Night Vision df-18

by Randy Wayne White

  Victorino recognized the place immediately. It was Red Citrus trailer park. Hell, most of the Indigena who lived there, he’d personally arranged for their transportation to Florida and jobs, which meant that he owned those people.

  He’d probably also owned the woman the hand had belonged to.

  Victorino wasn’t the only one paying attention to the news lady. One by one, his Latin King pandilleros turned to look at him, not staring but letting him know they weren’t stupid.

  In the last few months, Victorino-the V-man-had mysteriously lost three, maybe four, chulas, and, goddamn it, it had to stop. Next, his homeys, his pandilleros hermanos, would do more than just stare at him. They would be laughing behind his back, making jokes that the jefe had lost his balls.

  Victorino had suspected for months who was stealing his girls. Maybe selling them, maybe starting a prostitution business, maybe killing them, too-not that he cared, not really. There were always plenty of immigrant girls to choose from. But he couldn’t tolerate a public display of disrespect, and the bony hand of one of his dead chulas on the six o’clock news was as public as it could get.

  This bullshit had to stop. Laziro had worked too hard building an organization, recruiting soldiers, disciplining his Indigena girls, sometimes even his pandilleros when a soldier got out of line.

  Yes, it had to stop. And Victorino knew exactly who to see to make that happen.

  He stood, dropped a fifty on the table from a turquoise money clip, then threw his homeys a hand sign before pushing his way to the door-two fingers creating devil horns. He paused for a moment to confirm the nods of deference he deserved. Then he drove his truck to Red Citrus trailer park, where he expected to find Harris Squires. The gringo giant was all muscle but no backbone. V-man had bullied the shit out of the dude more than once, so no problem. He was looking forward to cutting this white boy down to size.

  Instead, he found the dude’s hard-assed lady. Victorino had done business with her, but he had never tried to push her around because the puta was pretty scary herself.

  The woman’s name was Francis-something, but everyone called her Frankie. The woman was old, which was intimidating to begin with. Probably early forties, and she had muscles like a man from shooting up all that gear shit the couple made to sell. She had a hoarse steroid voice like a man’s, too, but everything else was all woman, particularly her store-bought double-D chichis, which she showed off braless, wearing muscle T-shirts and tube tops, probably trying to look like the muscle-magazine covers she’d posed for ten or fifteen years ago.

  Mix the lady’s chichis with a body covered with tats, dyed scarlet hair, pierced tongue and her nasty attitude, it was no wonder that even Latin King soldiers watched their behavior, and their asses, around Frankie. Harris Squires probably believed they showed the lady respect because of him and his muscles. But the dude was wrong.

  Frankie was the scary one, which is why even the V-man had never crossed her. How you gonna win, crossing a gringa ballbuster who was six feet tall with biceps the size of his own calves?

  That was about to change.

  Standing outside a new double-wide, Victorino got up on his toes, looking through a bedroom window into Squires’s private trailer. The place was a mess. Closet and drawers ransacked, clothes on the floor, a suitcase lying open on a bed that hadn’t been made, so at first the V-man thought, Shit! They’re already gone.

  It made sense they’d run off, and not just because of the six o’clock news. There were cops all over the place, which is why Victorino hadn’t turned into Red Citrus. Instead, he had parked his truck at the shrimp docks down the road near a rum bar. Then he had walked through what reminded him of a boat graveyard and jumped the fence, saw a squad car and two unmarked SUVs waiting by the garbage dumpsters, where, he guessed, they would soon be dragging the lake, looking for more pieces of the dead girl. Or maybe dead girls.

  Three of Victorino’s ladies had gone missing, so the timing was about right. It was a year ago that Squires and Frankie had started shooting porn up there at their fancy hunting camp, small-time at first, but then with a special video room with lights, a water bed and all kinds of weird black leather contraptions hanging from the ceiling.

  Neither Squires nor the redhead had appeared in any videos that Victorino had seen. But he’d heard they both got off behind the scenes, enjoying all kinds of kinky shit. The couple had taken a special interest in the V-man’s girls once they got seriously into the business. They’d hired more than a few Indigena as talent, and several Mexican cuties, too.

