Cry Mercy

by Toni Andrews

  “You see what I mean? Like a burro, this one.” Tino spoke loudly enough that I knew the comment was for Gus’s sake, not mine. “Maybe you can talk some sense into him.”

  Gus faltered slightly as he walked, but he recovered instantly. He still didn’t know who I was, or why I’d been brought along on this particular field trip, but he knew something was up with me.

  “Where are we going?” I asked. Tino made a hand motion that meant he didn’t want to say in front of Gus, and I backed off.

  We went straight to the car. My stomach gave a longing grumble in the direction of the unfinished meal, presumably still waiting on the table. I wondered briefly about the check—we’d left without paying. Considering Guapo’s obsequious manner toward Tino, I doubted there would be a bill. Still…

  “Tino, I’m just going to step back inside for a minute.”

  He looked annoyed. “What, you got to use the bathroom? We ain’t going far.”

  “I want to leave some money.”

  “Mercy, it’s taken care of.”

  I shook my head. “I know, but I want to leave a tip.” I’d worked my way through hypnotherapy school as a waitress and knew if I didn’t put some money on the table, it would bug me for hours, if not days.

  “Wait.” Tino dug in his pocket for a twenty. “Here. I’m the one brought you down here.” I took the bill and went inside, unable to avoid one last, longing glance at the remains of my food as I dropped the twenty on the table.

  “Doña! Esperete.” Guapo hurried over, a large paper bag in his hand, grease spots forming on its otherwise pristine surface. “To take with you.” At my puzzled look, he added, “Tamales. Fresh this morning.”

  I thanked him and returned to the car, getting in and placing the precious bag carefully between my ankles. If Tino noticed it, he gave no sign.

  Tino steered back onto Main Street, in the direction of the more genteel neighborhood we’d come though on the way here. When he turned the big car onto St. Gertrude Place, Gus broke his silence.

  “No, man, Tino, not here. I don’t wanna—”

  “Did I ask you what you wanted?” Tino snapped, and Gus lapsed back into silence.

  We pulled up in front of a small two-story house with a spotlessly groomed yard. A variety of flowers bloomed in beds along its walls, dominated by sunflowers. The house had been painted in the last couple of years and would have fit well into a more prosperous neighborhood, if not for the bars at the windows and a forbidding fence with lethal-looking spikes at the top.

  Tino got out, and nodded for Gus and me to follow. The gate had a modern-looking electronic locking mechanism with a keypad, shiny against oxidized surroundings.

  Tino punched in a six-digit code, and I heard the metallic click of the lock disengaging. He gestured for Gus and me to go in front of him. Gus’s posture had degenerated to a slump so low that he looked like a turtle trying to recede into his shell. He no longer seemed noticeably taller than Tino.

  The front door opened, the doorway framing someone I couldn’t quite make out. Then a figure rushed forward. I had barely enough time to register long hair and a swirl of bright yellow fabric when the person came to an abrupt halt in front of Gus. The woman, for a woman it was, threw her arms around him, and he seemed to shrink even further.

  “Ay, niño. Where the hell have you been? I’ve been crazy worrying!” She stepped back from the embrace and swung an arm fast enough to blur, and I heard the resounding smack of the slap before I knew it had happened.

  “Why don’t you come home? You think I don’t know where you been, hanging around with those putas y cabrónes?” She switched into full Spanish, the words coming out much faster than I could follow, although it was clear why Gus had wanted to avoid this confrontation.

  After a moment or two, Tino, who appeared to be enjoying this, stepped between his little brother and the woman.

  “It’s okay. He’s okay. Let’s go inside,” he said, and her focus changed to him.

  “So, Tino, you finally got time to stop by.” She spoke forcefully, but with less heat. “You too busy for me now, Mr. Businessman? You too important?”

  “Not for you, Mami,” said Tino, grinning and taking her into his arms. “Never for you.”

  The kitchen was old-fashioned, dominated by a central table where an enormous bouquet of sunflowers stood. Religious figures competed for wall space with more sunflowers of every description—paintings, metal sculptures, plaster pieces that might have been made by children. The theme was continued with refrigerator magnets, assorted gadgets and plastic placemats, the sunny yellow flowers with their dark centers everywhere.

