by Toni Andrews
“Okay.” I figured it was better not to mention that I suddenly had to pee very badly.
My apprehension must have shown, because Tino reached out and touched my arm, an uncharacteristic move.
“Relax, mamacita. You’re with Tino. Nobody gonna fuck with you in this neighborhood.”
“Okay,” I repeated. I still had to pee.
I followed him to one of the staircases, metal with concrete risers. Following his silent progress, I winced at the metallic echo my own feet made on the first couple of steps. I tried to match his grace, and the sound diminished, but even so, I envisioned eyes opening and heads lifting from pillows in the surrounding apartments.
Tino went straight to the left-hand door. I saw a glint of metal as he pulled the key from a pocket; then, after a quick glance at me, he had the door open and stepped inside. I followed him despite the fierce hammering of my pulse in my ears.
It took only a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimness of the room. The ragged Venetian blinds, although closed, still let in enough light to reveal the details. Bare walls—why didn’t men ever hang pictures?—and mismatched, shabby furniture, incongruous next to an enormous plasma TV. The floor was littered with clothes, an empty pizza box, beer bottles and an assortment of DVDs. Tino crossed quickly to the sofa, blocking most of my view of its occupant. I could see a pair of white socks, bare brown legs sticking out above the cotton.
“What the fuck! Tino?”
“Silencio, hermano.” Tino’s tone was terse, barely above a whisper. “Get up, man, we going for a ride.”
“I got to—”
“You don’t got to do nothing but put on your damn pants and come with me. Come on, man, I don’t like leaving my ride out on the street for long.”
“Nobody’s gonna fuck with your ride, Tino.” The legs disappeared as the sofa’s occupant sat up. A hand snaked down and groped at the heap of clothing on the floor, lifting a pair of jeans.
“Keep your voice down, man. And hurry up. I don’t feel like talking to Joaquin and Nestor right now, and they wake up, they gonna want to discuss business.”
“Where we goin’?” Gustavo got to his feet, and I was surprised to see he was taller than Tino. I could see his eyebrows over the top of the shorter man’s head, caught a flicker of pupils as he registered my presence. “And who the fuck is that?”
“She’s a friend of mine, man. Come on, we’re going.” He stepped back, and I got my first full view of Tino’s little brother as he picked up a leather jacket from the floor and shrugged into it.
The resemblance was strong, but where Tino was compact and muscular, Gus was lanky. The face was still a boy’s, and he had buckled his oversized jeans so that they barely clung to his mostly nonexistent hips.
“She the one you been staying with?”
A laugh burst into my throat and almost made it out of my mouth before I managed to stifle it into sort of a snort. Tino obviously hadn’t revealed much about Hilda to his family. He ignored his younger brother’s question.
“Come on, we gotta go. That your shit?” Tino indicated a battered knapsack, and Gus nodded. That surprised me—I couldn’t picture a gang kid carrying a backpack, even if he was only fourteen. But Gus slung it over one shoulder and shuffled toward the door, yawning. Maybe this was going to be easy after all.
“Tino, when did you get here?”
Snapping my head around to see who had spoken, I felt a jolt of adrenaline travel from my stomach to my scalp, making it tingle.
A young woman stood in the bedroom doorway, disheveled and bleary-eyed.
“Silencio, Marisol. I don’t want to wake up Joaquin.” Tino’s voice was steady and low, but I could almost feel electricity coming from it.
“But—” A vertical line bisected Marisol’s brow, and I could see she was trying to shake herself awake enough to know what to do. She gestured vaguely back toward the darkened bedroom. “Joaquin said—”
“Mercy, now would be a good time.”
Tino’s words snapped me out of my shock, and I acted quickly.
“Marisol, close the bedroom door very quietly and come to the kitchen with me.” I pressed her, hoping her half-asleep state would make her instant compliance seem less bizarre to Tino and Gus, who was staring at me.
Marisol did as I said, and I followed her around the corner into the kitchen.
