by Johnny Shaw
“Thank God. This garbage they call music is killing me. I’m going to have to listen to six straight hours of Waylon just to antidote it.” Rudy poured one more beer, smelled it, stared at the foam, and poured it on the ground. He started to walk away.
“Wait,” Bobby said. “I didn’t get my beer.”
“Are you serious?”
“We waited in line. We’re right here.” Bobby reached over and filled up a cup himself, beer spilling and foaming everywhere. He took a swig and then refilled the cup to the top.
I turned to the line that had formed behind us. “Bartender quit. It’s self-serve.”
And immediately the line deteriorated and the crowd circled the taps. That’s the thing about lines. They operate on a delicate balance. People respect them but hate them. First chance, anarchy triumphs.
Bobby, Rudy, and I walked toward the gate. But, of course, it couldn’t go that smoothly. It surprised me that I was the one who made things more difficult. Fifty yards from the gate, I stopped and turned to look at the men watching the fights. Bobby and Rudy stopped abruptly.
“What about them? Those girls?” I asked.
Bobby stopped. He laughed loudly. “Why not? If it was too uneventful, it wouldn’t be a satisfying Mavescapade.”
Rudy slapped the two of us on the back. “Ain’t nothing more satisfying than whooping a younger man.”
So with six balls and no plan, we stomped toward the makeshift fighting pit. But who needs a plan when chaos intervenes?
Before we got there, I saw a familiar face staring at me through the crowd. Cold Sore. I had forgotten about him. But he hadn’t forgotten me. His cold sore looked as angry as his expression. Campho-Phenique would only cure one of those.
Cold Sore yelled something, but I couldn’t hear anything over the music. He looked around frantically, and then pointed and pushed the two bikers next to him toward us. They both pulled pistols, but in the thick crowd they kept them trained at the ground.
I took off in the direction of the fight, hoping to get lost in the mob of men. But I was alone. Bobby and Rudy weren’t runners. Unless they were running toward a fight. Which is what they did. By the time I realized they weren’t with me, they had met the two bikers halfway.
Bobby risked later ridicule for being a kicker by jumping feet first into the stomach of one of the bikers. The guy folded in half. Bobby twisted his body to land on his good shoulder, but still hit the ground hard. Rudy clotheslined the other biker in the neck hard enough to give me a bruise at this distance. That guy fell to the ground choking for air. Rudy hit him again just to make a point.
Lost in the immediacy of their violence, it took me a few seconds to realize that I wasn’t doing anything.
Some of the spectators roaming around grew interested in the melee, maybe thinking it was part of the entertainment. Guys shoved other guys out of the way to get a better look. Shoved guys took umbrage and shoved back. And very quickly, a couple completely unrelated fights broke out. Violence begets violence. Go to an MMA match and see how many parking lot skirmishes start from the deadly cocktail of testosterone and beer and stupid.
Not literally. That would be a disgusting cocktail. I’d call it a Hot Couture.
I lost sight of Bobby and Rudy in the growing melee, but I did spot Cold Sore leading Goyo and a few of the remaining upright Mexican bikers to the mess that we had wrought. They tried to break up the fights, but they didn’t seem prepared. They had no bouncer moves, mostly clumsy shirt-pulling and dragging men that were already out of the fray.
As a full-blown riot blossomed, I dodged a couple fists, got kicked in the shins, and barely missed getting puked on by a gut-punched drunk. When I broke off from the men, I ended up next to the two girls who had been the former center of attention. No longer fighting, the two bruised and bloody girls watched, confused and a little frightened. I held up my hands to show that I was harmless.
“It’ll take too long to explain, but if you stay here, you’re in danger. You want to get out of here? Come with me.”
“Is there free cotton candy in your rape van, too?” LaShanda said. “Fuck off, creep.” She rubbed at the side of her mouth, blood painting the back of her hand and wrist.
“We already escaped the other girls. Julie, too. I ain’t fucking with you.”
“Yeah, and I would trust you why?”
I remembered how Chola had reacted to Tomás’s name. “Because Tomás Morales is coming here to fuck shit up.”
