’t need fucking school,” he sneered and tramped out, leaving the front door open.
She wanted to jump to her feet and throw her arms around her son, begging him to stay with her. Instead, she took a breath and trusted her son’s fate to the man waiting in the alley.
The Hunter - The More Things Change
He was close now. Sights he had not seen, had forgotten or tried to, for almost fifty years, reappeared.
The more things change, the more they stay the same. That was what his grandmother always told him. Driving through the green Tennessee landscape, he understood the truth of it.
***
For almost fifty years, he had lived in the deserts of the far west. He really didn’t remember why he had gone there in the first place, except to escape the secret bottled up inside.
He only knew that he began wandering and one day looked up to see—nothing. All the way to the horizon, there was nothing. He learned over time that nothingness was the great deception of the desert. There was a great deal hidden in the barrenness. You just had to know where to look for it.
But when he first arrived there, he saw nothing, and it suited him, so he stayed in the desert. If he focused on the nothing, maybe the secrets bottled up inside wouldn’t find him and haunt him. That was the thing. Focus on the nothing. Remember nothing.
They were always there—the secrets. They hovered somewhere out there in the desert, just over the empty horizon, but the emptiness held them back.
He worked odd jobs, to survive, sleeping on the ground or in the old pickup he had driven from his home in the east, he moved from place to place. He embraced the emptiness of the desert, making it part of him.
One day he found a garage along Highway 93 in the barrens between Las Vegas and Kingman, Arizona. He stopped, spent his last ten dollars on gas and a bag of potato chips, and wondered what to do next. When he paid for the chips, he saw the help wanted sign.
He picked the sign up and held it out to the man behind the register without saying a word. The name stitched on the man’s shirt said “Roger.”
“What’s up?” Roger asked.
He continued holding the sign without speaking.
“You don’t talk much.” Roger leaned forward to peer into his eyes. “Or can you talk?”
He realized the man was waiting for him to say something, so he said, “Job.”
“Good. You can talk. That will make things easier.” Roger crossed his burly arms over the blue striped shirt stained by grease and oil from the cars and trucks he repaired. He studied the man for a moment and asked, “What can you do?”
He hadn’t spoken more than a few words at a time in months. Now, this man was giving him a job interview. He almost walked out, until he realized he still needed money before he continued wandering. He nodded at Roger’
s shirt.
“Cars. I fix cars.”
“So you’re a mechanic, that what you’re saying?”
He shrugged. He wasn’t really a mechanic, but he could change oil and lube most vehicles and do an occasional brake job. He figured it would be worth something.
“Where you from?” Roger asked.
Was this demand for information ever going to end? “East,” he said simply.
“Hmm. Wanted by the law?”
He shook his head.
“Anybody trying to kill you? You on the run from the law?”
Another shake of the head. He wasn’t running from the law or anyone else. Things would have been much simpler if he were.
“Just a drifter, huh? That it? Just drifting about, like the tumbleweeds.”
He nodded.
Roger eyed him for another full minute before he shrugged and said, “Alright. I’ll give you a try.” He pointed to the garage bay. “Got a pickup from the Calhoun Ranch on the lift ready for an oil change. You take care of it, and we’ll see how you do.”
The oil change was no problem for him. By the end of the day, he had done two more and helped Roger replace a carburetor. He was hired.
He figured he would work for a week, accumulate some more cash, and move on. On the third day, Roger found him sleeping in his pickup behind the garage.
Roger tapped on the window to wake him. “Hell, I been wondering how you get here before me every day.”
He sat up in the seat and looked back through the spotted glass. He thought about cranking up the engine and calling it quits right then.
“No place to stay?”
He shook his head.
“I got a place you can use if you want.”
He almost shook his head and was going to turn the key to start the pickup, when Roger added, “It’s private, in the middle of nowhere. Might suit your tastes until you decide to move on.”
He hesitated. Roger spoke again.
“Come on. We’ll open late today. Nothing coming in anyway. Follow me. I’ll take you there and you can give it a look over.”
