Last Summer of the Death Warriors

by Francesco X Stork

  “D.Q. thinks he’s your friend,” she said. “Friends talk to each other.” She wasn’t accusing him of not being a friend, he could tell, she was encouraging him to be one.

  “D.Q. likes to talk.” And he didn’t. That’s what he was telling her.

  “You do too, with the kids. I’ve heard you.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. It was true. Sometimes he forgot himself and the kids would get him going with some kind of foolish conversation or another. It was fun to tease them and they liked being treated like regular brats.

  Mrs. Rivera came out of the house, holding the hand of her five-year-old son, Phil. Phil broke loose and ran toward Pancho, arms outstretched. Pancho lifted him, embarrassed. “Which Pancho is it going to be?” Marisol whispered to him as she walked by.

  Later that evening, D.Q. was sitting at the desk writing in his notebook, the one that contained the so-called Death Warrior Manifesto. Pancho came into the room and threw himself on the bed. He had been playing a spaceship video game with a ten-year-old named Andrés for twenty-five cents a game and ended up losing eight dollars. The conversation with Marisol and then the loss to the little hustler had put him in a foul mood.

  “Listen, I want to read you something,” D.Q. said. Pancho grabbed his pillow and put it over his head. “Come on, this won’t take very long. We need to make some progress here—in passing on to you the principles of the Death Warrior, I mean.”

  Pancho groaned.

  “The sooner you listen, the sooner I’ll stop. You know I’m going to read you this no matter what. Might as well listen to it now rather than having me wake you up in the middle of the night.”

  Pancho removed the pillow from his face and tucked it behind his head. He was just beginning to get the hang of simultaneously turning, accelerating, and shooting lasers from his spaceship. If the mother had not taken Andrés to bed, he would have recovered his losses, he was sure of it.

  “Okay, here goes.” D.Q. read out loud:

  1. Who is a Death Warrior?

  Anyone can be a Death Warrior, not just someone who is terminally ill. We are all terminally ill. A Death Warrior accepts death and makes a commitment to live a certain way, whether it be for one year or thirty years.

  2. When does one become a Death Warrior?

  There is a specific moment during which you can decide to become a Death Warrior. That moment is when death shows you that you will die.

  3. How do you become a Death Warrior?

  Once you accept that life will end, you can become a Death Warrior by choosing to love life at all times and in all circumstances. You choose to love life by loving.

  4. What are the qualities of a Death Warrior?

  A Death Warrior is grateful for every second of time given and is aware of how precious each second is. Every second not spent loving is wasted. The Death Warrior’s enemy is time that is wasted by not loving.

  5. Why should you become a Death Warrior?

  So you can live and die with truth and courage, and because life is too painful when you’re wasteful with the time given to you.

  “Who are you writing that for?” Pancho interrupted.

  “This is the Death Warrior Manifesto. I’m writing it for you. It’s what we talked about.” He was sitting on the edge of the chair, the notebook on his lap. “Those are the first five points of the Manifesto. I had lots of pages, but I’m condensing it into the essentials.”

  “I thought the first rule was ‘no whining.’ I didn’t hear anything about ‘no whining’ in there,” Pancho said, sniffing the air. He could tell D.Q. had been vomiting. He probably missed the toilet bowl again.

  “It’s implied in the third principle. When you love life, you don’t whine.”

  “I liked the no-whining rule better. It was easier to understand.” Pancho touched his ear, his chest, and finally his groin—all the places that still hurt.

  “You look like a third-base coach signaling a batter,” D.Q. said. He started to laugh and then the laughter turned to coughing.

  When he stopped, Pancho said, “You didn’t write that stuff for me. You wrote it for Marisol. All that stuff about loving.”

  “It’s for you, honest. I wasn’t even planning on showing it to Marisol. These are the principles you’ll need to follow to become a Death Warrior. I wanted to put them in writing so you’d have them after I’m gone. I’m hoping you’ll be a Death Warrior before then. You need to make a decision in order to be a Death Warrior. You need to decide.”

