by JJ Flowers
A quarter moon rose in the night sky. Nearby, the orange point of Mars hung in the velvet space, all of it surrounded by a thousand tiny pinpoints of light. The air felt mild for spring, poised on the edge of summer’s warming. He quietly shut the door before slipping into the darkness.
He kept to the sides of the modest homes lining the cobblestone street, moving cautiously, stealthily toward the plaza. If only he had Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak. His curly dark hair, dark jeans, and black sweatshirt and sneakers blended into the shadows, but anyone looking might spot him.
Only the bass of the banditos’ music interrupted the eerie quiet. He reached the last house before the shops began. Normally the bright yellow adobe house boomed with the boisterous noise of three generations of Rodriguezes, but now stood as still and dark as Espy’s café and bakery tucked alongside the petro station in the plaza. The restaurant sign for Florendo’s Ts—the cantina’s only competition in town—hung lifeless over the patio. Juan Pablo could barely make out the outrageous claims in the dim light: Voted best Tortillas, Tacos, and Tequila in Mexico. Mario was alternatively amused and infuriated by his competition’s blatant exagerando. The chairs and tables were piled up six feet in a corner, covered in canvas in case of rain.
He made no sound as he continued to the petro station.
Juan Pablo slipped behind the side of the building and pressed against the wall, hidden in the shadows. The station’s lights were off, and the little store inside was closed and locked, despite the now empty shelves. He started past the restrooms and as he did so, his foot brushed a strange, unfamiliar lump. He stumbled, washed in a hot panic as he righted himself. For several tense moments he held perfectly still, understanding the English metaphor frozen with fear for the first time.
Collecting his wits, his gaze finally fell to his feet to ascertain what the small lump was.
Tajo’s body. Poor, poor brave Tajo.
They shot him dead. Why would they kill a little dog? If they would snatch such a small life for no good reason, what might they do to the rest of them?
Terrifying images answered the question.
Save Rocio. Nothing else mattered.
The music’s volume rose suddenly. Like an alarm bell, he forced himself to move. He at last came to the other side of the building, now close enough to see.
Men gathered in front of a truck, passing a bottle of tequila and two odd-shaped pipes between themselves. Machine guns hung recklessly from their shoulders. Rows of shiny bullets belted their waists. Laughter erupted but he couldn’t make out the words beneath the blaring song “Cuerno de Chivo,” or “Goat’s Horn,” an awful song about the love for a rifle.
This was not his beloved Beethoven or Bach or Haydn.
The Torres family had left Mario a gun, Rocio had told him. Just in case, but what folly that seemed now.
One man, one gun against a dozen machine guns.
A man, his skin darkened with tattoos, mentioned the foco wearing off and needing more. “First,” he managed before a wheezing inhale, “Alimenta a la máquina.” Feed the machine.
“Mas? You loco, Rencor,” another laughed, as he took the cigarette.
The last year he went to school, before he and Rocio started at the online Khan Academy, Juan Pablo’s teacher had shown a slide show about the dangers of this drug called foco. English translation: crystal meth. People became hyped up and crazy as it first stole your good sense, next your money and morals, and finally, your teeth. His teacher said people who were addicted to foco had been known to murder in order to get high.
Juan Pablo had asked his abuela Why? Why did people choose this craziness?
There are many reasons, but they all stem from people becoming separated from love. People find themselves sad and without hope. Futures without hope are empty places, frightening because of it. These drugs appear on their paths, and like all material things, as an illusion of happiness. Desperate, they grab them and cling greedily. But soon they discover the chimera has been replaced by an ever-widening pit of despair and misery. A very few find the strength to climb back to the light, but most of these poor souls fall into the darkness.
They looked like any gathering of friends on a street corner after a long day’s work. Perfectly ordinary, except for the tattoos and guns slung over their shoulders. And the shiny gold jewelry hanging from tattooed necks, the diamonds decorating their fingers. Still, they all wore a uniform of black pants or jeans and red or black shirts or sleeveless white T-shirts.
Nature pairs black and red to warn us, he remembered his abuela once said to Leonardo, who she had many years tutored in herbs and medicines to prepare him for medical school. Whenever you see it, be careful . . .
