Cry Mercy

by Toni Andrews

  Realization dawned. “Flaco is Gus’s father?”

  “Was.” He took a long pull of his Corona. “Got killed—shot—about four, five years back.”

  The other shoe dropped. “And you took over the Hombres. Just like that.”

  “No, not ‘just like that.’” He sounded offended. “There were other guys thought maybe they should be in charge. ’Cause they were older, or their brothers or fathers were in the Hombres. But I was Flaco’s teniente, man, his lieutenant. I know the people, who to call, where the money’s coming from, how it gets up the ladder. And I moved fast. Had to settle a couple of people down, you know what I’m saying? But, yeah, that’s when I took over.”

  “And Gus wants to be just like his big brother. And his father.”

  “He’s stubborn.”

  “And you’re not?”

  Tino inclined his head, conceding the point. “Gus is even worse than I am. He gets it from both sides.”

  He was fidgety, nervous, and I realized how hard it was for him to ask me for a favor.

  “So I assume you’ve already talked to him about this.”

  “Talked. Yelled. Threatened. Not just me. Mami, too. But he says I’m letting the Hombres down, even the barrio.”

  “And you think he’ll listen to me?”

  “People do.”

  He was right about that. But, as he had accurately pointed out to Grant, my clients volunteered to listen. Technically, they didn’t know about the press, so they couldn’t really give me permission to use it, so for the purposes of my business, I had rationalized that asking to be hypnotized amounted to consent.

  I was pretty sure Gus wasn’t going to volunteer.

  But I couldn’t explain all that to Tino, so I bowed to the inevitable.

  “When do we go? Where do we go?”

  “I been thinking about that,” he said, relief in the set of his shoulders. “I can find him anytime—I know where he goes. But mornings are probably better. He won’t be doing business, you know what I’m saying?”

  I did. “Business” was almost certainly something dangerous or illegal or both, and I was all for avoiding peak work hours.

  “You want to go tomorrow morning?” I asked. My office would be closed—it was Sunday—and I would just as soon get this over with.

  “Yeah, that would be good. We can get him before anything’s happening.”

  “Does he still live with your mother?”

  Tino shook his head. “He’s supposed to, but lately he’s been crashing with some of the Hombres. Mami don’t like it, but if I’m not around, there’s not much she can do about it. She’s not going to go into the projects looking for him, or at least I hope not. Like I said, she’s got a temper.”

  “But you know where he is?”

  “Yeah, I know. I figure we get there early—wake him up. Get him outta there before he knows what hit him.”

  I didn’t much like the prospect of walking into a housing project, entering an apartment inhabited by a bunch of gangbangers and dragging out an unwilling teenager. If the rest of the Hombres were anything like Tino, they probably slept with guns under their pillows.

  I couldn’t press a bullet.

  “Tino,” I began cautiously, “if he doesn’t want to go, or some of the Hombres object, just what do you think I can do that you can’t?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Hypnotize them, I guess.”

  I almost laughed, then realized he was dead serious.

  “Tino, you don’t just hypnotize someone in the middle of…of…” I was going to say “a gunfight,” but I didn’t really think it would come to that. “In the middle of a crowd, on the fly. It takes time, and privacy.”

  He looked genuinely puzzled. “I seen this guy on TV, he was in a big nightclub or something. Hundreds of people in the place, all drinking and yelling. He didn’t have no problem hypnotizing people.” He smiled, remembering. “Man, he had those people doing all kindsa crazy stuff. It was hilarious.”

  Shit. I should have realized that Tino’s only exposure to hypnotism came from the movies and TV. He’d never been to my office, and the times I’d pressed him, he’d had no idea I was doing it.

  “Tino, that guy was an entertainer. A hypnotist. I’m a hypnotherapist. It’s totally different. I can’t just walk up to someone on the street, hypnotize him and make him do something he wouldn’t normally do.”

  “Sure you can. You did it to me.”