“Pour yourself a glass of water and go back to bed,” I told her, keeping my voice low. “Be careful not to wake Joaquin. And there’s no reason to mention later that you saw Tino, okay, Marisol?”
“Okay.” She got a glass with a picture of Mickey Mouse on it out of the cabinet and poured some tap water into it, then took it and shuffled back toward the bedroom. She never even looked at Tino or Gus as she quietly shut the door behind her.
Gus was openly gaping, and Tino spoke sharply. “Get going.” He pointed toward the still-open front door, and Gus complied, with one last puzzled look at the closed bedroom door.
I felt shaky, probably mostly from relief, as I followed Gus out onto the landing and down the stairs. I felt, rather than heard, Tino behind me.
Gus didn’t ask where we were parked, but he headed in the right direction. Again I felt eyes on us as we threaded our way back between the buildings. A few kids now hung out at the swing set, and a little girl kicked a ball in a weedy area that might have once been a volleyball court. Hector was nowhere to be seen.
When we got to the car, Gus reached for the front passenger door when Tino stopped him.
“Get in the back, man. What’s wrong with you?”
Gus shot me a sullen look, but opened the back door and slid into the seat, where he slumped. I almost said I didn’t mind riding in back, but I held my tongue and got into the front next to Tino.
“Where we going, anyway? There’s stuff I’m supposed to do for Joaquin today.”
“You work for me, and so does Joaquin. I tell him I need you for a few days, he’s not gonna argue.”
“A few days? What the fuck you talking about, Tino? And you still didn’t tell me where we’re going.”
The Malibu was moving now. “Take it easy, hermano. We’re gonna get a little breakfast. I was hungry for chilaquiles and thought you might like to go to Guapo’s.
“Yeah, okay.” I heard the world-weariness in Gus’s voice and was glad I had my back to him, so he couldn’t see my involuntary smirk.
“You gonna get some real Mexican food this morning, Mercy,” Tino said. “And I hope you like it spicy.”
6
“I’m down for the barrio. You ain’t anymore.” Gus’s chin was more pointed that Tino’s, and it stuck out in a way that substantiated the “stubborn” description.
“You keep your voice down.” Tino’s voice was a growl. “I still run the Hombres, and I’m still your big brother. You don’t disrespect me.”
Gus’s expression remained sullen, but Tino still carried enough authority to silence him, because he dropped his eyes and returned his attention to the plate in front of him.
The food was amazing, and Tino hadn’t lied about the spiciness. My lips tingled from the salsa, which was fresh, and redolent of smoky chipotle peppers and tomatoes sweeter than any I could buy at the local supermarket.
I’d heard of Guapo’s, but this was my first visit. The place stayed open twenty-four hours and, despite the marginal neighborhood, was a popular destination after the bars and nightclubs around South Coast Plaza, only a few miles to the south, closed.
Guapo’s occupied a stand-alone building behind a cratered parking lot and could have fallen out of a Mexico City suburb, or so I had once been informed by Sukey—I’d never been farther south than Tijuana. Colorful hand lettering decorated the windows of two front doors, set a few feet apart. One side said Carnicería and the other Restaurante.
When we arrived, there were no lights on in the butcher shop side, but a long line snaked from the restaurant door. I got out of the car and automatically walked toward the
end of the queue, then realized my mistake when Tino headed through the other door. I hurried to follow.
Once inside, Tino and Gus never hesitated, walking behind the unmanned butcher’s counter and through a doorless arch into the restaurant kitchen. Hair-netted women looked up, recognized Tino, then refocused on their work. Meat was sliced, tortillas folded, sauces dribbled. The air held the tang of hot peppers, freshly chopped cilantro, lime and onion. My stomach gave a rumble that would have been audible if the din of the place hadn’t drowned it out.
“Tino! You didn’t tell me to expect you.” A short balding man in a salsa-stained apron approached us. We were blocking traffic in the busy kitchen, and I itched to back out of the way, but Tino and Gus seemed unconcerned, as did the man now heartily shaking Tino’s hand.