He abruptly found himself staring at the shortest man. Stocky and muscular, he wore only a vest, as if to show off his physique. In other circumstances Rocio, he knew, would have made fun of such a person. Look at my muscles, she would pretend to preen. I am Mr. Peacock. He and Rocio would have laughed at this fun.
Ropes of various lengths hung from his belt like trophies. A shorter gold one stood out against the black pants, but what the heck was it?
Another group of men sat at a table on the cantina’s patio. An enormous man stood protectively behind them with his ear to a phone. Probably a bodyguard, the way his gaze swept the area, as if his eyes refused to settle on any one thing. A loose-fitting black dress shirt over black trousers draped his massive shape. A bear housed in human form. He had a large round head, as bald as a soccer ball, and almost as big. His puffy face squeezed his small, dark eyes. It was impossible to imagine this man smiling.
The festive lanterns strung across the patio looked out of place.
He needed to get closer.
A simple plan formed in his mind. As soon as the banditos left or fell asleep, he would find Rocio under the bed and escort her to their hideout in the meadow. Even if the men found him and his abuela, Rocio would be safe there.
It was not a good plan, but it was the best he could do for now.
Juan Pablo slipped quietly around the back of the gas station. He came around the other side, close enough to hear the words of the men gathered at the truck. Laughter and smoke and the horrible music greeted him, the assaults of sounds no louder than the furious thud of his heart.
At first he thought they talked about braids, how there would be no more or trophies from this ghost town. They used coarse words for women.
Braids, trophies . . . Juan Pablo’s gaze returned to the ropes hanging from the Peacock’s belt.
These were not ropes, but hair. Girl’s braided hair. Just like ill-fated animals’ heads on a trophy hunter’s wall, no girl had willingly parted with her braids.
He thought of Rocio’s long hair.
He sucked in his next breath with the terror of it.
Get Rocio out of here.
Memories flooded his consciousness, warning him of the stakes here.
Almost every day he and Rocio hiked to the meadow blooming with a million golden creatures searching for a place in the sun. He’d play the piece he was learning while Rocio danced around him, butterflies decorating the dark hair like living flowers. The girl flew round and round, Rocio’s laughter singing with the music.
They learned how to stop time with their joy.
Following his abuela’s suggestion, he and Rocio had built an Indian tepee in the forest just beyond the meadow. No one else but his abuela knew about it. The tepee became their secret, a private tent where they passed the endless hours of childhood playing imaginary games: Indians—Rocio was the chief and he was the brave; hospital—Rocio was the doctor and he the patient; school—Rocio was the teacher and he the student; and the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—finally, he was Harry Potter and Rocio was Hermione. But lately, as they began outgrowing imaginary games, they hiked up to the tepee just to read good books like The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and The Old Man and the Sea, but also The Fault in Our Stars and The Hunger
Games. For these interruptions of their normal life, they had begun to abandon their constant arguing, and simply lay side to side and head to head. Without ever speaking of it, they both understood that something new had slipped between them, something that waited like the butterflies for the sun . . .
He released his breath all at once, tense with a rising dread.
They would soon leave, he told himself. Rocio was hidden and safe. No one would find her.
The giant bodyguard bent over and whispered to a man at the table. This man must be el amo de la droga, the boss. He wore a gray felt hat and leather vest over a black T-shirt. Weird pink sunglasses, perched on his nose, failed to hide his droopy eyes. Like he was half asleep and not too bright to begin with. The boss man held up a hand as he removed a phone from his pocket.
The music stopped. The other men fell silent.
“Amigo,” he said into the phone after a minute. “Sí, this is Carlos . . . Ha! The legions of dead do not concern us.” He chuckled. “We have the best químicos this side of the Rio Grande.” Listening, he knocked back a shot of tequila.
Juan Pablo grasped the meaning of the man’s words. The cartels were said to have huge vats of acid that destroy bodies, leaving no trace of a human being. Thousands upon thousands of people had disappeared this way.
The saddest thing is loved ones not knowing, his abuela had said. Their hearts wage a battle between hope and grief, which eventually becomes the darkest despair.
He cautiously peered out again.