The two girls looked at each other, the realization that there was danger in every direction. The other girl spoke up. “Where’s your car?”
“About that. I don’t have a car.”
The fighting grew around us. I shoved at men as they crowded our space. It looked like all hundred-plus men in attendance had joined the free-for-all. Most of the fights had become divided along racial lines, the bros squaring up against the Mexicans. And for all the swearing and peacocking anger, there was definitely a contingent that was having fun.
“How you going to get us out without no car?”
As if on cue, the theme to the A-Team in car-horn form blared. I looked to the factory gate to see Snout’s dumbass van bounce onto the grounds. It skidded to a stop before it reached the boiling pit of brawling men. Buck Buck sat in the open side door, strapped into a chair that Snout had welded to the floor. He pointed a shotgun wherever his eyes landed, trying to figure out who needed to be peppered with birdshot.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” LaShanda said.
“We couldn’t get a Batmobile on short notice,” I replied. “Come with me if you’re coming.”
The only way to the van was through the tumult. I put up my dukes and swung wildly, wading into the crowd. The girls followed. When one less-than-brave bro tried to tag the back of my head, the quieter girl kneecapped him with her heel.
I got hit a few times, but overall I gave more than I got. And with a torn shirt, slightly more blood on the outside than the inside, and an increasingly dimmer view of the male of the species, I reached the van with the girls right behind me.
Buck Buck pulled the cigar out of his mouth. “I love it when a plan comes together.”
“Even the teenage girls think you’re ridiculous,” I said.
“Teenage girls think everything is ridiculous,” Buck Buck said in his defense.
I looked at the two girls. They nodded in agreement. We all climbed into the van.
“Rudy and Bobby are somewhere in the mosh pit,” I said.
“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” Snout said from the front.
We all looked out the windshield to where he pointed. It looked like a haboob, a huge cloud of dust coming at us from the northeast. I hopped out and climbed the ladder on the back. Standing on top of the van, I confirmed the worst. The fleet of black SUVs that had been sitting in the dry wash was now in motion. The vehicles drove toward Plaster City, four across and three deep.
“Fuck me,” I said.
I slid down the front windshield, rolled off the small hood, and fell to the ground.
Snout screamed, “Hey, watch the paint!”
I ignored him. “We have to get the fuck out of here. Now. Right now. This place is about to get bloody.”
A gun fired. A bullet pinged off the side of the van.
“The hell?” Snout said.
“Get down,” I shouted.
I dropped to the ground and scanned the crowd. Finally, I spotted Goyo about twenty yards away, aiming his pistol and firing again. Buck Buck fired back. Goyo dove behind a low wall.
The gunfire stopped the fight. The crack of a gun had that power.
“Buck Buck! Fire a couple shots in the air,” I said.
“Tonight long stick goes boom,” he shouted.
The shotgun thundered. Men scattered from the sound. I caught sight of Bobby and Rudy, bloody and bruised, but still dishing punishment. Bobby’s shoulder was saturated in blood, the bandages and sling frayed and torn. He finally caught sight of the van.
I waved him over, pointing quickly to the dust cloud closing in. Bobby swore and grabbed Rudy by the collar, moving toward the van.
Goyo stood up and lined up his shot, aiming at the running Bobby.
Without thinking, I took off toward Goyo. He fired at Bobby. I didn’t look to see if he hit his mark. By the time he caught sight of me, I was right on him. He turned and fired. I felt my arm get warm, but I didn’t let it stop me, tackling him at the waist. We hit the ground hard. He tried to raise the pistol, but I grabbed his wrist with one hand and punched him in the ribs with the other.
He hit me with a shot to the neck that rocked me and relaxed my grip. He brought his knees up and pushed, knocking me off him. I rolled to a knee, but he was already standing and pointing his pistol at me. I closed my eyes and saw Juan’s face.
He fired.
But I didn’t die. I opened my eyes to see Goyo slump down onto the ground, blood pouring from what was left of his head. I looked around, confused.
The first black SUV had breached the factory grounds, men with rifles standing in the open sunroofs. Men with pistols pointing out windows. They fired into the crowd, men wearing Los Hermanos jackets falling.