  And the place was clean. Not like Hilda’s kitchen, which looked like a page from Architectural Digest. This was the kind of lived-in spotlessness that bespoke the pride of constant maintenance. I could smell soap and cleanser and Lemon Pledge, an oddly pleasant combination. Teresa, as she had asked me to call her, was serious about her housekeeping. As I had yet another cup of coffee—I would be vibrating all day—I tried not to stare at my hostess.

  According to Hilda, Tino was twenty-seven, which meant Teresa had to be at least in her forties, and her eyes seemed at least that old. Nevertheless, she was an astonishingly beautiful woman, as vibrant as the bright colors in her kitchen. Tino had described her as pretty, but he had been talking about when he was nine and had first accompanied her to the bodega to see Flaco. I’d pictured “Mami” as matronly and stolid, like the women I saw waiting at the bus stop in maids’ uniforms, having walked from their jobs on Lido Island to the corner near my office. Estela, the woman who cleaned for Hilda, was cut along those lines, although sometimes I could see the serene beauty of a Mayan princess lurking behind her plain features.

  Teresa was another creature entirely. She was fine-boned, with a proud arch to her neck that made me think of a Thoroughbred horse. Her hands were long and graceful, although they looked strong, her nails short and without polish, and she gestured constantly as she spoke. Her figure was still lush, and her hair, shot with silver, was thick and black and full of wild curls. I could easily imagine a younger Teresa, filled with indignation at the violation of her home, raising holy hell in the bodega. When Tino had originally told his story, I’d thought of Flaco as taking advantage of a vulnerable single mother. I had a feeling that any man who tried to take advantage of Teresa did so at his own risk.

  “So,” she said, turning to me. “Tino tells me you are a friend. Not,” she said, her eyes flicking briefly toward her older son, “the one he stays with.”

  I nodded. Teresa intimidated me in a way her son never had. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gus’s chin lift. So far, he’d been pretending to ignore us. Teresa went on.

  “This other woman, this Hilda, do you know her?”

  “Yes, I know her.” When I didn’t elaborate, she lifted her eyebrows and waited. I just barely managed to resist this tactic and keep my mouth shut.

  “I see,” she said, finally. “And what about you? How do you know my son?”

  This was tricky. I’d met Tino in a bar while looking for information about Dominic, a drug dealer who’d been threatening my friends. Tino had known Dominic through his own drug connections, and I’d pressed him into doing some information gathering on my behalf. I’d thought, at the time, that would be the end of our relationship.

  “Tino helped me out with a…personal matter a while back. We got to be friends.”

  “And you introduced him to Hilda?”

  I shot a look at Tino, but he avoided my gaze. I was surprised he’d told his mother this much.

  “Yes,” I said, carefully. “He met a few of my friends, including Hilda.”

  “While he was helping you out.”

  “Yes.”

  Tino finally came to my rescue. “Mami, don’t give Mercy a hard time. I got some stuff to talk to Gustavo about, and I asked her to come with me. In fact, maybe you could, you know—” he shrugged apologetically “—give us a little p
rivacy.”

  Her eyebrows rose higher. “You got something to talk to Gus about and she can listen, but his own mother can’t?”

  “It’s Hombres business.”

  “Hombres business! Hombres business!” she mimicked. “You know how many times I heard that excuse, Tino? First Flaco, then you. And you’re worse that he was—he didn’t bring his business into my kitchen, not unless there was some kind of emergency.”

  “If it wasn’t for Hombres business, you wouldn’t have this kitchen or this house.”

  Her eyes flashed, and I froze. I felt like a coyote witnessing a confrontation between mountain lions.

  “However I got this kitchen,” she said, her words measured, “it’s mine, and no one can order me out of it. You may be the jefe of the Hombres, but you’re still my son.”

  They stared at one another for a long moment. Then, to my surprise, Tino conceded. He put his hands up in a gesture of peace. “Tranquila, Mami. You’re right, it’s your kitchen, and I can’t make you leave. I’d like it if Gus, Mercy and me can talk in private, but it’s up to you.”

  She looked from Tino to me and back again, then nodded and got to her feet.