The boss man Carlos wore a creepy smile, as if the smirk came with murderous thoughts. His abuela always said people’s deeds were etched on their face. Kindness is written there, but cruelty, too. He now knew what she meant. The man’s face spelled the word mean. Not a normal mean, but the kind of mean that was for no reason. English word: malice.
“Our crew will clean up when it is done,” Carlos continued into his phone. “Armies disappear, trust me on this. That’s right. You don’t want to let us down. My brother has no patience these days. In fact he has hired . . . the Hunter”—he pronounced the word slowly, for emphasis—“to take out our garbage. Ah”—his smirk appeared again—“now you are afraid. Good. Then get it done.” He returned his phone to the pocket.
Juan Pablo was surprised to see that the mention of the Hunter held the awesome power to, if not frighten, then agitate these men. “It is true?” the tattooed man Rencor asked. “Your brother has hired the Hunter?”
Carlos nodded in a pretense of indifference. “He has been useful to us lately. He took out those four Texas border agents who were stealing from us. Then, that new pandilla that was causing problems.”
“Sí, when he has a reason,” one of the men said, disgruntled. A fist-sized upside-down cross studded with diamonds hung over his black T-shirt, catching the light. “If the Hunter enjoyed killing, but no, he might be looking at you across a room, and boom.”
“Sí, sí,” the Peacock nodded, nervous or maybe excited, Juan Pablo couldn’t tell. “Once at a party, he killed six people. Big customers, too. And afterward he just sat there, red boots resting on the table, smoking his cigarro.”
“That was maldito loco.” The tattooed man Rencor nodded. “No one had the balls to ask why?”
An odd-looking man sitting across from Carlos spoke next, his words seeming to have more weight than the others. “You can’t trust him.” Long hair was wrapped tightly on the crown of his head like an old woman, making his already long face seem even longer. A line-thin mustache sat above a small mouth. “La mitad de la raza.” He spat on the patio. “I don’t trust any Americano, even half-breeds like him.”
Rencor nodded as he leaned toward Carlos. “One time Salvador sent the Hunter to clean up. It was a big job, so Salvador sent a crew of five with him. The Hunter said he didn’t need help, but Salvador insisted, for safety. And then no one came back. Sí, the mess was no more, but neither was the crew.” He locked gazes with his boss. “Remember, Carlos?”
Juan Pablo tried to imagine this Hunter, the man with the red boots, but he could not. How could there be a man worse than these men?
Even Carlos appeared uncomfortable with the subject. “He gets the job done. No questions. Finito, done, everyone is muerto; the problem is no more.” He looked around, as if for a distraction, just as Mario appeared carrying a bottle of tequila.
Even Juan Pablo saw Mario’s fear across the distance.
Which was what Carlos lasered in on. “Any mujer hiding here, old man?”
Mario’s eyes widened. He shook his head. “No, no.”
For a long minute Juan Pablo saw Mario through Carlos’s predatory gaze. In his sixtieth decade, short and heavy, Mario was no match for even one of these men. The old man’s large belly spoke of his easy life of few worries. Rocio, your abuelo, bless his soul, his abuela warned recently, as she concocted a potion for his bad knees and weak heart. He needs to stop eating like a barn animal and start eating like a hummingbird or I fear even my medicine will fail. Mario looked as soft and scared as an old rabbit caught in sight of circling hawks.
“Look at that.” Carlos first smiled, but then took on a tone of disgust. “What kind of man cannot hide his fear?” He motioned to his bodyguard. “Dimi, search the apartment upstairs.”
Dios mío. Juan Pablo pressed harder against the wall.
The giant man headed into the apartment above the cantina where Rocio hid.
Would he find her? Be still, Rocio. Hold very still . . .
Juan Pablo heard the elephant boots pounding up the stairs. Maddeningly, the rancorous talk of the men drowned out any more sound. Several tense moments passed, until—
Rocio’s sudden scream electrified the air. The men fell silent for a minute. From upstairs a masculine grunt greeted the girl’s terrified protests and the brief futile sounds of a scuffle. The clap of the boots going down.