  “To love.” Pancho tapped his heart melodramatically, like a character in one of the Mexican soap operas that Rosa liked to watch.

  “Correct.”

  “You’re full of crap.” D.Q. and Marisol are perfect for each other, Pancho thought. They even sound like each other. Which Pancho is it going to be? says one. You need to decide, says the other. They sounded like the same person, both full of the same corny crap.

  “I sure am.” D.Q. grabbed on to the side of the chair and stood. “Speaking of which.” He walked into the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar.

  “Shut the door,” Pancho ordered.

  “I can’t reach it,” D.Q. whimpered.

  Pancho swung his leg and slammed the door shut with his foot. It was around the time of the evening when D.Q. started to fall apart. He could hold his bodily functions more or less in check during the day, but as soon as night came, his body began to crumble. He came out of the bathroom with a white towel around his neck.

  “Shut the door,” Pancho ordered again. “It smells.”

  “Sorry. It’s the chemo.” D.Q. closed the door.

  Pancho watched him shuffle over to the bed. “What does all that have to do with being a warrior? That crap you just read. It has nothing to do with being a warrior.”

  “I was just getting to that part.” D.Q. started toward the desk and the notebook.

  “Just tell me,” Pancho said impatiently. “Warriors fight. Who does your Death Warrior fight?”

  D.Q. collapsed back into bed. “The Death Warrior fights against time that is wasted. Time that is wasted by not loving is the Death Warrior’s enemy. I say it right there. But I need to expand the warrior theme, I agree. The Death Warrior fights against all that seeks to diminish the value of life. He fights against the death of the spirit, whatever form it takes. The death of the spirit can come when we grasp life more than we should or it can come when we fail to appreciate life, when we are not grateful for it, when we don’t even notice we’re alive.”

  Pancho exhaled loudly. It was hopeless to even try to understand.

  D.Q. continued quickly, “Like right now. Part of me just wants to give up. The feeling of wanting to give up, of thinking that life as I’m living it now is not worth living, that’s a kind of death. That’s the kind of death the Death Warrior fights against. I’m a Death Warrior when I struggle against that feeling. Not very successfully right now, I admit.” D.Q. burped.

  “How are the walks with Marisol?” Pancho asked. It was amazing how D.Q. was well enough to go for walks in the afternoon, and then at night, when Pancho had to take care of him, he turned into a stinking mess.

  “They’re so good, Pancho. We go to this bench over by the golf course and watch the golfers. It’s been so good to be able to get to know her and talk to her. It’s been perfect, a real gift.” D.Q. took out a pair of pajamas from the top drawer of the dresser and began to undress.

  “What do you guys talk about anyway?”

  “I don’t know. Everything.”

  “I know you talk about everything. What does she say to you?”

  “Her plans. Her family. You know how she seemed upset with you after you demolished that kid’s cell phone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She has an older brother who just got out of jail. He was in a gang. Still is, I guess. He did time for selling drugs. So it was scary to her, to see you be violent.”

  “I’m the one that got kneed in the balls.”

 
“She doesn’t understand how her brother could have turned out the way he did. They grew up with loving parents. Her father died three years ago of…cancer. But her brother was already on a bad path by then. So you see, that’s why she felt the way she did about you.”

  There was a pause. Then Pancho said sternly, “Don’t talk about me to her.”

  “What?”

  “You told her about my sister. You don’t know nothing about my sister.”

  “Oh.” D.Q. finished putting on the pajamas. The pajamas were light blue with pencil-thin red stripes. Every night D.Q. put them on and every morning Pancho threw them in the wash along with the soiled sheets from D.Q.’s bed. “She asked me about you. She’s worried about you.”

  Pancho jumped off the bed almost in one motion. He stood in front of D.Q., glaring at him. D.Q. stood still, unflinching. “She told me you told her about my sister. What did you tell her?”

  “I told her your sister died not too long ago.”

  “What else?”

