Cole Shoot

by Micheal Maxwell

  “So how’s the kid settling in?” Chin said laying down the phone.

  “Good, good. I sent him out on an assignment. I can’t wait to see what he comes up with.” Cole’s guilt at lying to his friend hung like a wet terrycloth robe on his conscience.

  “Good kid. I like him.”

  “Me too. So, what of this info can I use, and what do I keep quiet?”

  “Whatever. I don’t think keeping this quiet matters anymore. If you or the kid turn up anything give me a call though.”

  “I don’t get it. Why don’t you just round up these FCBZ guys and give then the third degree.”

  “No witnesses, no finger prints, no snitches, no nothin’. A tattoo is clever but it can’t be tied directly to any one person. We Chinese can be very tight lipped, you know. These guys won’t talk. If anybody in Chinatown saw or heard anything they sure as hell won’t talk after seeing what those guys did to that poor Mexican kid.”

  “What about the real bad guys? The Tongs?” Cole asked.

  “It’s a nice distraction for them. We’re too busy dealing with gang foolishness to have time to dig in their backyard. The Tongs are so deep in the fiber of Chinatown we just don’t have the time or money for them. The Chinese street gangs are just a nuisance. The Tongs usually keep them in check for the most part. Until this. This isn’t normal. They’ll screw up and then we’ll get them. I just want it to be sooner rather than later,” Chin sighed deeply. “Dǎjí fànzuì de yāo jiǎo de gōngzuò shì yǒngyuǎn zuò bù wán de.”

  “Alright Captain Canton, I give up.”

  “A crime fighter’s job is never done.” Leonard stood and with a typical swagger, gave Cole a sweeping salute and headed for the door.

  “Later,” Cole said without turning.

  The street was nearly empty. Too early for the tour buses and the chill in the air wasn’t very inviting, even for the locals. Cole sipped his Mocha and walked under the Chinatown gate. A few merchants swept the sidewalk in front of their shops, all the restaurants were still closed, and Cole felt as if he had the whole place to himself.

  The girl who sold Cole his oranges the day before was putting bananas into place on a green bin. She was bundled up in a hooded sweatshirt under a jacket all topped off with her green apron.

  “How’s grandpa?”

  “He’s in the back room by the heater.” She giggled.

  “Things are sure quiet around here,” Cole said and took a sip of his coffee.

  “People are staying in more.” The girl took the lid off another box of bananas. “Those boys you went with came back here later. They told me to keep my mouth shut. They try to scare everybody. They think they’re tough. I told them I would talk to whoever I wanted.”

  “You should be careful. Those guys are kind of crazy.”

  “Just stoners. They should worry about who they threaten. My grandfather is a “Shòu bǎohù de rén”, a protected man. He’s a friend of many members of the Ghee Cow Tong. He is not a member, but they respect him from boyhood. Old school Chinatown stuff, but still a force to be feared.”

  “Did you hear about the boy they found cuffed to the lamppost this morning? They were stupid enough to do that,” Cole replied.

  “That was a gang thing.” The girl handed Cole an apple. “I went to school with all those losers. Fire Cracker Boys, duds if you ask me. If they walk with the ducks, soon they waddle like them. They’ll all be dead or in jail sooner or later. Sad, but they choose their own path.”

  Cole rubbed the apple on his jacket shoulder and took a bite. “You’re pretty fatalistic for someone so young.”

  “No, I am a realist. I’m going to USF, I’ll get my degree. I’ll always love Chinatown, but I won’t always live here. I want to teach Women’s Literature at a college back east somewhere.”

  “That’s a goal well worth achieving and I think you’re just the person to do it. I’m Cole by the way.”

  “I’m Mindy.”

  “What do I owe you for the apple?”

  “On the house. But don’t tell grandfather!” They both laughed.

  There was an awkward silence. Thankfully, for Cole, his cellphone rang.

  “I’ll see you soon.” He smiled at Mindy and indicated the phone.

  “Cole Sage.”

  “Hey, remember me?”

