The Orion Plan

by Mark Alpert

  His homeboys turned their heads too. Carlos smiled and yelled, “What the fuck?” and the four others laughed. They were sharing a blunt and a bottle of Ron Barceló rum and acting like a bunch of idiots. Emilio frowned—he never got drunk or high and wished his boys wouldn’t either. At eighteen he was only a couple of years older than the others, but sometimes he felt like their fucking babysitter. He whistled to get their attention.

  “Cállate!” he ordered. “Shut up a second so I can listen.” Then he turned back to the hillside and cocked his head.

  They stopped laughing. For the most part, they respected Emilio. He’d shown them how to be Trinitarios, teaching them the gang signs and codes. They also knew about his connections to the O.T.’s, the Original Trinitarios who’d come over from the Dominican Republic twenty years ago and started the first gangs in Inwood and Washington Heights. So his homeboys kept their mouths shut while he listened for more noises coming from the hillside. He expected to hear distant laughter or shouting from the pendejos in the woods, but there was nothing.

  Paco stepped away from the others and faced the hill, cocking his head like Emilio and listening just as intently. He was their enforcer, the second-in-command, chosen for the position because of his fighting skills. He was gangly and tall and imitated Emilio in every way, even wearing the same kinds of clothes—a pair of baggy jeans, a white sleeveless shirt, and a lime green Trinitarios bandanna. When Paco joined the gang, the imitation was his way of showing respect, but over the past few weeks Emilio had noticed a change in the boy’s attitude. Paco was getting surly, always arguing. He didn’t want to take orders anymore. He wanted to be in charge.

  After a while he gave up listening and turned to Emilio. “Yo, I know who’s up there on the hill. It’s those Puerto Rican bitches, the Latin Kings. They’re the ones who set off that bomba.”

  Emilio narrowed his eyes. “How do you know?”

  “I heard they were coming over from the Bronx. That’s what everyone’s saying.”

  “Yeah? I haven’t heard anyone say that.”

  Paco shrugged. “Those bitches think Trinitarios is weak now, ever since all the O.T.’s got put in jail. All your uncles and cousins and shit.”

  This was a calculated insult. Paco was testing him, looking for a reaction. But Emilio wasn’t going to play that game. “So you think the Latin Kings are coming here to challenge us?”

  “Why the fuck else would they come?”

  “Well, why aren’t they down here then? Why are they playing with firecrackers on top of the hill?”

  “Coño, how should I know? But everyone says—”

  “It’s not the Latin Kings.” Emilio shook his head. “It’s probably some dumb-ass white boys. This neighborhood is full of white boys now.”

  Paco had no answer to this, so he just stood there, trying to think of another insult. Like most of the younger kids in the Trinitarios he was a wannabe, not a real gangster. He was all gung ho about mixing it up with the Latin Kings or the Ñetas, but he hadn’t fought in any gang wars yet and probably never would. The hard truth was that the gang life was over in this part of the city. The whites were coming to Inwood now and pushing out the Dominicans. That’s why the cops had cracked down on the O.T.’s. The New York Police Department was making the neighborhood safe for white people. Emilio and his boys couldn’t even hang out on the streets anymore. The only place they could go at night was the park.

  “You know what I think?” Paco finally said. “I think you’re scared of those bitches.”

  He said it loud enough that everyone else could hear. Carlos whispered, “Ho, shit!” while Miguel and Diego and Luis stepped backward, forming a rough circle in case a fight broke out. Paco looked like he was ready for it—he locked eyes with Emilio and clenched his hands. But the challenge didn’t scare Emilio, and it didn’t make him angry either. It just made him depressed. Instead of ruling their neighborhood and walking the streets like heroes, the Trinitarios were scuffling in a deserted soccer field. They were fighting over the chance to lead a gang of fucking babies.

  Emilio stepped toward Paco, staring him down. “You unhappy, muchacho? You got a problem you want to talk about?”

  “The problem is you.” The boy’s voice was low and steady. “You lost your cojones after the O.T.’s got sent away. You’re afraid to step up.”

  “And you think you can do better?”

  “I know I can do better.” Paco curled his lip. “Want to see me prove it?”

