When he did hear it, he thought that he was dreaming. But it was true: somebody was laughing.
He grasped one of the statue’s ears for balance and leaned forward. He blinked. Below, some fifteen feet, there were people. Young people. Some of them with books. They were looking up and smiling and laughing.
Mr. Minchell wiped his eyes.
A slight horror came over him, and fell away. He leaned farther out.
One of the boys waved and shouted: “Ride him, Pop!”
Mr. Minchell almost toppled. Then, without understanding, without even trying to understand—merely knowing—he grinned widely, showing his teeth, which were his own and very white.
“You—see me?” he called.
The young people roared.
“You do!” Mr. Minchell’s face seemed to melt upwards. He let out a yell and gave King Richard’s shaggy stone mane an enormous hug.
Below, other people stopped in their walking and a small crowd began to form. Dozens of eyes peered sharply, quizzically.
A woman in gray furs giggled.
A thin man in a blue suit grunted something about these damned exhibitionists.
“You pipe down,” another man said. “Guy wants to ride the goddamn lion it’s his own business.”
There were murmurings. The man who had said pipe down was small and he wore black-rimmed glasses. “I used to do it all the time.” He turned to Mr. Minchell and cried: “How is it?”
Mr. Minchell grinned. Somehow, he realized, in some mysterious way, he had been given a second chance. And this time he knew what he would do with it. “Fine!” he shouted, and stood upon King Richard’s back and sent his derby spinning out over the heads of the people. “Come on up!”
“Can’t do it,” the man said. “Got a date.” There was a look of profound admiration in his eyes as he strode off. Away from the crowd he stopped and cupped his hands and cried: “I’ll be seeing you!”
“That’s right,” Mr. Minchell said, feeling the cold new wind on his face. “You’ll be seeing me.”
Later, when he was good and ready, he got down off the lion.
A Point of Honor
Today Mrs. Martinez did not practice on the organ, so St. Christopher’s was full of the quiet that made Julio feel strange and afraid. He hated this feeling, and, when he touched the sponge in the fountain of Holy Water—brittle and gray-caked, like an old woman’s wrist—he thought of sitting alone in the big church and decided that tomorrow would be time enough to pray. Making the Sign of the Cross, he put a dime and two pennies into the poor box and went back down the stone stairs.
The rain was not much. It drifted in fine mist from the high iron-colored clouds, freckling the dry streets briefly, then disappearing.
Julio wished that it would rain or that it would not rain.
He hurried over to the young man who was still leaning against the fender of a car, still cleaning his fingernails with a pocket knife. The young man looked up, surprised.
“So let’s go,” Julio said, and they started to walk.
“That was a quickie,” the young man said.
Julio didn’t answer. He should have gone in and prayed and then he wouldn’t be so scared now. He thought of the next few hours, of Paco and what would be said if it were known how scared he really was.
“I could say your mom got sick, or something. That’s what Shark pulled and he got out of it, remember.”
“So?”
“So nothing, for Chrissakes. You want me to mind my own business—all right.”
Danny Arriaga was Julio’s best friend. You can’t hide things from your best friend. Besides, Danny was older, old enough to start a mustache, and he’d been around: he had even been in trouble with a woman once and there was a child, which had shocked Julio when he first heard about it, though later he was filled with great envy. Danny was smart and he wasn’t soft. He’d take over, some day. So Julio would have to pretend.
“Look, I’m sorry—okay by you?”
“Jimdandy.”
“I’m nervous is all. Can’t a guy get nervous without he’s chicken?”
They walked silently for a while. The heat of the sun and the half-rain had left the evening airless and sticky, and both boys were perspiring. They wore faded blue jeans which hung tight to their legs, and leather flying jackets with The Aces crudely lettered in whitewash on the backs. Their hair was deep black, straight and profuse, climbing down their necks to a final point on each; their shoes were brightly shined, but their T-shirts were grimy and speckled with holes. Julio had poked the holes in his shirt with his finger, one night.
They walked across the sidewalk to a lawn, down the lawn’s decline to the artificial lake and along the lake’s edge. There were no boats out yet.