“Come on,” Bobby yelled from the van, shaking me out of my stupor.
Holding my bleeding shoulder, I scrambled to the van and jumped inside. Bobby, Rudy, the two girls, and Buck Buck yelled over one another. Buck Buck slammed the door shut.
Bobby screamed, “Make like cowshit and hit the fucking trail!”
Snout was way ahead of him, flooring it and heading away from the gate. Shots pinged off the back. The girls screamed, thankfully drowning out my surprisingly high-pitched yelp.
“Reinforced,” Snout said.
He drove straight toward the panicked men running for their lives. Snout steered around them as best he could, but he clipped a few. Some men climbed onto the factory catwalks to get away. A few Los Hermanos men tore off their jackets, fleeing with the others. Many of the Mexican men chose to remain motionless on the ground, hands over their heads. Like they’d been to this party before. It was a war zone.
“We need to find another exit,” I said.
“I’m on it,” Snout said.
Tongue stuck out the corner of his mouth in concentration, Snout drove along the northern perimeter, parallel to the highway. A high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire lined the edge. A few men tried to climb the fence to escape, getting tangled in the wire. I dared to take a look out the back window of the van. More SUVs, gunfire emanating from every opening the vehicles provided. Los Hermanos fell. A few men fired back, but were soon facedown.
“Hold on,” Snout yelled.
The van drove onto a hill of gypsum, tires spinning in the white powder, digging itself in, but kicking up a thick cloud of white behind us.
“You’re going to get stuck,” I yelled.
He tore hard right off the hill, the van sliding sideways. When he finally got some traction, he turned the wheel hard again and rammed into the fence, smashing the windshield, but breaking through. For a second, the van skidded and tipped onto two wheels, but Snout got control before we rolled. Just before. We bounced back onto four tires and, dragging a piece of the fence that scraped like nails on a chalkboard, we headed west toward Coyote Wells and Rudy’s farm. Nobody followed.
“Everyone okay?”
Mumbles and nods, too much adrenaline and amazement to create cohesive thoughts.
“Fuckers were killing fuckers back there,” LaShanda said.
“You’re okay now,” I said. “It’s over.”
She slid across the floor of the van and put her arms around my waist, squeezing me. I put an arm around her and held her tight. Her body shuddered as she cried against me. I held her for the length of the ride.
Bobby put his arm around the other girl. She looked up at him and smiled. “Thanks.”
NINETEEN
Julie sat bound and gagged in Rudy’s living room, surrounded by the people who loved her. Becky and Russell had held down the fort there while we terrorized Plaster City. Julie bored her angry teenage eyes into Bobby, who sat beside Rudy on his couch. They dabbed at their bloody faces with kitchen towels. We had dressed our more serious wounds. Luckily, Goyo’s shot had only grazed me. I stood by the door, feeling like the odd man out, not part of the family. Buck Buck, Snout, Gabe, and the girls waited outside.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“Got to start talking at some point,” Bobby said. “You ready for this, Beck?”
Becky nodded.
I walked to Julie and untied the shirt-gag from her mouth. Julie stretched her jaw, opening it wide and chewing on the air.
“I hate you all,” Julie said. “You ruined everything.”
“You’re not going to get anywhere in life blaming other people,” Bobby said. “We’re going to start with some apologies. To your mother. To me. To everyone in this room, who went out of their way to save your ass.”
“Where is my money?”
“I’m not hearing no ‘I’m sorrys.’ ”
“And you ain’t going to. Mom never wanted me. You don’t count. I don’t need any of you. I want to go back. When Los Hos finds out—”
“There’s no more Los Hos. There’s no back to go back to,” Bobby said.
“What are you talking about?”
“If your ungrateful self would shut up, he’ll tell you,” Rudy said.
“Who the fuck are you?” Julie said. “I don’t know you.”
He rose out of reflex, but sat back down. I could see the wheels turning. If he told her not to swear, she would do it more. Children know a thing or two about torture and how to use one’s annoyances as a weapon. You couldn’t win.
“I’m your grandfather. Now shut your mouth and let the grown-ups talk.”
Julie’s face registered surprise, but she didn’t say anything.