  “Since you ask, I’ll go. I got some work to do in the garden, anyway. But—” she narrowed her eyes in my direction “—in eighteen years, this is the first time I heard anything about a gringa having anything to do with Hombres Locos business.” Putting her own coffee cup in the sink, she gave me one last glare before leaving the room.

  What was it with this family and the evil looks?

  The back door slammed, and Gus immediately came to life, talking fast.

  “I know what you’re gonna say, and I ain’t moving back in here.”

  “That’s right, you’re not.” Tino folded his arms, smug.

  “I’m not?” Gus was so surprised, he forgot to sound tough. His voice squeaked a little, and I remembered that, despite his height, he was still just a kid, and his voice was still changing.

  “Wouldn’t do no good. You already shown you won’t listen to Mami—”

  “Like you ever listened to her.”

  Tino reached over and smacked him on the back of the head. “Listen, hermano, at your age, I listened to her plenty. Flaco woulda kicked my ass if I didn’t.”

  Gus’s expression changed, and he mumbled something under his breath.

  “What was that?” Tino asked sharply.

  “I said Flaco wasn’t your father.”

  Tino threw back his head and laughed, and not in a pleasant way. “No, he wasn’t. And if he didn’t let me disrespect Mami, how do you think he’d feel if he saw you doing it?”

  I could see that Gus was hurt, but he turned his head, and I wasn’t sure Tino saw it, too.

  “So why you don’t want me to stay here?”

  “I thought you didn’t want to stay here.”

  “I don’t.” This time Gus really did squeak. “Why you playing with me, man?”

  Tino reached out again, and Gus cringed, but this time he ruffled his hair. “Look, Gus, I was hoping you’d stay with Mami, take care of things when I’m not here—”

  “You’re never here.”

  “—but I know Joaquin and Nestor will just come over here and pick you up. And if Mami and Joaquin ever get in to it, I don’t wanna be around to see what happens.”

  Gus’s snarl was, momentarily, almost supplanted by a grin.

  “I can keep Joaquin away from Mami.”

  “Yeah, but can you keep Mami away from Joaquin? You know if she gets fed up, she gonna go down to the projects looking for you.”

  This time the grin was open, if brief. “Yeah, that could turn out bad.”

  “So I think it’d be better for everyone if you come down to Newport Beach, stay with a friend of mine.”

  Gus nodded toward me.

  “With her?”

  What? I wanted to shout, but I managed to keep quiet.

  Tino snorted. “With Mercy? No, that would be worse than Mami. Believe me.” He rolled his eyes at me to let me know he meant no insult. “I got other friends down there.”

  “I can’t go to no Newport Beach, man. The Hombres are here. In the barrio. You forgetting that?”

  Gus’s voice rose, and I saw a muscle bunch in Tino’s jaw. They stared at each other for a moment, at a standoff.

  A telephone—an old-fashioned wall mount with a real bell—rang loudly about a foot behind my ear, and I jumped.

  Tino and Gus continued to stare at each other, not moving. The phone rang again, and I felt a growing inner disquiet. What is it about an unanswered telephone that makes people jumpy? A third trill, and I almost reached for it myself.

  The door swung open and Teresa stepped in, removing a pair of sunflower-patterned garden gloves. She glared at her two sons, then marched over next to me and picked up the receiver.

  “Díme.”

  Teresa listened for a moment, then looked over her shoulder at Gus. “He’s not here.”

  “Is that for me?” Gus was on his feet, reaching for the receiver, but Tino was too fast and jumped into his path.

  “I don’t care what you think you heard, I said he’s not here,” Teresa said into the receiver. She started to hang it up, but Gus managed to get one hand on the cord and tried to yank it away from her. Tino pushed him back from the phone but didn’t dislodge the cord. The receiver was pulled from Teresa’s hand, hitting the floor with a loud clunk.

  I backed quickly out of the way.

  “Joaquin, is that you?” Gus yelled in the general direction of the receiver, which was still a good three feet away from his mouth. “Don’t hang up, I’m—”

  His words were cut off as Tino, who had gotten both arms around him, lifted him completely off his feet and dropped him back into the chair.