  “Yes, I do. Kelly, I’m so sorry I haven’t called you.” Cole winched.

  “I’ve got you now! What’s going on?” Kelly sounded upbeat but concerned.

  “Way too much to talk about on the phone. I’m in Chinatown. On the street. I’m on my way back to the office. Can we please have dinner?”

  “Please? Cole are you alright? You’re worrying me.” Kelly was calm, but in full protection mode.

  “I’m fine, sweetheart. There’s,” just then the beep for an incoming call sounded. Cole looked at the display. It read ‘Anthony Perez’.

  “Kell, I’ll have to call you back. There is an urgent call on the other line. Cole didn’t wait for a response.

  “Anthony!”

  “You wish.”

  “Who is this?” Cole demanded.

  “Mr. Zhuó.”

  “Trick?” Cole was not about to call him ‘Mr. Zhuó’.”

  “Your Beaner is cluttering up my back room. When are you going to get my cousin’s killer out of jail?”

  “Things are in the works.”

  “I think you need to put pressure on your ‘workers’.” Trick sounded more ominous than Cole remembered.

  “Next time we talk I want to know when and where.”

  “I’m working on it. I am warning you. Nothing had better happen to Anthony. I will burn Chinatown down to get you. Is that clear enough for you?” Cole’s vehemence came from a dark place Cole tried to keep under lock but the chains were broken and Zhuó got the message.

  “You sound like a badass, old man. I don’t scare easy.”

  “I think you do,” Cole growled.

  “Yeah, right.” Zhuó’s voice showed that the fierceness in Cole’s anger had hit home. The swagger and cool was gone, and the person Cole now heard was vulnerable.

  Without a thought, Cole hit the ‘End’ button and Zhuó was gone. If he had any qualms about calling Luis, they were gone now.

  * * *

  When the faded green 1983 Buick LeSabre pulled onto the Bay Bridge, the man in the toll booth didn’t even look up. Luis Hernandez and his three friends made the trip from East Los Angles in near-record time. Stopping only once for gas and burgers, the four men cruised at a steady seventy miles per hour. Cruise control, a good heater, and a below average stereo made the trip almost bearable. I-5 traffic was light and they saw only one Highway patrol car, and he was headed the other way.

  They knew what they had to do. They would do it quickly with as few casualties a possible, and would be back on the road. Each of the men knew Whisper, they all came up together, and they had all seen street action together. Though not claiming Norteño allegiance they were known and respected in the community. This was in part Whispers doing. He kept his crew in check and off other gang’s turf and out of their business enterprises.

  Before leaving L.A., Luis had made a call to a cousin who gave him the name of a solid San Francisco homie. Everything was prepared. Luis carried an untraceable burner phone that would be used twice. One call to Cole Sage, and one call to “Big Head” Ruelas, though Luis would address him as Jorge. One the way back the burner would get tossed off the bridge.

  In the trunk of the Buick were four baseball bats, a length of pipe, rope, duct tape, and a can of black spray paint. Luis and Chuy Saldana were the only ones caring weapons. 9mm automatics taken from two 124th St Crips by Luis’ cousin’s crew. Untraceable and completely disposable.

  Luis didn’t like guns. He preferred box cutters. Up close, in your face. He could open a jugular vein or leave a gaping hole exposing intestines in a breath of a moment. The thing he liked about the razor blade, it was clean. As a teen, Luis used his firs
t box cutter on a kid in his gym class. Not deep, nowhere significant, just a small cut really. The boy made a remark about Luis’ gym socks not matching. Other kids in gym laughed and made Luis feel foolish.

  After school, Luis walked past the boy in the crowed hall and cut him in the back of the arm midway between shoulder and elbow. Their eyes met. The boy never spoke or looked at Luis again.

  Luis Alphonso Hernandez, was the fourth son of Antonio and Maria Hernandez. Undocumented aliens who met in the desert of Baja California. Together with twelve other people they crossed the border with only a plastic water jug and the clothes on their backs. Maria was alone and Antonio felt protective of her when the others disappeared into the darkness outside of Jacumba Hot Springs. The pair had stood alone on a dark stretch of road just across the border. Antonio reached out and took Maria’s seventeen year old hand. They have been together ever since.

