The sharp-dressed one in the zoot suit – the Honcho – came out to join the Kid on the porch. The over-sized one in the cowboy hat – the one named Oso – came out with him.
Oso: the same monster that had given Speedy such a bad time when he’d knocked on the drug house door before. The man that had the same kind of ice-cooled brain and heart that Speedy did – the real threat in that house.
A girl walked up the porch steps toward the men, exuding a false enthusiasm covering deep resignation. The sharp dressed Honcho said something he seemed to consider amusing to the Kid, who responded with an apologetic look.
The sharp dressed one put an arm around the girls’ waist. The Kid and the giant Mex Oso followed their Honcho as he herded the girl through the front door and inside, the Honcho still with that eternal strut to his walk even while keeping his groin pressed to the girl’s ass.
“That one ain’t shit,” Speedy observed to Fat Bob, jerking his head after the swaggering clothes horse.
Speedy switched his gaze to Oso’s huge, receding back. “But that right-hand man of his is all the way trouble.”
“I’ll take him out like yesterday’s trash,” Fat Bob promised.
Chapter 36
After he went inside with Oso and Beau, Esteban headed straight to his room and commenced counting his rosary, still trying to make his peace. Beau and Oso had their latest puta in the master bedroom; they were either tag-teaming or double-stuffing her. Esteban couldn’t be sure without going over there and opening the door, but he’d often heard them bragging about it so he just assumed.
Esteban could hear the slapping of flesh against flesh. He heard the rhythmic cries of the girl (whether of pleasure or of pain or a whore’s simulation of either, he didn’t know which and would never ask).
They brought in many putas. Beau had brought one in a few years before for Esteban to lose his cherry into, actually.
“Be a man, hermanito,” Beau had said, he and Oso laughing as they closed Esteban’s bedroom door behind the woman, trapping him with her.
Part of Esteban had been excited, but he’d been afraid, too – he’d wished he was anywhere else but here.
“How old are you, Esteban?” the puta had asked, pulling a cigarette and some matches from her patent leather purse as she sat down on the edge of his bed. “That’s your name, right? Esteban?”
“Si, that’s right, Esteban. I’m thirteen.”
Esteban stood in the far corner of the bedroom, unable to look at her. Her overpoweringly delicious perfume wafted into his nostrils with every breath he took – she smelled like she was drenched in lilacs.
She lit her smoke and taken a deep drag, waving the match out and tossing it in the general direction of his wastebasket. “C’mere Esteban,” she said, patting the mattress next to where she sat.
She saw his eyes darting back and forth like those of an animal at bay, and she laughed. “It’s all right, kid, we’re not gonna do nothing.”
Esteban was startled, unsure whether to be relieved or disappointed. “Really?”
“Really. C’mon and sit.”
Esteban sat next to her gingerly, close enough to reach out and touch her if he’d had the nerve to. He felt the warmth of her body radiating out to him; he could feel his heart beating strongly in his chest.
She took another drag off her smoke. “What’s your brother doing, bringing me here?”
Esteban felt like he could tell her anything; he wasn’t afraid of her at all. “He brought you here because . . . I’ve never done it before – you know, with a girl. He says it’s time to make me a man.”
Esteban had looked at her, praying for some sign of understanding, but waiting to see her sneer and laugh like Beau always did.
She’d looked right back at him and nodded without cracking a smile. “So he’s like, forcing you into it. That always sucks.”
She ground out her cigarette on the sole of her clog shoe and stood, tossing the butt after the match. “C’mon. We’ve been in here long enough time. You would’ve finished pretty quick anyways.”
Esteban stood too, with guilty quickness. “You won’t tell him . . . ?”
She grinned. “Don’t worry. As far as he’ll know, you lost your cherry into me today.”
“Thanks,” Esteban blurted gratefully. “I think you’re very pretty. And nice, too.”
She laughed. “Yeah, that’s me. I’ve got a heart of gold, too.”
She’d been so kind that now Esteban didn’t want her to leave. “Do you think that – you know, if you’re ever in this neighborhood again that – maybe you could come see me? Just to talk, I mean. We could be friends?”