“Danny,” Julio said, “why you suppose Paco picked me?”
Danny Arriaga shrugged. “Your turn.”
“Yeah, but what’s it going to be?”
“For you one thing, for another guy something else. Who knows? It’s all what Paco dreams up.”
Julio stopped when he saw that they were approaching the boathouse. “I don’t want to do it, I’m chicken—right?”
Danny shrugged again and took out a cigarette. “I told you what I would’ve told Paco, but you didn’t want to. Now it’s too late.”
“Gimme a bomb,” Julio said.
For the first time, suddenly, as he wondered what he had to do tonight, he remembered a crazy old man he had laughed at once in his father’s pharmacy on San Julian Street and how hurt his father had been because the old man was a shellshock case from the first world war and couldn’t help his infirmity. He felt like the old man now.
“Better not crap around like this,” Danny said, “or Paco’ll start wondering.”
“Let him wonder! All right, all right.”
They continued along the edge of the lake. It was almost dark now, and presently they came to the rear door of the park’s boathouse. Danny looked at Julio once, stamped out his cigarette and rapped on the door.
“Check the playboys,” somebody said, opening the door.
“Cram it,” Danny said. “We got held up.”
“That’s a switch.”
Julio began to feel sick in his stomach.
They were all there. And Julio knew why: to see if he would chicken out.
Lined up against the far wall, Gerry Sanchez, Jesús Rivera, Manuel Morales and his two little brothers who always tagged along wherever he went; seated in two of the battery boats, Hernando and Juan Verdugo and Albert Dominguin. All silent and in their leather-jacket-and-jeans uniforms. In the center of the big room was Paco.
Julio gestured a greeting with his hand, and immediately began to fear the eyes that were turned on him.
Paco Maria Christobal y Mendez was a powerfully muscled, dark and dark-haired youth of seventeen. He sat tipped back in a wicker chair, with his arms stretched behind his head, staring at Julio, squinting through the cigarette smoke.
“What, you stop in a museum on the way?” Paco said. Everybody laughed. Julio laughed.
“What are you talking? I ain’t so late as all that.”
“Forty-five minutes is too late.” Paco reached to the table and moved a bottle forward.
“Speech me,” Julio said. “Speech me.”
“Hey, listen, you guys! Listen. Julio’s cracking wise.”
“Who’s cracking wise? Look, so I’m here, so what should I do?”
Danny was looking at his shoes.
Paco rubbed his face. It glistened with hot sweat and was inflamed where the light beard had caused irritations. “Got a hot job for Julio tonight,” he said. “Know what it is?”
“How should I know?” Julio tried hard to keep his voice steady.
“Great kidders, you English,” Paco said. “Hey, you guys, he don’t know.” He looked over at Danny Arriaga. “You didn’t tell him?”
“For Chrissakes,” Danny said.
“All right, all right, so. You still want in Th
e Aces?”
Julio nodded.
“By which means you got to do whatever I say you got to do, no matter what, right? Okay.” Paco drank from the bottle and passed it to Manuel Morales, who drank and gave the bottle to the younger of his brothers, who only wet his lips and gave it back.
Julio knew he’d have to wait, because he remembered Albert’s initiation, and how Paco had stalled and watched to see how scared he got. They’d sent Albert to swipe a car that was owned by the manager of Pacific Fruit who always left the key in. That wasn’t so bad, even if Albert did wreck the car the same night, driving it back to the club. Swiping a car would be all right.
But from the way Danny looked, it wasn’t going to be anything like that. Paco had it in for him ever since he found out about his going to church. Though there must be more to it, because Julio knew that Hernando and Juan went to church, too.
Something deep and strange, hard to figure.
But strong.
“Pretty soon it’s time,” Paco said, leaning back in the chair. The others were smiling.
The boats rocked uneasily in the small currents, a short drifting.