  Emilio took another step toward him. Now they stood nose to nose. “All right, you’ll get your shot. We’ll go mano a mano, winner take all. But not now.”

  “Why not? This seems like a good time to me.”

  “We got business to take care of first.” Emilio pointed at the hillside. “It don’t matter if those pendejos up there are Latin Kings or white boys. We can’t let them go blowing up shit in our territory.”

  Paco furrowed his brow, confused. He clearly didn’t want to postpone this confrontation, but at the same time he couldn’t ignore a call to arms. After a few seconds he stepped backward and unclenched his hands. But he kept his eyes locked on Emilio’s. “This ain’t over. You know that, right?”

  Emilio nodded. Then he turned to Carlos and the others. They still stood in a circle, wide-eyed and gaping. “What you waiting for?” he yelled at them. “Go get los destornilladores.”

  One of the rules Emilio had learned from the Original Trinitarios was to never carry your weapons until you needed them. If you weren’t carrying, the police couldn’t charge you with anything when they stopped and frisked you. But that meant you had to stash your weapons in a place that was well-hidden but accessible. Emilio and his boys had chosen a hiding place near the base of the hill, underneath a rock as big as a couch cushion. It was close to the stone overhangs where some of the park’s homeless people slept, but the gang usually had no trouble shooing the bums away. They were easy to scare.

  Working together, Carlos and Miguel lifted the heavy rock while Diego reached for the bag that contained los destornilladores. They were ordinary flat-head screwdrivers that had been sharpened to a point. Diego handed them out, giving the biggest one to Emilio, who wrapped the handle of his screwdriver in a handkerchief. The cloth helped you keep your grip on the thing, even if your hand got sweaty or slick with blood.

  Once they were ready they started climbing the hillside, quickly and quietly. Emilio took the lead, guiding his boys toward where he thought the firecracker had exploded. His memory wasn’t perfect, though, and it was a big hill. There were hundreds of trees, and they all looked the same in the dark. He stopped every few minutes to listen to the woods, hoping to hear footsteps or a snatch of conversation, but he had no luck. He was probably in the wrong place altogether. Or maybe the white boys had already left the park. This was a waste of time. His homeboys grumbled behind him, muttering curses as they made their way up the slope.

  And then, after maybe fifteen minutes, Emilio spotted someone. It was a white boy in a Yankees jacket, about twenty yards away on the hillside. He stood in the middle of a clearing with his arms spread wide, as if he were about to take a dive down the slope. But his head was tilted upward and he seemed to be staring at the night sky.

  Emilio gave a hand signal to his homeboys, ordering them to take cover. Then he crouched in the weeds and studied the white boy, whose face was lit by the moonlight. The first thing he noticed was that it was a man, not a boy. He was more than six feet tall and at least forty years old, with black stubble on his face and scraggly, graying hair. His jacket was a mess, splattered with mud, and his pants and sneakers were even worse. He was a homeless guy, one of the drunks who slept on the hill. Emilio felt like an idiot. He and his boys had gone to all this trouble just to chase a goddamn bum.

  But then he noticed something else. In the clearing behind the guy was a wide muddy hole. The surrounding trees and rocks were splashed with mud. And at the center of the hole was a heap of wet earth, big
enough to sit on. This homeless pendejo was playing with firecrackers. He must’ve buried one in that pile of mud and then lit its fuse.

  It was very fucking strange. Drunks spent their money on booze, not firecrackers. This guy had probably found the bombas somewhere in the woods, or maybe in one of the park’s trash cans. Either way, the explosives really belonged to the Trinitarios. The gang didn’t own the streets anymore, but the park was theirs, and so was everything in it. If this guy had any more bombas, the Trinitarios had every right to take that shit away from him.

  And besides, Emilio liked to blow things up. Setting off firecrackers in the woods would be a lot more entertaining than getting into a stupid brawl with Paco.

  Emilio waved to his boys and they crept toward him. Paco hung back, keeping his distance from the others. It was an awkward situation for him—he still had to take orders from Emilio—and he wasn’t happy about it. He avoided looking at Emilio and stared at the homeless guy instead. The bum had dropped his arms by now and turned to the left, facing the Bronx.

  “I’ve seen that asshole before,” Paco whispered. “Lying on the benches.”