  Their fourth son was a quite boy and well behaved. When the time came, like his brothers, he became an altar boy at St. Joseph’s Catholic Church. The church was less than a mile from the Hernandez home, and Luis was proud that his parents trusted him to go back and forth alone. Luis took great pride in fulfilling his duties at the church and was especially proud when Father Chabot had chosen him over one of the older boys to carry the processional cross.

  St Joseph’s was in a rough neighborhood, and the new fair-skinned priest was something of a novelty in the Hispanic Barrio. He came from a small town in Iowa and was very fond of the children of the parish. He often referred to the altar boys as “his angels”.

  Over those next few months there was a change in Luis. His grades in school began to drop. His brother reported to his parents that Luis was smoking. This is not unheard of in the seventh grade, but it was in the Hernandez household. His father said he was “pasando por una fase” or “just going through a phase”. His mother knew better. Something was wrong with her hijo mio.

  Just before Christmas, as preparations were being made for all of the seasonal festivities and services, Father Chabot disappeared. There was a lot of whispering among the mothers of the parish, and especially the mothers of the altar boys.

  Orlando Melo began to miss a lot of school around Thanksgiving. He took longer than usual in the shower and had asked that his hair be buzzed short. This was an odd request his father thought, because he always took great care to see that his hair was just right before leaving for school.

  On the sixteenth day of the Advent calendar, while doing the laundry, Orlando’s mother spotted blood on his underwear. There were cordovan spots on three pairs of his shorts in the week’s wash. His mother went to talk to Orlando. At first he said he “wiped too hard”. Orlando could not look at his mother. As they sat on the edge of his bed, his mother gently stroking his back, Orlando began to cry. He was ashamed to be crying at twelve years old, but the tears flowed and his thin frame shook.

  “What is it mijo? What has happened?”

  Orlando could not say the words in English, he was too ashamed. Instead he whispered to his mother, “me ha tocado en mis lugares privados.” He touched me in my private places.

  They both wept and the story slowly came out how the Anglo priest chose Orlando as his “special angel”. Later that night Orlando’s mother lay in bed, darkness hiding her tears, and told her husband Jesus what had happened to their son.

  Orlando’s father was not a man of the church. Jesus Melo was a blasphemer and a violent, angry man. He had served two years in prison for assault. His wife was sure the “extra money” he brought home from time to time came from El Escorpiones Morenos, a violent group of old school gangsters in the barrio. She never asked and he never offered an explanation for the little extras the money provided.

  Jesus was hard but fair with his children, and he was especially proud of his only son, Orlando. The news of his violation did not sit well. For several days, Jesus wore a scowl that seemed to take the light out of the room. He spoke little and could not look at Orlando.

  The mothers of the St. Joseph’s altar boys held close Orlando’s secret. One by one, however, they confronted their sons. Some gently, some in hysterical tirades and accusations.

  When Maria Hernandez sat across the kitchen table from Luis, her tears ripped open his heart. She spoke softly. Her love seemed to bleed from her very soul with each teardrop. She assured her son that there was no blame. There was no shame. If he had been touched, it was not the fault of God or the Holy Virgin. It was Satan himself.

  Luis looked deep into his mother’s eyes. In a voice strange to her, the voice of a man, her beloved son said to her, “If he had touched me this way, I would have slit his throat.”

  In that moment, Maria Hernandez knew her son had fallen victim to the priest’s lust.

  On Christmas Eve, Luis was awakened to the sound of voices coming from the front room. It was late and he thought the house was down for the night. He quietly left his warm bed and made his way down the hall. He dared not go into the living room or be seen. He recognized the voice that spoke to his father in a drunken slur. Manny Covarrubias worked with his father at the machine shop. Gray haired, hard as steel, Manny was a charter member of Escorpiones Morenos. He was very drunk and very loud.

  “Manny, you need to go home. Tomorrow is Christmas,” Antonio pleaded.