Julio thought about Paco, about how he’d come to The Aces. It was Danny who joined first, long before, even before Julio was wearing jeans. Paco was later, a new guy on the street. Mr. Mendez was dead, and his mother worked in the Chinese grocery on Aliso Street with the dead cats in the window. No organization to the club, then. Paco moved in and organized. He beat up Vincente Santa Cruz, who was the strongest guy in the Heights, and he introduced the guys to marijuana and showed them where to get it. He’d been booked three times at the jail and was seen with girls tagging after him, even though he wasn’t good-looking, only strong and powerful. Danny admired Paco. Julio didn’t, but he respected him.
“Charge up, kid.” Paco opened a pill box which contained four crude cigarettes.
“Afterwards,” Julio said.
“So okay. Afterwards.” Paco grinned and winked at the others.
There was silence again: only the water sloshing against the boats and the painful creak of the wicker chair straining back and forth.
The room was very small. The Aces was whitewashed on the walls, and initials were carved in various places. Except Julio’s. His were not on any of the walls. That distinction would come only when he’d finished his job.
No one seemed prepared to break the quiet.
Julio thought, Danny knows. He knew all along, but he wouldn’t tell me. Danny was a full-fledged member now. He’d had to break windows out of Major Jewelry and swipe enough watches for the gang. A tough assignment, because of the cops who prowled and wandered around all the time. It took nerve. Julio had broken into a store himself, though—a tire shop—and so he knew he could do it again, although he remembered how afraid he had been.
Why wouldn’t they tell him, for Chrissakes? Why stall? If they’d only tell him now, he’d go right out, he was sure. But, any later . . .
“Scared?” Paco asked, lighting another cigarette and taking off his jacket.
“Listen close—you’ll hear me shaking,” Julio said.
Danny smiled.
Paco frowned and brought his chair forward with a loud noise. “What are you so cocky—I’ll give you in the mouth in a minute. I asked a question.”
“No. I ain’t scared.”
“That’s a crock of shit. Who you trying to kid, anyway? Me?”
Suddenly Julio hated this leering, posturing Paco as he had never hated a person before. He looked at his friend Danny, but Danny was looking elsewhere.
“Mackerel snapper, isn’t it, Julio?” Paco scratched his leg loudly. “What did you, go to confession today or was the priest busy in the back room?” He smiled.
Julio clenched his fists. “Gimme to do, already,” he said; and, all at once, he thought of his father, Papa Velasquez. Papa would be working late right now, in the pharmacy, mixing sodas and prescriptions. Business was very good, with the new housing project and all the new trade.
Julio was going to be a pharmacist—everybody knew that, though no one believed it. No one but Father Laurent: he talked to Julio many times, softly, understandingly. And there were many times when Julio wanted to tell the priest what he had done—about the motorcycle or the time he helped the guys push tea—but he could never seem to get the words out.
He waited, hands tight together, listening to the breathing, and thinking: I could go right to the drugstore now, if I wanted. It was only a mile away. . . .
He cleared his throat. Albert Dominguin was staring at him.
And now Danny Arriaga was getting sore, too: Julio could tell.
“You want to know, huh? Guys—think I should tell him?”
“Tell him already,” Danny snapped, rising to his feet. He looked a lot bigger than Paco, suddenly. “Now.”
“Who asked for your mouth?” Paco said, glaring. He looked quickly away. “All right, Julio. But first you got to see this.”
Paco reached in his pocket and took out a large bone-handled knife. Julio didn’t move.
“Ever use one, kid?”
“Yeah.”
“Hey, no shit? What do you think, guys—Julio’s an expert!” Paco pressed a button on the knife with his thumb. A long silver blade flashed out, glittering in the greenish light of the boathouse.
“So?”
“So you’re going to use it tonight, Julio,” Paco said, grinning broadly and rocking in the chair. The others crouched and held their cigarettes in their mouths.
Danny seemed about to speak up, but he held himself in check.
“On what?” Julio said.
“No, kid—not on what. On who.” Paco flipped the knife toward Julio’s foot, but it landed handle-down and slid to a corner. Julio picked it up, pressed the button, folded back the blade and put the knife in his pocket.
“All right, who. On who?”
He remembered what the Kats had done to the old woman over on Pregunta. For eighty-three cents.