  About ten months ago, Victorino’s first chula had disappeared. After that, about every three months, he’d lose another one. The V-man had suspected them for a while, but bones inside the belly of that redneck asshole’s pet alligator was the final proof he needed. His pandilleros realized it, which is why they’d given him those looks at Hooters.

  Maybe the cops suspected, too. No wonder the pair had split before police started asking questions, so the V-man figured he’d missed them. But then he saw Frankie walk into the room, carrying an armful of folded clothes, a joint between her lips, curling smoke, and he felt better about the situation. The woman hadn’t finished packing, so maybe Harris was still here, too.

  No… the white giant was gone. Victorino confirmed it when he circled the trailer and saw that the dude’s big V-8 Roush Ford monster truck was gone. Squires wasn’t smart, but he wouldn’t have loaned that sweet ride to nobody.

  Victorino checked a couple more windows, then went to the door where a sign read NO ENTRY! in Spanish and English. He tested the knob and was surprised to find the door unlocked.

  A moment later, he was standing inside, seeing a big-screen TV and stereo equipment, then a kitchen that didn’t look like most kitchens, but that was no surprise to the V-man. On the counters were four big gas-burner plates, each with its own canister of propane. The shelves were lined with a mess of medical-looking shit, bottles of oil and chemicals, and measuring beakers that looked like they belonged in a lab. Which was exactly what this place was-a lab for cooking steroids.

  Jesus, just a spark, the whole place would explode like a bomb-maybe not a bad way to handle the situation, Victorino decided, if he could get Frankie and her muscle boy into the trailer at the same time.

  Victorino had seen a kitchen like this before, only a lot bigger. It was at Squires’s hunting camp, where Victorino and his pandilleros had partied themselves on a couple of occasions. They weren’t invited often, but, when they got the call, the V-man and a few of his boys made an appearance because it was a mutually beneficial business association.

  Squires and Frankie ran three trailer parks, which provided handy instant housing for newly arrived illegals. On the side, they shot porn, which the Latin Kings also made and marketed as a sideline, and that put money into everyone’s pocket.

  Victorino’s soldiers pedaled the videos to dumb little Indigena dudes, who’d probably never seen a naked woman in their pathetic little lives. The gringo couple needed girls for their movies, of course, which meant they also needed weed and blow, which put cash right back into the V-man’s pocket.

  Not that Victorino trusted the gringos. No way. It was business, nothing more. The couple treated him like just another wetback. To them, there was no difference between him, a Mexican stud and some scrawny little Indio from Guatemala or El Salvador or some Nicaraguan pendejo.

  A wetback was a wetback, to most Americanos. That’s how clueless they were. But the V-man never let it show that it bothered him. When he looked into a gringo ’s eyes and saw the contempt or indifference, all he did was smile his great big gold-toothed smile, pretending to be their Mexican amigo. But he was really thinking how goddamn stupid they were.

  These two especially, an old woman with wrinkles on her muscles and her redneck boyfriend, the two of them acting like bigmoney hotshots until the cops finally took them down.

  Which would happen. If the V-man didn’t get busy and take them both
out first.

  The V-man wasn’t smiling now as Frankie came into the room, stumbling because he surprised her, then yelling at him in her deep voice, “What the hell are you doing in my home?”

  Then she caught herself because she recognized Victorino as the V-man yet didn’t sound any friendlier when she added, “Oh. It’s you. What the hell are you doing in here without knocking? I’m in a hurry. We don’t need any more grass or shit today. Get out. Get out of here right now.”

  Victorino let the woman watch him react slowly, making her wait as he turned his back to her. He made sure the door was closed but unlocked in case he wanted to get out fast. He pivoted to face her, then snapped on the surgical gloves he had brought along for effect.

  First the left glove. Then the right.

  Then he surprised the woman again by flashing the box cutter he was palming and asked, “You don’t want any smoke or blow-but what about girls? You don’t need any more of my pretty little chulas? The way you been killing my girls off, I thought you’d be in the market by now.”