  I almost choked on my beer. Holy shit. All this time I’d thought he was completely oblivious, he’d probably been wondering why he’d agreed to help a complete stranger, a gringa, after a five-minute conversation. When he found out I had a hypnotherapy office, he must have come to the logical conclusion that I’d hypnotized him, like the guy on TV, who no doubt made people bark like dogs or cluck like chickens.

  He misinterpreted the horror on my face. “Don’t worry, mamacita, Tino’s gonna take good care of you. You think I’d let you get hurt?”

  I was surprisingly comforted. This was the Tino I’d first met—posturing, macho and oddly endearing. I’d liked him from the beginning, even when I’d thought he was no more than a thug, someone I would use for information and never see again. I didn’t think—then or now—that by pressing him I’d actually done him any harm.

  And if he thought what I did was hypnosis, I’d better let that particular sleeping dog stay comatose for as long as possible.

  “Okay, Tino. How do you want to do this?”

  “I’ll come by your place in the morning, pick you up.”

  “You mean I finally get to ride in the Tino-mobile? I feel honored.”

  “You should. A lot of women would sell their mothers to be seen in that car.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Cruising the Pacific Coast Highway in a Malibu convertible on a sunny summer afternoon might be the subject of legend and the odd Beach Boys song, but it wasn’t nearly as glamorous on a chilly November morning on the 55 Freeway. I was cold, and, despite my best efforts to tie it back, strands of my hair escaped their bonds and whipped my face. I could taste grit from the exhaust of passing trucks.

  “Don’t you ever put the top up?” I shouted to Tino over the din of an OCTA bus.

  “It don’t work that good!” he yelled back. “Beside, once we get there, I got to be seen.”

  “It’s seven-thirty in the morning, Tino. Aren’t all the good little gangbangers still tucked in their beds?”

  He grinned but held his silence for the time being.

  A few minutes later, we finally turned off the freeway and onto the streets of Santa Ana. We cruised through working-class neighborhoods, respectable enough on a Sunday morning. There was foot traffic, but its character was nothing like Balboa’s, which was dominated by joggers and dog-walkers. Here, cars were being washed and laundry hung. A few hands were raised as we drove by, and Tino waved in return.

  We turned up Main Street, and the mostly single-family homes gave way to apartment buildings, and mom-and-pop businesses. The waves became more frequent—the fruit vendor, a guy selling the Spanish-language edition of the local paper on the corner and kids. Not yet eight in the morning, and already, the streets were full of kids, mostly on bicycles. Tino seemed to make a special point of acknowledging them, and I saw envy in the gazes that flickered from Tino to the chrome-laden Malibu to me. Yeah, they were definitely curious about me.

  We crossed an intersection and suddenly were on a part of Main Street I hadn’t seen in a long time. I was surprised at the changes.

  It was as if the downtown from a prosperous, trendy beach town had been lifted and transplanted to the middle of this working-class city. Palm trees sprouted from the median, and street lamps hung over park benches. The ubiquitous graffiti was mostly absent, although the speed limit sign and the bus stop had what looked like fresh tags. Tino pointed to where the familiar HL of the Hombres Locos had been painted over with a styled T that trailed into the outline of a shark’s fin.
r />   “When did they do all this?” I asked him, gesturing at the new storefronts and landscaping.

  He shrugged. “Few months ago,” he said. “Nice, huh?”

  “I guess.” It did look nice, but I couldn’t help but notice that most of the shops were empty, with “available for lease” signs propped inside their windows. “What happened to all the businesses that were here before?” I remembered a taquería, a hairdresser and a place that sold party supplies.

  “Couldn’t afford the rent,” he said. “Which means they move somewhere else, which means I don’t make no money off them. All this so-called ‘restoration’ is just code for ‘get the poor people out.’”

  He had a point. Whoever had signed off on this project from the city’s side must have hoped to attract more upscale tenants. They have to have known the existing businesses wouldn’t be able to afford higher rents. A new branch of a national bank had moved onto one corner, opposite a major chain drugstore. But I couldn’t see Starbucks or Pottery Barn making a go of it in this neighborhood, though admittedly, it was too early in the day for much foot traffic. A few people were going in and out of a brightly lit bakery, I noticed, and silently wished the owners good luck—they would have to sell a lot of pastelitos to afford those accommodations.