  D.Q. put his hand on Pancho’s shoulder. Pancho flicked it away. “I know you want to find the man you think is responsible for her death. I didn’t tell her that, though.”

  Pancho’s hard face softened. “How did you know that?”

  “I read your file in Father Concha’s office the day you came to St. Anthony’s. I went to ask him if he would assign you to be my helper. He had to leave the office for something or other and the file was there.”

  “There’s nothing in that file about the man.”

  “Actually, Mrs. Olivares’s report said that you believed your sister was killed by the man she was with. She said a detective told her you should be watched to make sure you didn’t go looking for the man.”

  Pancho let his body sink to the floor. He leaned back against the bed, drew his knees up, and put his hand on the side of his head. He was a stupid, ignorant fool. He had gone to all the trouble of hiding his purpose and it turned out everyone knew what he was after.

  D.Q. sat on the edge of his bed. “The guy you’re looking for is in Albuquerque, isn’t he?”

  “Is that in Mrs. Olivares’s report too?”

  “I figured that one out myself. I’m not stupid. Why else would you come?” There was hurt in D.Q.’s voice.

  “Why else.”

  “I take it you know where to find him.”

  “I’ll find him.”

  “But you haven’t seen him yet?”

  “No.”

  “I’ve kept you busy, huh?”

  Pancho looked up and nodded absently. The only light in the room came from the lamp on the desk, where D.Q. had been writing his manifesto. He could barely see D.Q.’s face. “What are you gonna do?” he asked D.Q. point-blank.

  “What should I do?” D.Q.’s voice was shaky.

  “Nothing. You should do nothing,” Pancho said without emotion.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m done thinking. He killed my sister. I have no doubts about that. In one way or another, he killed her.”

  “Even if the police say there was no foul play?”

  “I know for sure he did it. I thought about it a long time. I wouldn’t do what I’m going to do if I wasn’t sure.”

  “You need to explain to me how you’re so sure. Is it a gut feeling?”

  “Yeah. No. It’s more than a gut feeling. It’s too complicated.”

  “I got time. Not much, but enough. Probably. If you get started soon.” Pancho couldn’t see D.Q.’s face, but he could hear him smiling.

  Pancho spoke as if in slow motion. “I saw the coroner’s report. It said she died of undetermined natural causes. But there at the bottom of the page, I read something. It said that they found alcohol in her blood. Point-zero-one percent. It wasn’t enough to make anyone legally drunk. But my sister, she couldn’t drink. When she was about seven, one of our neighbors had a birthday party in the backyard, and my sister took a sip from a leftover glass of rum and Coke. About ten minutes later, she fainted. They took her to the hospital and barely managed to revive her. At first, they didn’t even know what happened to her. She had no signs of anything life-threatening. All the doctor could figure out was that she was allergic to alcohol. It was a very rare allergy. The doctor said it was so bad she could have died from even that sip. There were no rashes or choking or anything like other allergies. The alcohol would just work its way through her body and then she would lose consciousness and her heart would stop.

  “So my sister, she wasn’t too smart, but the one thing she knew was that she couldn’t drink. Not even one sip. Before that birthday party, my dad liked to have a beer after work. After that, he stopped drinking altogether. Wouldn’t even drink outside of the house. He drummed it into her that she would die if she drank until nothing scared her so much as the sight of a beer can. We all spent our lives scared, checking medicines and sodas and all liquids that came into the house to make sure they didn’t have alcohol. I never knew there was so much stuff that used alcohol. She wouldn’t even touch the empty beer cans at the Green Café where she worked. She’d pick up all the dirty plates from the table and leave the beer bottles there for someone else. She thought that if she got too close to an open bottle, the fumes would kill her, or a drop would get on her hand and then she might stick it in her mouth by mistake. She never drank anything she didn’t pour herself. That’s how I know she didn’t die of natural causes. That’s how I know she was killed. The guy she was with made her drink. He must have forced her even though I know she would have told him she couldn’t. I know because I know. I know her like my own blood. She was my own blood. She’d never drink on her own. ‘I’ll die if I drink, so help me Diosito.’ That’s what she said to people when they offered her a drink. ‘I’ll die if I drink, so help me Diosito. I’ll die if I drink, so help me God.’ That’s what she used to say to people.”