  The V-man expected the woman to squat right there and piss her panties, she should have been so scared, seeing the rubber gloves and the razor. Instead, it was the woman’s turn to surprise him.

  Frankie balled her hands into fists and took a step toward him, shouting, “I’m trying to figure out just how goddamn stupid you are! You come in here, cops all over the place, looking like a faggot or a fucking serial killer, with those gloves, your bandanna and your pissy little knife. I should slap the shit out of you right now, then tell the cops you tried to rape me.”

  Victorino had to smile at the woman’s cojones.

  “Me?” he said easily. “I’m the stupid one? They found pieces of one of my girls in your bigass alligator today. What you call that fucking lizard, Fifi or something? On your property. It was just on TV, bitch, and you’re calling me stupid?”

  He bounced the razor in his hand, not believing how the gringa was handling this. No wonder his soldiers were spooked by the woman.

  The woman’s face changed. “You’re kidding me, on television news? You’ve got to be shitting me. What did they find?”

  Victorino told her. “Bones of a human hand. You pretend you don’t know that? Had a fucking ring on the finger! A woman’s hand.”

  Now Frankie’s resigned expression read Sooner or later, it was bound to happen.

  “Half an hour ago,” Victorino continued, “I was sitting at Hooters, enjoying some chicken wings with my boys. Why you think I hurried over here, leaving behind all that fine food?”

  He held up the box cutter. “You better listen to what I’m saying, chinga. You and your jelly-boy boyfriend disrespected the V-man. All the times I was nice to you both and this is how you thank me? Now I got no choice but to leave a few marks on that body of yours. As a warning to other dumbasses. Cut off an ear, then slice my initials into your face, that might get my point across. Or maybe cut one of those big titties and listen to the air leak out.”

  He pointed the razor at her, wanting the woman to pay attention to the blade. But she didn’t. Instead, Frankie was suddenly preoccupied, thinking about something else, acting like the V-man wasn’t even in the room.

  Victorino raised his voice. “You hear what I just said to you.. . puta?”

  The woman made a waving motion with her hand. “Quiet,” she said. “I’m trying to figure out how to handle this.” After a moment, she added, “And don’t fucking call me a puta.”

  Jesus, this wasn’t going the way things usually went when Victorino waved a blade in a girl’s face. He was staring at the woman and he couldn’t believe that her face showed no fear. Instead, when Victorino reached to grab her elbow, the woman yanked the elbow away and got madder.

  “Keep your greasy hands off me. Haven’t you got any damn sense?”

  Victorino took a step back, his grin fading, then moved between the woman and the door, thinking she might run for it. Hoping she’d make a move, actually, which would give him an opening. He’d forgotten how goddamn big Frankie was, so he might have to tackle her, get her on the ground, then stuff something into her mouth before going to work with the box cutter.

  But the woman didn’t run. She returned to her packing, throwing clothes into the suitcase. “You have any idea how much shit I have to do?” she said. “The cops are bringing in equipment to drag the pond, you dipshit. Two or three hours at the most, the boat, or whatever it is they use, gets here. Next thing, they’ll be banging on this door. One of your idiot whores OD’s, falls in the water, who you think they’re gonna blame? They’re gonna blame you, dipshit. And I’ll be here to give them your name unless I can get this cook-shack cleaned up and get our shit out of here. So leave me alone!”

  Jesus. This woman had balls. Hell… maybe she really did have balls. Hard to tell with the sweatpants she was wearing. Victorino had never thought about getting a look at the lady’s goodies before, but now it crossed his mind.

  He stood there, thinking about it. Two or three hours before the cops went to work dragging the lake?

  They had some time.

  He let the woman see him retract the razor and put the box cutter into his jeans. “Where’s your asshole boyfriend?” he asked. “That jelly boy should be here helping you, not letting you do all the work.”

  Frankie said, “Don’t even mention that prick’s name to me.” Then she nodded toward the hallway and told him, “Out there in the main room, I’ve got two more suitcases. Go get them. And hurry up.”

  Victorino didn’t like that. A Latin King captain didn’t take orders from some gringa. Even for her to try to give him orders was offensive. On the other hand, it wasn’t likely that an old white woman knew crap about the respect a pandillero captain deserved. And the woman did have nice-looking chichis.