  Gus looked as if he were about to bolt, then thought better of it. Tino bent and picked the receiver up from the black-and-white checkerboard linoleum.

  “Who’s this?” He listened briefly, then replied. “Didn’t you get my message? You did? Then why you calling here, man?” I could make out an argumentative tone coming tinnily from the earpiece, but not the words.

  “We just stopped here to pick up some stuff for Gus. He’s gonna be busy for a few days.” Gus started to speak, but Tino held up a hand. “None of your fuckin’ business doing what. Something I need him to do. That’s not good enough for you all of a sudden?”

  It must have been, because the voice on the phone got quieter, and Tino’s face lost some of its menace.

  “Yeah, I know we got to meet, but I gotta take care of Gus.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  Again the hand went up, and again Gus subsided with an exasperated expression. Hell, it was more than an expression—his whole body registered annoyance, from the eye-roll to the exaggerated slump to the big exhale. Quite a performance.

  “No, I didn’t talk to Gordo since last night. He said what?” Tino listened intently, nodding his head.

  “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Okay. I said, I’m agreeing with you. You can stop arguing with me now. Look, man, I’ll call you back in five minutes.”

  He hung up and turned toward me.

  “Mercy, I need you to take Tino to Hilda’s. I got some business I need to take care of. I’ll catch a ride down there later.”

  “Hilda’s?” I blurted, simultaneously with Teresa. He addressed his answer to her.

  “Yeah, Mami, she’s got a lot of room at her house. And none of the Hombres ever been there. Gus stays here, you gonna have guys coming around looking for him.”

  “I don’t like it. I’m supposed to let this woman I’ve never met take care of my son?”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “¡Silencio!” snapped Tino and Teresa simultaneously. Neither looked at Gus, who performed another of his full-body sighs.

  “Look at it this way, Mami. I don’t keep an eye on him, he’s gonna end up back over at Joaquin and Nestor’s. And you know what the
y do there.”

  She pursed her lips and crossed her arms. “Maybe I should go with them, make sure everything’s okay.”

  As a successful gang leader, Tino had mastered controlling his features long ago. But even though his face remained stoic, I felt the moment of pure panic as he contemplated a meeting between Teresa and Hilda.

  “Mami, Mercy’s taking my car and not coming back here.”

  “You’re going to let her drive your ride?” The astonishment in Gus’s face must have been mirrored on my own, because Tino grinned.

  “Yeah, Gus. See the kinda shit you make me do?”

  After a little coaxing—which sounded remarkably like threatening—Gus and Teresa left the room, ostensibly to pack a bag. I sat back down at the kitchen table and eavesdropped on a phone call. Tino used the old wall phone and, from what I could follow, arranged a meeting between Gordo, Joaquin, Nestor and a bunch of other names I didn’t recognize. The Tiburónes were mentioned several times, and I assumed the business had something to do with the rival gang.

  “It’s like West Side Story,” I told him. He looked completely blank. “You know, the old musical?”

  “I don’t like musicals,” he protested. “Especially not those old ones.”

  “You’ve got to have heard of West Side Story. It’s all about street gangs in New York. The Anglo gang was called the Jets, and the Puerto Ricans were the Sharks.”

  “The Tiburónes ain’t no Puerto Ricans. They’re Chicanos, mostly. A few Mexicans—I mean born in Mexico. Thing is, most of them don’t even live in Santa Ana.”

  “So all this—” I made a vague gesture indicating the neighborhood, if not the entire city “—is Hombres territory?”

  He shook his head. “No, no way. We got the projects, that end of Main Street, a few blocks north, all the way to Orange. Other side of town, over by Garden Grove, the Vietnamese got that neighborhood—gang called the Golden Tigers. A couple of white guys, not really a gang, handle most of the action on the Tustin side. I do business with them—we got an agreement, you know what I’m saying?” I nodded, fascinated. “A few black dealers across the line in Orange, call themselves the BB. Supposed to stand for Blood Brothers or some shit. They claim they part of the Bloods, but they don’t fuck with anyone outside a couple of blocks. We stay outta each other’s way, mostly. But I hear the Tiburónes been bothering them, too.”