  “Did you tell that to the police?”

  “The police didn’t even want to look for the man who was with her. Think about it. How could they prove that someone forced her to drink? How could they prove it wasn’t a mistake? I’m only sure because I lived with her all my life.”

  “If they can talk to the guy, question him. If they know that the guy knew about her allergy—”

  “If the police question him, he’ll deny he did anything wrong and I’ll never be able to get to him. I’ll never know the truth.”

  “So you plan to do what?”

  “I plan to find him.”

  “Then what?”

  “You said back then you were gonna help me. You help me and I’ll help you, you said.”

  “You want me to help you get away after you kill him. Is that what you want?”

  “No. I don’t care about afterward. I need you to not do anything. That’s the only help I need from you.”

  D.Q. lowered his voice even more. “When we talked back in St. Anthony’s about what you had to do, we talked about how we would go through the treatments first and then you would do what you needed to do, and I would help you then. You need to wait until we finish with the treatments and we spend two weeks with Helen. Stu, Helen’s husband, is a high-powered lawyer. He can help us bring this guy to justice. By then, you may not want to do this all by yourself, or even kill him.”

  “It’s not gonna happen.”

  “It’s already happening. You’re getting closer to being a Death Warrior every day. You won’t kill anyone.”

  “He killed Rosa. I was supposed to be taking care of her.”

  “What makes you think that snuffing out his life will be that big of a punishment for him? Let him stew in his guilt for the rest of his life. That’s a much bigger punishment.”

  Pancho shook his head. “There’s no way around it.”

  D.Q. gave out a long sigh. “I have faith that you will change your mind.”

  “Faith.”

  “I have faith in you. You’re not a killer. You’re a Death Warrior. Death Warriors don’t kill people.”
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br />   “You don’t know me.”

  “Maybe I know you more than you know yourself. What will change after you kill him?”

  Pancho shouted: “Maybe I’ll kill him, maybe I won’t! I don’t know! Whatever I do, it will make things right!”

  D.Q. covered his face with both hands. When he uncovered his face, he said, “Look, the guy’s not going anywhere. If after the treatments, after we stay with Helen, you still feel the same way, I won’t stop you. I’ll help you find him. I’ll help you get away if you need to…afterward. I’ll get money from Helen so you can go hide someplace. But we are in agreement that you will wait. Promise me you won’t do anything until after we stay with Helen. After that, if you still feel the same way, we deal with your man.”

  “I’m not asking you to get involved.”

  “You’re my friend. I’m already involved. Two more weeks, more or less, that’s all I ask.” D.Q. grabbed his stomach. “I need to hear you promise not to do anything.”

  Pancho nodded.

  “I need to hear you say the words.”

  “All right, I promise,” he said, annoyed.

  “I have to go again,” D.Q. moaned. He stood up. Pancho stayed on the floor. Just before D.Q. entered the bathroom, he turned around and said to Pancho: “In two weeks, you’ll be a Death Warrior. You’ll be busy killing all the junk Death Warriors need to kill. You’re basically almost there. You just need to decide to be one. You need to decide once and for all to live like a Death Warrior.”

  CHAPTER 25

  He dug the revolver and the bullets from the hospital grounds the following morning and hid them under the bed. Then, in the afternoon, while D.Q. was napping and before the rickshaw rides began, he climbed on the rickshaw and rode five blocks to the telephone booth. He took out the piece of paper with the name and telephone numbers of the five construction companies whose names ended with “and Sons.” What he decided to do was call a company and ask if Bobby worked there. If they said yes, he would say he had a package to deliver to him and ask for his full name. Then he would see whether he could look up the man’s home address in the book. He thought it better if he went to the man’s house. And then he would find the man and step into the ring with him.