  “Did you hear me?” she said. “Run and get those suitcases.”

  “Hey, you about to get your face slapped, lady,” Victorino replied. “You want a favor, you ask the V-man nice. You say ‘please’ and you say ‘thank you.’ Or you can kiss my Mexican ass.”

  “Okay… please get my goddamn suitcases. And be quick about it-unless your Mexican ass wants to go to jail.”

  When Victorino returned to the room carrying the suitcases, he asked about Squires again, saying, “When’s your boyfriend coming back? Does he know the cops are here? That would piss me off, my man running away with all this shit going down.”

  “That asshole isn’t a man-he’s an overgrown mama’s boy,” Frankie snapped. “You know what he did? He ran out on me early this morning. He stole fifty-nine thousand dollars cash from our box and packed his shit. Then the dumbass stuck around long enough to take some little teenage brat with him.”

  Victorino said, “Teenage?” not following but very interested in the cash the lady had just mentioned.

  “Some underage little bitch!” the woman yelled. “I know because some state asshole officials were nosing around here an hour ago, asking about a missing kid. Harris figured the cops were going to arrest him, so he ran and took along something to play with. But I’ll find him. I know exactly where he’s going and I’ll catch him there.”

  Victorino was trying to unsnap one of the suitcases but having a tough time. “A white girl?” he asked, curious because he had heard that Frankie enjoyed chulas a lot more than the redneck.

  “No, some little Mexican brat who everyone thinks is a boy. But not me. I knew better-even Harris didn’t believe me when I told him. She’s probably not even thirteen yet, but you know what a perverted asshole Harris is. So he apparently figured it out.”

  After thinking about it for a second, the woman sounded fairly perverted herself, adding, “Her name’s Tulo-something. You remember her? Kind of pretty, with a Dutch-boy haircut with bangs, and always quoting the Bible. But a cute little ass on her.”

  Victorino said, “A girl, you sure about that?”

  Frankie ignored him, too busy packing to listen.

  Victorin
o said, “Maybe I know the one, a skinny kid, got here ’bout a week ago. Kinda tall, for a Guatemalan, and real quiet. Had a fucked-up haircut, like someone used a bowl on his head.”

  “Not a he, a She -a sneaky little tramp of a girl,” Frankie said. “I knew it right away.”

  The V-man was employing his thoughtful-businessman expression. “A little chula, huh? I’ll be go-to-hell. That Guatemalan puta lied to me. I’m gonna have to do something about that.”

  The woman made a snorting noise.

  “And Harris, too. The way I’ve been losing chulas lately?” the V-man said. “I’ve got to cut someone’s balls off for this, then stuff them down his goddamn throat! My homeboys will be laughing behind my back, wanting to steal my shit, everything I’ve built. I take this personally.”

  Folding a blouse, Frankie told him, “I don’t give a damn how you take it. You’re gonna have to wait in line if you want to kill Harris and that little wettail.” Then she stared at the bed for a moment before saying, “You haven’t figured out how to open that goddamn suitcase yet?”

  The V-man was doing his best, getting frustrated with the cheapassed little gold snaps, as he replied, “I won’t kill the little bitch. But I’ve got to find her and make an example. I’m a businessman. Killing a girl that age, where’s the profit?”

  Frankie slapped Victorino’s hands away from the suitcase, saying, “A regular genius, that’s what you are. A regular Wall Street tycoon,” as she popped the locks with her black fingernails, then returned to her packing.

  The V-man was thinking, Smart-ass white bitch, but pretended to be unruffled, not pausing as he continued, “Wall Street or Main Street, business is still business-when you get to be a man in my position. You say she’s, what? Twelve, maybe thirteen? That means I own her for four or five more very profitable years. It’s sort of like owning a fine racehorse, understand? Or a nice limo you rent out.”

  Frankie said to the V-man, “You mind moving your ass?” then pushed by him to get to the closet. No… a table, where she found a lighter, then stood tall in front of the window and relighted a joint that the bitch didn’t bother to offer him.