Esteban knew instantly that he had surprised her, deeply. Her eyes widened, and one hand flew to her throat. Then the moment passed.
“I don’t think that’d be a good idea, Esteban,” she said. “But if I’m ever passing through, I’ll give you a wave.”
“He was great,” she said as she swayed against Beau, reached out to paw Oso’s lapel like she wanted to start up with him now.
Beau scowled at her, thrust her away so she staggered back a few steps. Then he turned his back on her and grabbed Esteban by the arm, hard enough to hurt.
“You never talk to a whore, after,” Beau explained, as if the woman wasn’t even there.
The puta betrayed no reaction, the shutters slammed down in her eyes. But as she left her lips were frozen in a flat smile Esteban could tell was false.
It was only after she was gone that Esteban had realized his wallet was missing, and that the little puta had swiped Oso’s and Beau’s wallets too. Although Esteban had to keep his face expressionless the whole time Beau raged (swearing horrible vengeance on her if she ever fell into his clutches again), it had been one of the happiest days in Esteban’s life . . .
“Get your ass in here, Steban, you maricon,” his brother yelled, bringing Esteban back to the present.
But Esteban just kept praying, counting his rosary beads as he invoked God’s guidance for his next step, the one whose inevitability he was trying so fervently to deny.
When Beau and Oso were done with their latest three-way, Beau came into Esteban’s room without knocking and sat next to him on the bed. Right where the nice puta had sat, actually.
Esteban glanced sidelong at Beau, considering how nattily his big brother was dressed, as always: If his brother had so much contempt for women, and lay only with whores, why did he put so much effort into his appearance? Why did he care what women thought of him if they were going to do whatever he ordered and paid for anyway?
Beau gestured at all the pictures of the Saints that Esteban had covering his wall.
“Such a stern looking bunch,” Beau said as if musing, shaking his head in a parody of reverence.
Beau stood and studied the ornate crucifix over Esteban’s bed. “And Him,” Beau said. “He seems muy distracted by this whole ‘crown of thorns, spikes through the hands and feet’ thing, eh?”
Beau smiled mockingly as Esteban resumed mumbling his prayers and counting his beads, trying to pretend Beau wasn’t there.
“The Man has enough problems of His own without bothering him with your complaints, hermanito,” Beau pointed out.
Beau picked up the painted plaster statue of the Virgin Mary that Esteban had standing on his end table, swiveling her around and studying her from various angles.
“But this one,” Beau said, nodding as if in approval. “This one, I can understand why so many would pray to her. She seems a little more likely to care when one is somewhere far from familia, squirting arterial blood into the gutter.”
Beau sat next to Esteban on the bed again.
“You know I love you hermanito,” Beau said, his face softening. “You’re all I have, and everything I’ve ever done has been for the both of us.”
Esteban paused in his prayers and looked at Beau, wondering furtively if perhaps it was not too late.
“Give me a kiss, Steban,” Beau orde
red.
Esteban obeyed, leaning over as shyly as a girl on her first date to plant a little peck on his big brother’s cheek. He reminded himself he would’ve walked through fire for Beau once.
“Bitch,” Beau said.
He laughed as Esteban flushed crimson.
“Padre Trejo is a liar and you are a fool,” Beau said, sure that Esteban’s face was red from embarrassment only, knowing he still owned his little brother body and soul. “I could come with you to the Church and bob and dip, pray to these statues or flick holy water or whatever. But why?”
Esteban studied him, finally ready to admit that his big brother was the Beast. And as long as Esteban belonged to his brother then he was part of the Beast as well, wasn’t he?
“We’re all going to hell,” Beau said fiercely to Esteban. “You’ll never get out from under my thumb, and we’ll always be together even in the warm place.”
37
After their last stakeout Fat Bob watched Speedy the whole trip back to Alameda, though Bob tried to act like he was only watching the road. Bob thought about how much Speedy and Carmel focused on each other, at how they fit when they were together and how right they were as a couple.