The men erupted into collective laughter as the big man appeared with Rocio over his shoulder. Her fists still pounded his wide back, but she might have been hitting air for all the effect. He set her on her feet and stood behind her as if presenting a present. Rocio wore her favorite jeans and purple Winnie the Pooh T-shirt, a long-ago gift from a cousin who actually went to the Magic Kingdom. Her long hair fell in tangled disarray down her back, her bright eyes, changed with fear, looked out from beneath the sharp line made by her bangs. The big man’s hands dug into her slim shoulders.
Seeing the men at the table, she shook her head slightly, listening to the crude comments her appearance solicited.
Gun pointing, Mario came out from the kitchen in protest, but stopped in an instant. As if conjured in a magician’s trick, four guns pointed at Mario. The old man’s gun fell with a loud clamor to the floor. He slowly held up his arms in surrender. A bandito rushed forward and claimed his gun.
“She is my nieta. She is only a girl.”
“Ah, but she is a pretty little thing, no?”
“Ripe for the plucking . . .”
“Too young for my tastes,” Carlos said, disappointment in his tone.
“But I love the virgins.” This was muttered by the Peacock, and he waved one of the braids like a snake wagging its tongue.
Carlos laughed with his men at this. “That virginity is worth more than you make in a month, amigo.”
“I will pay for it,” he answered, cheerfully. “I am very good at breaking them in.” Now he made a crude gesture with his hips.
“Hmm. Any other bids for the treat?”
Numbers were shouted in an obscene bidding war.
As if encouraged by his men’s awful enthusiasm, Carlos’s droopy eyes came to rest on the girl. “It looks as if I will first make sure this shiny piece is worth such a sum.”
Juan Pablo felt dizzy with sickness.
Carlos snapped his fingers, ordering Rocio tied up.
The bodyguard laughed and tossed her over his shoulder again. Just like that, he carried Rocio away upstairs. The girl’s fists pummeled his bac
k and she kicked for all she was worth, but to no avail.
A loud buzzing filled Juan Pablo’s ears, as if to block out the obscenities that followed this show.
“First, food, grandpa. Get some food out here pronto.”
Mario stood in a terrified stupor of helplessness and desperation.
A gun fired close to Mario’s feet.
He stumbled back into the kitchen. The men laughed uproariously.
With his heart pounding furiously, the queer ringing growing louder in his ears, Juan Pablo closed his eyes where he stood, trying to think of how to save her, the girl that he loved more than life itself.
The Sky People will always help you in a time of need, but you must always ask first.
Abuela, he had laughed, how can the spirits help me? Help anyone? If they are made of light?
O, many ways. If you just show them a problem, they will show you the solution.
But how?
It is different each time. Sometimes the answer appears in a dream. Or, a message. Often they will direct your mind to the solution that is right in front of you.
As he had grown older, Juan Pablo had gone through a period of doubting the reality of his abuela’s Sky People and he had often teased her about them. Abuela, why don’t you ask the Sky People for a large-screen TV so we don’t have to watch these science shows on my iPad. His abuela loved science; she was a serious consumer of science programs.
O, Juan Pablo, for someone so smart, you are sometimes very foolish. I’ve told you a hundred times, the Sky People are not like a fairy godmother or Santa Claus. They don’t answer wish lists like that . . . She became distracted by a bluebird perched on a sunflower outside the window. Not usually anyway . . .
Those last words, not usually, served as motivation to test the old woman’s beliefs when Joshua Bell, the world’s best violinist, came to Mexico City last year. Though he had nothing to lose, he felt as ridiculous as a kitten battling a pesky moth. Nothing happened at first, but then he hadn’t really expected anything to happen. Then . . . three days later, someone, probably a rich American, left a $100 bill in his violin case as he played in the plaza for the tourists. This windfall had bought the best night of his and Rocio’s life: a long bus ride to Mexico City, a wonderful dinner at the restaurant of one of Abuela’s friends, and the performance of a lifetime. Since that nice bit of magic, he had asked the Sky People for help many times, but only, as his abuela advised, for guidance with music. He still wasn’t completely sure he believed in his abuela’s Sky People, but somehow, whether it was a trick of his mind or no, he did always receive help just when he needed it most.