“A dirty son of a bitch that’s got it coming,” Paco said. He waited. “Hey, kid, what’s wrong? You look sick.”
“What are you talking, for Chrissakes? What do you want I should do?”
“Carry out a very important mission for our group, that’s what. You’re a very important man, Julio Velasquez. Know that?”
Near Cuernavaca, by the caverns of Cacahuamilpa, Grandfather had seen a man lying still in the bushes. The man was dead. But not only that—he had been dead for a long time. Grandfather used to sit after the coffee and tell about it; and it was always terrifying because Grandfather had a quiet way of talking, without emphasis, without excitement.
—“¿Quien fué el hombre, Papá?”
—“¿Quien ¡Un hombre muy importante en el pueblo!”
Always; then the slow description, unrolling like one of Mama’s stringballs. The man had been a rich one of the village, influential and well liked, owner of a beautiful hacienda, over two thousand acres of land. Then one night he didn’t come back when he should have, and the next night it was the same, and the next night, and after the searches, he was forgotten. It was Grandfather who found him. But the flies and the vultures had found him first.
—“¿Comó murió el hombre?” He had been murdered. The knife was still between his ribs and the flesh had softened and decayed around the knife.
Death. . . .
Julio always thought of death as the rich man from Cuernavaca.
“What’d he do?” Julio asked. “This guy.”
“He got to do something?” Paco said, laughing. Then: “Plenty. You know when we all went to the Orpheum the other night and you had to stay home on account of your old man or something?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Okay. They got Billy Daniels and a picture that’s supposed to be good, y’know? Okay, we start to pay when the chick at the window picks up the phone and says, ‘Wait a minute.’ Pretty soon the brass comes out and starts to look us over, real cool, s
ee, like he had a bug up or something. I talk to him and it’s all right—we go in. Five goddam dollars. So—the show stinks, the movie: it’s cornball, and we go to get our loot back. Guy at the window now, no broad. He says ‘Nooo.’ I ask to see the manager, but he’s gone. They won’t give us back our loot. What do we do? What would you do, Julio?”
“Raise a stink.”
“You bet your sweet ass. That’s what we do, what happens? Big Jew punk comes barrelin’ down the aisle, says he’s the assistant manager. We got to blow, see. But no loot, no, man. Then he took Albert by the hair and kicked him. Right, Albert?”
Albert nodded.
“So naturally this isn’t for The Aces. I didn’t say nothing after that, except I let the schmuck know he’d get his, later on. So we just casually walked out. And here’s the thing—” Paco’s eyes narrowed dramatically. “That louse is still walking around, Julio, like he never done a thing to anybody, like he never insulted all of us. Know what he said? Know what he called us, Julio?”
“What’d he call you?”
“Pachooks. Wetbacks. Dirty Mex bastards. Crapped his mouth off like that in front of everybody in the show.”
“So you want him cut up?”
Paco rocked and smiled. “No, not just cut up. I want that liddle-Yiddle dead, where he can’t crap off any more. That’s your assignment, Julio. Bring back his ears.”
Julio glanced at Danny, who was not smiling. The others were very quiet. They all looked at him.
“When’s he get off?” Julio asked, finally.
“Ten-thirty. He walks down Los Angeles Street, then he hits Third, down Third till he’s around the junction. It’s a break, Julio. We followed him for three nights, and there’s never anybody around the junction. Get him when he’s passing the boon docks over to Alameda. Nobody’ll ever see you.”
“How will I know him?”
“Fat slob. Big nose, big ears, curly brown hair. Carries something, maybe his lunch-pail—you might bring that back with you. Albert’ll go along and point him out, in case he wants to try to give you trouble. He’s big, but you can take him.”
Julio felt the knife in his pocket. He nodded.
“All right, so this is it. You and Albert take off in half an hour, wait and hang around the loading docks, but make sure nobody sees you. Then check the time and grab a spot behind the track next to Merchant Truck—you know where it is. He’ll pass there around eleven. All right?”
The Hunger and Other Stories Page 5