Fat Bob finally (reluctantly) acknowledged that maybe Carmel and Speedy were two of a kind, and that it might be safe for Bob to allow Carmel into Speedy’s life. Even as unimaginative as he usually kept himself, Fat Bob also envisioned what it might cost him if he kept fighting Carmel’s presence enough to actually irk Speedy.
After he dropped Speedy off at Carmel’s Bob rolled on to T.J. and Sergio’s pad and checked to see if there was any beer left in the fridge. There was.
Willy played with that damned cat of his as Fat Bob chugged his beer like there was no tomorrow. It was actually pretty funny to watch the kitten fetch for Willy like it thought it was a dog.
When Bob went to leave, Little Willy asked him, “Where you headed?”
He was looking at Fat Bob kind of funny, almost like he suspected something. Almost like he cared.
Feeling good that he was finally pulling the wool over someone’s eyes, Fat Bob replied, “Just tell Speedy I went to take out the trash.”
Bob drove his sister’s Valiant to West Oakland. He had the radio tuned to KSOL 107.7; they were playing Heatwave’s ‘Groove Line.’
Fat Bob had been troubled for a while now by the debt he owed for turning his back on Willy. Bob had cogitated hard as he was able on how to make amends, and he’d finally made his decision.
And there’d be fringe benefits too, Bob thought, smiling and nodding his head to the music as he drove: Sometimes Speedy’s bland self-assurance got on Fat Bob’s last nerve. Bob figured it was time to show Speedy that he wasn’t all that, and that Bob could take care of things his own self sometimes.
“Whoo! Whoo!” Bob hooted, mimicking a train horn along with the chorus of the song playing on the radio. He laughed: it was time to make Speedy’s jaw drop in amazement and awe. It was also just about time for that big Mexican to buy his daily 40-ouncers, and Bob didn’t want to keep the asshole waiting.
As Fat Bob pulled to the curb down the block from the drug house, he saw Oso crossing the street on his way to the liquor store. Bob hurried after, walking fast down the sidewalk to stare inside through the plate glass window spanning the front of the store. Oso was in there, paying for the day’s beer like he enjoyed pretending to be a gofer.
Bob faded over into the alley by the dumpster, lurking. He waited for a while but didn’t see the big Mexican walk across the alley entrance, so he finally walked up and peeked around the alley’s corner to have another look at the storefront.
“You want something with me, puto?” Oso boomed from behind him, from where Oso had doubled-timed around the block without Bob seeing.
Fat Bob’s skin crawled, but he forced himself to move slowly as he turned to face this threat he’d sworn to deal with.
When they were actually face to face, Oso wore a momentarily startled expression as he saw just how freakishly bulky Fat Bob was despite his short stature. On Bob’s end, he had to acknowledge that Oso was a lot bigger up close than from down the block sitting safe in a stakeout car.
Bob wasn’t overwhelmed by the assessment: he’d dropped bigger guys before, many times. It didn’t bother him either that he didn’t have a gun – hell, the Indian Kid hadn’t needed one, had he?
As if retreating, Bob backpedaled into the alley, trying to lead Oso out of sight of the drug house.
Oso took the bait and followed smiling, now arrogant and certain of his advantage. “Wait until Beau has a talk with you. What you want with us, white boy?”
“Up your ass with a splintery broomstick,” Fat Bob snarled.
Bob lunged in with his quickest jab, a move that most fools he’d fought never even saw until he was pulling it back to guard. Oso sidestepped the jab effortlessly and clothes-lined Bob across the throat with a forearm, knocking him down to slam on his back onto the alley floor.
Momentarily appalled by Oso’s brute speed, Fat Bob scrambled up to his feet, only to see Oso still standing in the alley entrance all nonchalant. He thought he had Bob trapped; he thought Bob would try to run away now like a punk bitch. He expected panic.
A blade snicked open in Oso’s hand. It was one of those serrated little folders the length of a man’s finger, and Bob disliked it more than if Oso had pulled a big Buck knife or a Bowie – it was the kind of inconspicuous, workman-like blade favored by someone who liked to get in close and do it right.