  “There is something you must know. It is a very big secret. But you need to know. For your boy, for Luis.” Manny’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper.

  “OK. Then you must go home. It’s late.”

  “You know I love you, Antonio. Te quiero, mi mejor amigo.”

  “Yes, we have been friends a very long time. What is this secret?” Antonio was concerned because of Luis’ name being mentioned.

  “That faggot priest. He is on his way to China. Ese pedazo de mierda.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jesus Melo and some of the Escorpiones made sure he will not come back.”

  “What are you saying Manny?” Antonio was not sure what you called this kind of sin.

  “Eight pieces. Eight containers. All on their way to China. Each with a piece of that pedophile priest inside the scrap metal.”

  “Oh sweet Christ,” Antonio said softly.

  “But it is a secret. Oh, and he won’t be going with his dick. Jesus fed it to that pit bull of his while the priest watched. Funny, eh?” Manny laughed hoarsely.

  “OK amigo, I will keep the secret. But you really must go.”

  “I just had to give you this Christmas gift. If he did touch Luis, he’s paid for it.”

  “Yes, he has. Goodnight.” Antonio said, opening the front door.

  “Feliz Navidad, Tonio.”

  “Feliz Navidad.”

  The front door closed and Luis slipped back to his bed. This is how problems are solved. From that day forward, Luis never went to church. The priest hurt him, but he hurt his mother more, and that was unforgiveable. Luis Hernandez’ heart turned to ice, he was a man to be feared.

  EIGHT

  415 McClarren made many strange noises for an empty building. It seemed to groan and stretch like an old man getting up from his chair. Marco woke first. He lay silently next to Mei and listened to her breathing. He listened to the sounds of the building coming from above and below him. It was his building.

  As he lay staring at the ceiling, his stomach growled and gurgled. Marco became more and more impatient with his sleeping friend. He was hungry and he want to get something to eat. Rolling away from where Mei still slept, Marco quietly moved to the break room.

  He opened the refrigerator and got two tamales. From the counter he took two granola bars and two juice boxes and placed them on the table.

  He stood studying the microwave above the stove a long moment before opening the door.

  “Hmmm, this is not like my house.”

  Marco laid the two tamales on the glass wheel, closed the door, and hit the square with the “2”. The light came on and the wheel began to turn.

&nbs
p; “Yessss!” Marco said triumphantly, pumping his fists in the air.

  As the microwave hummed, Marco opened drawer after drawer looking for a plate or fork. Across from the microwave, on the opposite wall, he found a small paper bag with a half dozen plastic spoons, knives, and forks. He took the bag and placed it on the counter next to the granola bars.

  The ding of the microwave sent Marco happily back to where Mei was still sleeping.

  “Gooood Moorning!” Marco sang. “Good morning to you!”

  Mei rolled over and felt around on the floor for her glasses.

  “Are you hungry?” Marco beamed. “I have breakfast ready for you.”

  Mei sat up and adjusted her glasses. “Yes, I am hungry.

  “It is all ready and on the table in the kitchen.

  “You are sure nicer than my brother!” Mei giggled.

  “Really? I wish I had a brother.”

  “My brother is a bad boy. He makes my father very mad all the time,” Mei began.

  “Why?”

  “He took money from my father’s desk at his office. He took money from my mama’s purse. He said he didn’t, but nobody believes him because he is always such a big liar.”

  Marco offered Mei his hand and helped her get up from the floor.

  “What did he buy?” Marco asked.

  “Drugs. He always uses drugs. He told me I should get high with him. He said it would make me see better. See what a liar he is.”

  “What is ‘get high’?” Marco asked.

  “I don’t know for sure. It is what drugs do. I heard my parents yelling at him one night when he got home. He told them they were old and didn’t know about what’s good.”

  “That make you sad?” Marco asked as they moved into the break room.

  “A lot. He used to be nice to me and nice to my parents. He’s a Firecracker Boy.”

  “That sounds fun. I like firecrackers!” Marco perked up with the excitement of fireworks.