Bobby got down on his haunches in front of her. “Los Hermanos made an enemy of Tomás Morales.”
She nodded her head, her confidence gone at the mention of Tomás’s name. “I know who he is.”
“A half hour ago, after we took you out of Plaster City,” Bobby said, “Morales had an army go in there and wipe out Los Hos. We saw the beginning, but the end—I’m sure—was more complete. You can read about it in the paper tomorrow. Your biker friends, Chucho—” He turned to me. “Bro, we didn’t let them out of that container. That’s messed up.” He turned back to Julie. “Los Hermanos, they’re either dead gone, disappeared, or heading for the hills. What I’m saying is there’s nothing left. Only place to go is home.”
“That was my home.”
“That’s not true, Jules,” Becky said. “Why would you say that?”
“All you do is yell at me. You don’t treat me like a person. Like an adult.”
“Because you’re not,” Becky said, her volume rising. “You’re sixteen years old. You’ll be grown up most of your life, but if you try to act like it too quick, that life will be a mess. I had you young. I know.”
“Are you saying I messed up your life?”
“For Christ’s sake,” Bobby said. “That’s not what she’s saying.”
“I’m more grown up than you two. Not some waitress. Some drunk. I was running things. We were making money. They listened to me. I showed them how to make money and they listened. They treated me like a woman.”
“By making you fight?” Bobby said.
“Nobody made me fight. I would do it every day, but my face would get fucked up.”
Rudy flinched at the profanity but only shook his head. Becky flexed her jaw and tears rolled down her face. I couldn’t tell if it was anger or sadness. Her clenched fists sat in her lap, knuckles white. She tried to say something, but stopped herself. Russell put an arm around her.
“Reality check, daughter o’ mine,” Bobby said. “You shot me. You shot your fucking father with a gun. You know how fucked up that is?”
“Seriously, dude. I’ve
watched TV. I know what a father is. You ain’t it. You’re a guy that fucked my mom. Why am I talking to you?”
“Okay, fair enough. Fuck the father angle,” Bobby said. “But here’s who I am. I’m the guy that will press charges against you for shooting me. I’ll send your sassy, snarky ass to juvie or worse, and then get shit-faced drunk afterward. Maybe shed a tear in my beer. I got ten girls outside that’ll—what’s the word, Jimmy?”
“Corroborate.”
“What he said. And I got a chance to take a look at your most recent journal. It’s impressively detailed when it comes to your crimes. That means I can nail your ass to the wall for running Los Hermanos’ operations. You’re in deep shit, Julie. That’s why you’re talking to me. Because I’m so pissed off at you right now, I’m willing to fuck your life up before you get a chance to fuck it up yourself.”
“Whatever.”
Bobby turned to Rudy. “Where’s your phone? I’m calling the cops.”
Rudy pointed to the kitchen.
“Mom.” Julie’s voice got an octave higher, each syllable stretched out. “You’re not going to let him, are you? I’m really sorry.”
Bobby laughed loudly and for quite some time. When he caught his breath, he said, “At first, I thought this was like The Searchers. I thought the Comanche had brainwashed you. But I’m starting to see that you’re the Comanche. You’re diabolical.”
Julie ignored him. “Russell, I’ve learned my lesson. You believe me, don’t you?”
Russell shook his head. “I don’t.”
“We’re going to make a deal,” Bobby said, “or I’m going to call a deputy friend of mine. You got a decision to make. You ready to bargain?”
Gabe poked his head into the room. “I don’t want to interrupt your family time or whatever, but shit’s going down outside.”
Bobby turned, but I waved him off. I wasn’t adding anything to the conversation anyway. “I got it,” I said and followed Gabe outside.
From Gabe’s nonchalance, I was expecting a tussle between the girls or something equally banal. I wasn’t expecting nine heavily armed Mexicans standing in front of three black SUVs. They blocked the dirt drive that led to the road. Facing them along the edge of Rudy’s deck sat the ten girls. Some of them looked scared, but most looked more resigned to their fate. In the no-man’s-land between, Buck Buck and Snout stood with shotguns pointed at the ground. They looked heroic.