  Luis nodded. “Yeah, he drinks forties. And he smells like shit.”

  Emilio pointed his screwdriver at the guy. “Don’t worry, we won’t get too close to him. We’re just gonna take his bombas. Come on, follow me.”

  He stood up and headed for the clearing, with his homeboys right behind. Now that they knew there were no Latin Kings lurking in the woods, there was no need to be quiet. Miguel and Diego started chattering and Carlos guffawed. When the bum heard them he spun around so fast he nearly toppled over. That made Carlos laugh even harder.

  Emilio stepped into the clearing and smiled at the homeless dude. “Hola, old man. You been making some noise, eh?”

  The bum was scared shitless. His mouth hung open and his hands trembled. Now that Emilio was up close he realized he’d also seen this guy in the park. He wasn’t one of the crazy drunks, the assholes who shouted all the time and drooled into their beards. He was one of the harmless shuffling drunks who kept their heads down and scuttled away at the first sign of trouble. He took a shaky step backward, his eyes fixed on the screwdriver in Emilio’s hand. He glanced to the left and right, looking for an escape route, but Carlos and Miguel were on one side of him and Luis and Diego on the other. Paco came up behind the guy and shouted, “Yah!” to startle him, and the bum’s face turned into a fucking Halloween mask. Jagged wrinkles etched his forehead and dark semicircles cupped his eyes.

  Emilio couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. He was just a helpless wreck who stank of malt liquor. But then the guy’s eyes darted downward, focusing on the heap of mud at the center of that wide hole. He was hiding something there, no doubt about it. He’d probably buried some more firecrackers in the mud and was getting ready to light them. Emilio tested this theory by moving toward the mud pile. The bum got nervous and started clenching and unclenching his hands. With a desperate look on his face, he stepped in front of Emilio. “Please,” he rasped. “Leave me alone.”

  “Relax, amigo.” Emilio smiled at him again. “We just stopped by to say hello.”

  “I don’t have any money.” He turned out the empty pockets of his pants, which were caked with mud and falling apart. “See? I have nothing.”

  “You sure about that? You don’t have any more firecrackers?”

  “What?” The bum scrunched his face. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the mess you made here. Look at this place.” Emilio pointed his screwdriver at the mud-spattered trees. “And now you’re getting ready to do it again, right? You’re gonna blow up some more shit with those firecrackers you found.”

  The guy gave him a blank look. He was either playing dumb or zoning out. Then he shook his head vigorously, and his long greasy hair swung back and forth. “No, no. I don’t have any firecrackers.”

  Emilio took another step toward the heap of mud and pointed his screwdriver at it. “So there’s nothing hidden in this mud pie you made? You don’t mind if I check, do you?”

  The bum winced and lowered his head. His wrinkles deepened as he stared at the ground. “Please,” he muttered. “Don’t take it.”

  The guy looked so heartbroken, Emilio felt sorry for him again. He wondered if he should just let the bum keep the damn firecrackers. But Emilio couldn’t change his mind now, not in front of his homeboys. They were watching from the sidelines, enjoying the show. The homeless guy was the funniest thing they’d seen all night. Paco jabbed the air with his screwdriver, threatening to poke the guy in the butt, and the others hooted. They were so amused that Emilio worried they might actually cut the guy. The best strategy, he decided, was to grab the firecrackers and tell the bum to get lost. Then he and his boys would find something to blow up—maybe one of the park benches?—and let the homeless guy go back to the business of drinking himself to death.

  “All right, let’s see what you got here.” Emilio bent over the mud pile. He knew this wasn’t too smart—if the firecrackers exploded, the blast would hit him right in the face—so he did it quick. Bracing himself, he extended his screwdriver and scraped off the top layer of mud.

  He expected to see an M-80 or something similar, a two-inch-long cylinder of flash powder wrapped in red cardboard, with a long green fuse dangling from one end. But instead his screwdriver’s sharpened point clinked against something metallic. Bending lower, he brushed away the mud clods and squinted at the thing, which was big and black and round. It was a bomba, all right. It was the real fucking thing, like something you’d shoot out of a cannon.