“You got a table for us, Guapo?”
“Always.” I didn’t see how—every seat was occupied, with some people standing and eating at a counter that ran along the front window. Guapo turned and spoke rapid-fire Spanish to a young man carrying a tub of dirty dishes. The busboy nodded, dumped his burden into a sink, then went around the counter and between the tables. Approaching the largest booth, he bent and spoke into the ear of a man seated with his back to us. The man glanced over his shoulder, zeroing in on Tino. He nodded to the busboy; then, gesturing to the rest of his party, he stood up and walked back toward the door, where he stood at the front of the line. No one grumbled. I wondered if their deference was out of fear or respect.
I looked over to see if Tino had noticed the interplay, but he was conversing with Guapo in Spanish, asking questions about the man’s family, from what I could follow. Guapo led us to the table as the busboy finished clearing and resetting it.
The other customers nodded at Tino and practically gaped at me. It took real effort to keep my gait natural—the sensation of being stared at evoked strong memories of my adolescence, and those final weeks when I still lived with the Hollingses and attended public school in a tree-filled New Jersey suburb. The kids had called me “freak.” Sometimes I still heard their singsong voices in my dreams, but I drowned them out now with the reminder that the only reason these people were looking at me was because I was with Tino.
I wondered if, before his liaison with Hilda, he’d ever shown up here with a woman in tow. I would have bet not. His was a macho world, where women had their place. No matter how good the food smelled, I knew that Tino’s appearance here had more to do with being seen than the chilaquiles. A casual girlfriend would never make it through the door, although I could imagine him bringing his mother here.
He was, however, probably questioning the wisdom of choosing this as a venue for his conversation with Gus, who was not being cooperative. Luckily the restaurant was noisy on this busy Sunday morning, and I doubted anyone could make out Gus’s defiant words, although his expression was thunderous.
“You don’t need to worry about the neighborhood,” Tino was saying to his brother now, his voice quiet and intense. “That’s my job, and I’ll make sure everybody gets taken care of. But I got other plans. For you, too. Things are gonna be better, you’ll see.”
“What I’m supposed to do, I’m not in the Hombres? Be all, ‘you want fries with that?’ Shit, Tino, I got respect. Joaquin say—”
“Joaquin ain’t in charge. I am.” Tino’s voice rose enough to draw glances from a couple of nearby tables, and he lowered it again. “Joaquin’s a good soldado, but he ain’t even a teniente. Not until I say so.”
Gus snorted. “When you been around to say so? Things been getting crazy, man. Those hijos de putas, those Tiburónes, man, they been all up in the Hombres business. Half the time, you don’t even answer your phone. Someone had to step up for the barrio. Joaquin, he don’t take no shit from nobody.”
“When I’m not around, Joaquin’s supposed to talk to Gordo.”
“Gordo don’t do nothin’, man. Man can’t take a piss unless he check with you first.”
Tino’s jaw worked. I figured he probably wanted to reach across the table and grab his brother by the throat. Maybe he’d chosen a public place in order to curb his impulses.
“I gotta take a piss.” Gus got to his feet and, at Tino’s “go ahead” gesture, slouched off toward the back of the restaurant.
“He ain’t a bad kid,” he said, his focus split between me and the restroom door. “Just too much like his old man.”
And his big brother, I thought.
“So why am I here?” I asked. “So far, I haven’t done anything. I thought you wanted me to talk to him.”
“Yeah, well, I figured I’d give it another shot.” He gestured toward the counter, and Guapo came around with coffee refills. When he was gone, Tino went on in a lowered voice. “He got a point about Gordo, though. Grant says the problem with type A personalities is we don’t empower our subordinates. Gordo ain’t in the habit of making quick decisions on his own. I wanted him to take over when I’m gone, ’cause I know he’s loyal. But maybe he ain’t the right choice.”
“What about this Joaquin that Gus keeps talking about? He a candidate?”