  When Tino steered the big car onto a side street, all signs of gentrification vanished within a block. At least half the businesses were boarded up, and the other half had ancient neon signs glowing through dirty glass behind barred windows. We passed a high fence on which the multilayered graffiti showed several examples of both Hombres and Tiburónes tags, with the latter appearing to be more recent. I could make out the shapes of windowless cars between the fence boards, and then through a rusty iron gate behind which a sign read Piezas Usadas. A translation was crookedly scrawled below the Spanish: Used Auto Parts. A smaller sign warned Peligro—Perro feroz. I peered through the bars but saw no trace of a dog, ferocious or otherwise. It didn’t mean he wasn’t there. When Cupcake—then known as Cujo—was doing guard duty for his previous owner, he hadn’t made any noise at all until the trespasser was within a few feet of him. I knew this from an incident when I’d been the trespasser in question.

  Immediately past the salvage yard, a group of apartment buildings rose. They were all alike and had probably not looked too bad—once. There was something subtly different between them and the other buildings we’d passed that made them easily recognizable as government-subsidized housing. Welcome to the projects, I thought. The convertible slowed, and my stomach tensed. Somewhere in this beige-and-brown warren, Gustavo slept, along with who knew how many other Hombres. If I ended up having to press someone, how the hell was I going to pull it off without making Tino more suspicious that he already was?

  There was a parking lot that didn’t have room for as many cars as there were doors in the building, but Tino didn’t park there. Instead, he pulled the big car up against the curb, in front of the No Parking to Corner sign. We were on the wrong side of the arrow, but that didn’t seem like a detail worth mentioning.

  “We’re gonna walk between those two buildings.” He pointed, I nodded, and he went on. “The Hombres will have a lookout. Sometimes they have someone inside an apartment, but I don’t think they have a place they can use in that building, and the other one’s got no windows on this side. There’ll be a spotter, though, maybe by the Dumpster or the swing sets or something. Keep an eye out. I want to talk to him before he goes and tells anyone I’m here.”

  “Aren’t you still the boss?”

  He shot me a quick glare but must have realized I was just asking, not trying to score a point.

  “Yeah, I’m the boss. But people like to know if the boss is looking over their shoulder. I’d rather see how things look when they don’t expect me, you know what I’m saying?”

  He got out of the car, and I followed suit. I felt eyes on us as we moved through the parking lot, but if Tino felt the same, nothing in his gait showed it. How someone managed to look stealthy and swagger at the same time was beyond me, but he pulled it off. A tiger in his element. I shivered.

  He nodded for me to get behind him as he entered the narrow alley between the two buildings, and I fell into step. He unzipped his leather jacket, and I didn’t have to look to know why—he would have a gun in the top of his jeans. He might never have been a Boy Scout, but Tino liked to be prepared.

  I followed him into the labyrinth, conscious of eyes that may or may not have been on us. We wound between a few buildings, past a series of back doors that opened onto tiny yards. Most were dismal, littered with broken lawn furniture, shabby children’s toys and the occasional threadbare couch or easy chair, abandoned to the elements. A few, however, were cheery, with potted plants and brightly painted statuary, mostly depicting religious figures. I recognized the Virgin of Guadalupe and one enormous Jesus, arms spread and garishly tinted red heart exposed.

  There was another narrow passage, and then we came out into a courtyard. Swing sets, mostly innocent of swings, were on one side, and what was probably meant to be a pavilion area was on the other, with a few concrete tables and benches still in usable condition. Every surface displayed gang tags, and I didn’t see any examples of the Tiburónes’ characteristic symbol. All the sharks in these waters were familiar.