  Emilio jumped backward. If that thing went off, it would scatter his ass all over the hillside. Shouting “Corre!” at his boys, he leapt out of the muddy hole and ran back to the edge of the clearing. The other Trinitarios followed his lead, but the homeless guy didn’t move an inch. He just stood there by the hole, staring at the ground.

  Now Emilio was pissed. He pointed his screwdriver at the bum. “Hey, pendejo! Where did you find that thing?”

  The guy didn’t answer. He didn’t even raise his head. What the hell was wrong with him? Either he had a death wish or he knew the bomba wouldn’t explode. Or maybe it wasn’t a bomba after all. Now that Emilio had a chance to take a second look at it, he was starting to wonder. It looked more like a bowling ball, except a few inches bigger.

  Overcoming his fear, Emilio returned to the middle of the clearing, grabbed the collar of the bum’s Yankees jacket and pulled him away from the hole. Although the guy was just as tall as Emilio and outweighed him by at least thirty pounds, he didn’t resist. He let Emilio drag him across the clearing.

  “I asked you a question, maldito cabrón!” Emilio let go of his jacket. “Where did you find it?”

  The bum grimaced. Oddly, he didn’t seem scared anymore. He furrowed his brow and narrowed his eyes. “I found it right there. I covered it with mud to hide it.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a satellite.” He lifted a grimy finger and pointed upward. “It fell out of the sky.”

  Emilio stared at the bum’s face, which was tense and quivering, full of emotion. The guy was out of his head. The malt liquor had rotted his brain.

  The bum lowered his hand and pointed at the big black ball in the mud. “I found it, so I should get the finder’s fee. That’s only fair. I deserve the money.”

  Emilio shook his head. It was no use talking to the guy. He was off in fantasyland. Emilio would have to figure this out on his own.

  He turned away from the bum and looked at the ball. It was so smooth and polished it glittered in the moonlight, even with all the mud on it. Maybe it’s some kind of fancy sculpture, he thought. Maybe the bum had stolen it from an antiques store or some rich guy’s living room. It might be worth a few bucks at a pawnshop, maybe.

  Emilio stepped into the hole once more to take a closer look at the thing. The bum followed a couple of steps behind. “I found it,” he r
epeated in a louder voice. “You can’t take it away. It belongs to me.”

  His craziness was making him stupid. He’d moved within a yard of Emilio and it looked like he might take a swing at him. Emilio gave the bum a hard look, but before he could say anything Paco came forward and stepped between them. The boy raised his sharpened screwdriver and pointed it at the bum’s face.

  “You want to make trouble, pendejo?” Paco cocked his head and grinned. “You want to play rough?”

  Amazingly, the bum didn’t back down. He looked Paco in the eye. “Listen to me for a second. I’ll make a deal with you.”

  “A deal?”

  “I’ll give you half the money. I can get a lot of money from the people who own this thing.”

  Paco snorted. He glanced at the other Trinitarios, who’d moved in closer to follow the conversation. “You believe this shit? The asshole says he’ll give us half.”

  Frowning, the bum turned away from Paco and appealed to the others. “Just listen, all right? If you try to sell it on your own, you won’t get nearly as much. And you can’t pick up the thing anyway. It’s still too hot. It’ll burn your hands.”

  The homeboys laughed at him. Carlos mimicked the bum’s raspy voice, saying, “Just listen, just listen.” Meanwhile, Emilio bent over the black ball again and stretched his fingers toward its surface. The bum was right: the thing was hotter than a radiator. He must’ve heated it somehow, maybe by lighting a fire under it. Emilio couldn’t understand why he’d do such a thing. Everything about the guy was crazy.

  When Emilio looked up he noticed that Paco had edged closer to the bum. The tip of his screwdriver gleamed in the moonlight. The boy tightened his grip on the screwdriver’s handle and tensed his biceps. He was going to start cutting the guy unless Emilio did something soon.

  “Hey, Paco!” Emilio called. “Stop playing with that pendejo and give me your bandanna.”

  Paco stared at him, uncomprehending. “What?”

  Emilio removed his own bandanna from his head. “I need to cover my hands to pick up the thing.” He slipped his screwdriver into his pocket and started wrapping the green fabric around his left hand, covering the palm and fingers. “Come on, muchacho, I need your bandanna too.”