Tino took a sip of coffee and winced, and not at the taste. “Joaquin’s a cabeza caliente—a hothead. He’s smart, though. A good earner. But when he gets mad, he can’t control his mouth. One day, he gonna piss of the wrong person, and…” Tino mimed pulling a trigger.
“Gus seems to look up to him.”
“Yeah, well, I guess I haven’t been around as much as I should. He—”
“Perdón, Tino.” A man had come up behind me and now stood next to the table. “I am sorry,” he bowed a little toward me, then turned back to Tino. “Can I speak with you for a momento?”
Rather than looking annoyed at the interruption, Tino gave the man his full attention.
“Hola, Ramon. How is Yoli? Is she better?”
“Sí, sí, much better.” Again the man looked at me, apologetic. “My English not so good.”
“It’s okay, Ramon. Tell me in Spanish—Mercy will not mind.”
As the man quickly outlined some problem to do with, I thought, parking in front of his store, I watched them, fascinated. Tino kept his seat, and the man, who was probably in his sixties, remained standing, his head lowered. Tino was a benevolent dictator doing a favor for a humble subject, and both men were completely at ease in their respective roles.
“Shit.” Something caught my eye outside the front window, and I looked up just in time to see the back of a familiar leather jacket crossing the parking lot and heading for the intersection beyond. I interrupted the conversation. “Gus is taking off.” I got to my feet, and Ramon backed out of my way. Tino was already up.
“What the fuck? Where?”
I pointed, and Tino shot out the door. I followed, but he was through the parking lot and halfway across the intersection before I’d squeezed past the people waiting at the door.
“Gus! Get back here, pendejo!” Tino stopped to let a bus go by, and Gus darted down an alley.
I ran to the edge of the street and stopped. There was no way I could catch up with them, but I figured the alley must run parallel to the street. I scanned the building facing the sidewalk and saw no gaps big enough for a teenager to squeeze through. If the same held true on the other side, he would have to come out on the next block. I ran down the sidewalk and waited for a break in the traffic to scoot across the street.
I didn’t have to catch him, only get close enough so he could hear me. Luckily, I had my running shoes on.
When I made it to the end of the block, Gus was heading down the side street away from me. I concentrated. Physical proximity shouldn’t make a difference when I pressed, as long as he could hear me. At least I didn’t think so.
“Gus!” I shouted. “Wait for me!”
I felt a wave of relief as he slowed to a stop and turned toward me. I could see he was panting and, although I couldn’t make out his expression from this distance, could sense his puzzlement.
Tino shot o
ut of the alley and, belatedly, I realized my mistake. Gus would probably refuse to move until I got there, and the two men had half a block on me. Despite my own breathlessness, I hurried to catch up to Tino, who was pounding down the sidewalk in Gus’s direction.
“Wait for your brother,” I managed to shout, knowing it would seem strange to Tino, since Gus was obviously already waiting, bent over with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.
Tino didn’t seem winded at all. He grabbed Gus by the upper arm and steered him back into the alley.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, man? Making me run after you in front of all those people.”
“Let go of me!” Gustavo tried to shrug Tino off but failed. My press had forced him to wait, but it didn’t make him cooperative. I considered adding an instruction to listen to his brother, but I was still moving, out of breath, and it looked like Tino had things under control.
When I finally caught up with them, I tried not to pant like Cupcake after a beach run but didn’t have much success.
“I thought you were smart enough to be cool, so I figured ‘Hey, get a little breakfast with my hermano—say hello to Guapo,’ but I can see you ain’t gonna be reasonable.”
“Tino, I—”
“Silencio, infante, I’m talking now.” Tino’s tone had dropped, and something in it must have gotten Gus’s attention, because he shut his mouth, and looked a little less sullen and a little more scared.
“Since you can’t act right in public, we’ll go somewhere we got some privacy. Now, you gonna walk back to the car like a man, or I got to drag you like a boy?”
With a look that was so much like Tino’s familiar glare that I had to stifle a snort, Gus straightened both his posture and his leather jacket, and walked back down the alley. Tino walked behind him, and I fell into step.