  After seeing so many kids on the streets, I had expected to see a few here, but they were curiously absent, with the exception of one adolescent boy, who sat slumped at one of the tables wearing a pair of dark sunglasses that were unnecessary in the shade cast by the surrounding buildings. His head swiveled our way, and I saw him stiffen as he recognized Tino. It only lasted for a moment before he reassumed his oh-so-casual posture, although I could sense his eyes darting behind the lenses, assessing his chances of getting out of the courtyard before Tino could stop him. They weren’t good, and the kid must have been smart enough to see that, because he didn’t move an inch as Tino and I came up to stand before him.

  He darted a glance at me, and even through the tinted lenses I could see the curiosity in it, but he was way too focused on Tino to give me much thought just yet. Which indicated good judgment on his part.

  I expected Tino to speak, but he didn’t; he just stood. Although the kid didn’t actually move, something changed subtly in his posture, making his slump seem less careless and more cringing. Tino waited, and finally the boy took off his glasses and met his eye.

  “’Zup, Tino?”

  “You tell me, Hector. Who you sittin’ lookout for?”

  “I’m not—”

  “You wanna think before you lie to me, Hector.”

  I hadn’t seen Tino move, but he was at least a foot closer to Hector, who was starting to squirm, his macho attitude completely abandoned. His head dropped, and he spoke quietly.

  “Joaquin.”

  The answer was apparently one that Tino had expected, because he nodded.

  “I thought so. Thing is, Hector, I’m gonna stop by Joaquin’s place this morning, and I don’t want to wake him up.”

  “But—” The kid seemed to be getting younger by the minute, and now he looked as if he were about to panic. I got a vivid flash of a nine-year-old Tino, carrying messages for Flaco. Had he ever sat sentry in a project courtyard on a cool morning, trying desperately to look tough and ready for whatever might happen?

  “Don’t worry, Hector. This goes down the way I want, he won’t even know I was here. You won’t get in trouble.”

  The words didn’t seem to reassure Hector.

  “He kill me, man.”

  “He ain’t gonna kill you, Hector. Your abuela won’t let him.” Tino grinned, and just like that, the tension was gone. He broke eye contact with the hapless Hector and turned toward me.

  “Hector’s Joaquin’s cousin. Joaquin’s a fierce dude, but he’s afraid of his grandmother. Shit, I’m afraid of Hector’s abuela.”

  I smiled, as I was expected to. I was impressed at how Tino had first put Hector on the defensi
ve, then put him at ease. Very effective management.

  “Look, I’m gonna pick up Gustavo, take him over to see Mami. He sleeping on Joaquin’s sofa?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Who else is staying there?”

  “Marisol. And I think Nestor.”

  Tino nodded, then pulled a bill out of his pocket and handed it to Hector.

  “Okay, amigo, you do me a favor. Go down to the corner, get some pastelitos, couple of chorizos, bring them over to Joaquin’s. I’ll be gone by the time you get back, but you tell him I came by and Gustavo’ll be helping me with something for a few days. Say I’ll catch him next time.”

  Hector was on his feet, nodding and moving, relieved to be sent out of the line of fire. Metaphorical fire—I hoped. Tino watched him long enough to make sure he was heading in the direction of the bakery, then turned to me.

  “Marisol is Joaquin’s woman, so they’ll be in the bedroom with the door closed. I been there before, and they got two bedrooms, so Nestor probably has the second and Gus is alone in the living room.”

  I tried to picture it. “How are we getting in?”

  “I got a key.”

  “How the hell did you get that?”

  He grinned his pirate’s grin. “Who you think got this crib for Joaquin in the first place? You forget, he works for me.”

  “Aren’t they going to wake up when we go in?”

  “Not if we do it right. But if they do, no big deal. I’m the boss. But I wanna get Gus out of there before he starts arguing. Everyone else don’t need to hear that, you know what I mean?”

  I did. In Tino’s position, he couldn’t let members of the Hombres get away with challenging his orders. Not even his little brother—at least not in front of other gang members.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Stay behind me. I go in, we leave the door open. It’s on the second floor, there’s like a bridge that runs between the two buildings.” He pointed up at the second-floor landing. “Like that. You stand in the doorway, make sure it stays open, see if anyone’s coming up the steps on either side. Just watch me—I tell you if I need you to do something different, okay?”