Fat Bob kept his eyes on the cold steel in Oso’s hand as the big Mexican closed in, waving his knife back and forth with mocking slowness. Bob faked high and then snapped a kick to the groinal region that the big Mexican couldn’t block in time – it landed solid and true, prompting Oso to hop up a little and roar in pain.
Encouraged, Bob danced back a step, then came in and slammed his most powerful punting kick into Oso’s groin again, nailing the big man in the alley apples one more time. Oso only grunted – but he was hunched over now, two testicular attacks in quick succession seeming to have gotten his complete attention.
Bob tried for one more nut shot to put the fool down for good, but this time Oso rotated his hip enough to block his kick and then stabbed Fat Bob in the top of the foot. The blade went through all the way, the tip poked out the sole of Bob’s sneaker, and Bob frantically yanked his foot free even as Oso ripped out the knife with a twist to maximize the damage.
The big Mexican giggled in a high-pitched little girl’s titter and watched the blood spurt from the top of Bob’s shoe as Fat Bob backpedaled away step by hobbling step. Bob could barely put his weight on the foot now, it hurt so bad already.
Oso closed in for the kill, extending the knife a little to try and put some fear in Bob’s heart. But Bob stepped in, slapped Oso’s wrist in the sweet spot with the heel of his hand, and the little knife went flying. Bob tried to follow up with a palm strike to the temple, but Oso leaned back far enough that all Bob hit was the brim of his cowboy hat – the cowboy hat frisbeed away to the side.
Fat Bob limped forward, slapping the heels of both hands at Oso’s upper body in a barrage of hooking palm strike blows. Oso covered up his head, but that wasn’t Bob’s target here: his palm strikes were nailing the bigger man’s arms and ribs and the Mexican was backing up with each blow, his arms flinching in nerve shock at each impact.
Bob’s breath was snarling through his clenched teeth in time with each blow. Spittle dripped from the corner of his mouth in a dense white foam, a keening whine came from his throat, and Oso seemed to be at the wrong end of a telescope in front of Bob. Framed and centered by Bob’s red tunnel vision, Oso was the only thing that existed for him in this moment.
Fat Bob was disabling Oso, a few more palm strikes would make his arms useless and put him at Bob’s mercy. But Oso managed to lumber back out of range before Bob’s blows could totally finish numbing up his arms. Oso appeared baffled, even though Bob’s cr
ippled foot prevented Fat Bob from catching him.
Oso dangled his tingling arms and shook them as if to get some feeling back into them, then looked down at his fallen knife lying on the alley floor next to the wall. He kept staring down at it intently until Bob looked down too, just to see what was so interesting about that little blade.
With one long howl Oso charged Fat Bob with his arms outstretched and grabbed Bob by the throat with both hands; the momentum of the heavier man’s charge carrying Bob back until he slammed into the alley’s dead end. Something sticking out of the wall stabbed into the small of Bob’s back as he hit – he felt something in his spine snap, and everything below his waist went numb.
With a scream, Bob rammed both his thumbs into the big Mexican’s eye sockets, all the way to the second knuckles on both of them. Fat Bob felt Oso’s eyeballs burst like grapes, and laughed at the sensation.
Oso howled again, a shrill note to his cry this time, and he slammed Bob into the wall once more. Fat Bob heard more things breaking inside his body as the unseen projection stabbed into his back again, but he couldn’t feel anything this time.
Fat Bob slid down the wall to lie paralyzed on his side as he watched Oso stagger around in circles, his howls getting more and more high-pitched. Both Oso’s hands were clutched to where his eyes had been, and blood poured down his cheeks from the concealed sockets.
Oso careened out into the street. There was the blast of an air horn, and a Mack semi-tractor hauling a piggyback-rig plowed into Oso and dragged him under, pulping him beneath the dual-drive-wheels and spitting out what was left of him in a rooster tail behind the truck as the frantic driver brought his big rig to a shuddering stop. The truck’s airbrakes hissed like a thousand angry alligators even as Oso’s various remnants thumped and rolled separately on the street behind.
Street Raised Page 30
