by F. X. Toole
“Since I started trainin Sykes.”
“What!” Eloy reached for Trini’s jacket, but Trini jerked away, and was out the door. Eloy went directly to Lamar Steuke, back in the arena.
“What’s goin on?” Eloy asked.
Steuke had been waiting for Eloy, prepared for whatever was going to go down. He reached over to the runner-up trophies, and he handed one to Eloy without looking at him. “Here.”
Eloy couldn’t believe no runner-up. “What’s ‘is?”
“It’s Chicky’s,” Steuke replied.
“He come in second?” Eloy asked.
“Runner-up’s more’n second.”
“Sykes’s in the Nationals, not Chicky?” Eloy asked in a tone of utter disbelief.
Steuke nodded. “Chicky knows it.”
Eloy said, “What dressin room?”
“Red.”
Eloy carried the trophy to the red room. The trophy was made of plastic, and painted silver, but to Eloy it felt like a six-foot crowbar. The dressing room was nearly empty, most of the fighters from the lower divisions having changed clothes and gone. No one knew where Chicky was, but one of the trainers pointed to his gear bag, and boots. Eloy stuffed Chicky’s things in the bag, and with the trophy in one hand, went looking. He found Trini talking to Steuke.
Eloy was urgent. “¿Pues, qué pasó?” What happened?
Trini and Steuke spoke at the same time, “Sykes won.”
Eloy knew something smelled bad, but couldn’t decide where the stink was coming from. “Where’s my kid?”
Trini said, “Last I seen him he was in Lamar’s office, up on the second floor.”
Eloy found Chicky still standing in Steuke’s office. His chin was on his chest, and his eyes had a stunned look in them.
Chicky looked up. “You missed the big event.”
“Looks ‘at way,” said the Wolf, who felt like a cur.
“You was supposed to take care of me. It’s my birthday.”
“I know, I know, and tomorrow I was fixin for us to go on over to Paris Hats and pick out something good to celebrate.” Desperation made for inspiration. “But my truck had this here flat tar.”
Chicky shook his head imperceptibly, and whispered, “Truck did, huh?”
“Had to have it towed,” Eloy explained, sick from all the lying. “Had to find a tar guy open on Sunday, you know how that goes.”
“Yeah, I do,” said Chicky, “a tar guy open on Sunday.”
When Chicky talked Eloy through the missing passbook deal and told him how Sykes had won on a walkover, Eloy put the fix together. Trini counting that money in the crapper downstairs; Trini to train Sykes. Chingones. Fuckers.
Jesus, if you want to be an outlaw, go rob Frost Bank, or rustle cattle, but don’t do this to a trusting kid with his heart in his hand—and sure as hell do not do it to Eloy Garza’s kid. That was absolute.
“Ain’t this a bitch,” Eloy said. What he didn’t say was that he’d be into Trini’s back-stabbin ass like red on a strawberry.
“It’s a bull bitch,” said Chicky. It took him a lick before he could say the rest of what he had to say. “I figure you was drinkin, Granddaddy.”
“No, I swear on your grandma’s grave, boy.”
That was another lie to add to the rest. But there were worse things lurking—those little brown jugs he lived to embrace four to six times a day. Chicky had to know that something was seriously wrong. The kid hadn’t figured out the details yet, and Eloy was grateful for that, but to God’s eyes they had to be clear as a pumpkin moon across a cotton patch. But how could he ever tell Chicky the real reason he was late?
“I shouldda been here,” said Eloy. “It might a helped.”
“Wouldn’t a made no never-mind,” Chicky said. “I just didn’t much like doin her all by my lonesome on the day I turned eighteen.”
A rush of misery flooded Eloy. It was as tangible as the rush from a fix, but the needle squirting this rush didn’t make the hurt go away. Fed up with himself, he wanted to blurt it all out, but he wasn’t about to spill that all to nobody. Certainly not to his grandson. He needed to dip.
“You got some cope?” Eloy asked. Cope, like dip, was down-home for snuff.
Chicky produced a flat, round can of long-cut Copenhagen from his bag; beside the brand name, the embossed metal top read “Fresh Cope” and “1822.” He handed his can over to his granddad, and Eloy slipped a pinch up next to an eyetooth.
Eloy watched the kid settle his snuff, and wondered again if maybe it was best to just go head-on and tell Chicky. Bad as the timing was, at least the kid would know who held the ribbons that dangled him. He could tell the kid he was deep sorry, and if Chicky dumped him, then he’d have no bitch, because if anyone deserved to be dumped, he surely did—when you loved a needle more than your own kin, you were indeed shameless. !Ay!, that word again, sinvergüenza.
Chicky saw how uneasy his grandfather was. “You sure you wasn’t drinkin?”
There!
Chicky gave him the chance, the shot, the opening. In the ring, Eloy would have taken it quick, but now his moral reflexes failed him, as did his fighter’s heart.
“No, no booze, mi querido nieto, te lo juro,” this I vow.
“I keep goin over it, ‘n over it, but it just don’t figure.”
It figures, all right, Eloy thought.
Once again, Eloy tried to rat himself out, but all he could say was, “I shouldda been here.”
“Yes,” said Chicky, quietly.
Dark saliva was collecting behind Eloy’s lips and under his tongue, and sweet murder chugged through him. He thought about the difficulties of killing both Cavazos, thought again, and decided that getting them both at the same time was no big thing. He’d just bring along his pump-action Mossberg Persuader 590 to the gym instead of the over-under, and go bang-bang as often as it took.
“Can we go on home, Granddaddy?” Chicky asked.
“Rat now,” Eloy said, giving him a grin, but his contempt for himself and his hatred for Trini were about to choke his heart. “Let’s hook ‘em.”
“Eee-hah.” The kid grinned weakly back, letting the old man know things were okay between them, but down inside Chicky felt hollow, and in that empty space where his heart and lungs used to be, things were going every which way.
As Eloy left Steuke’s office to go back to the arena, he asked Chicky to get into his street clothes and then meet him down at Fresita. There was no point in going for Steuke yet, not until Eloy knew for sure if ol’ Lamar was mixed up in the fix. If he was, he’d have to find a way to kill Steuke, too. There was no doubt that Trini and the lawyers were in it up to their snouts. He wanted to make Trini look him in the eye. He knew what he’d see, and that’s why he knew his plan for the next day in the gym was the right way to get the deal done.
Two black heavyweights, weighing 228 and 237, were standing toe-to-toe in the ring, the last match of the tournament. Flying slobber reached the ringsiders, who laughed and swatted at it. Steuke was there fussing with the passbooks, but Eloy couldn’t see Trini or Paco. Neither one of Sykes’s lawyers, either. They had to be part of it. He’d light up the Cavazos in the San Nacho first, then drive on over to the lawyers’ offices and blow those cocksuckers away, too, have himself his own mini Texas Tower deal. Now that he had worked it all out, he calmed some.
He knew he was a dead man anyhow, just a matter of time, so what did it matter if he zigged or zagged, or maybe did both? Putting Toby and Seth on the ground made sense, but it was Trini he wanted to kill first.
The tournament was nearly played out and cars were leaving the parking lot. Trini and Paco sat in Trini’s car, which faced the lot. The motor was running, and they had the windows down for fresh air because exhaust rose up from the leaky muffler. They could watch most of the arena’s doors, and carefully looked for Eloy among the fans leaving the arena.
Paco said, “What if Lobo’s packin?”
“He’d a been shootin by now if
he was,” Trini assured him.
In Paco’s hand, in the pocket of his jacket, was a hot little .38, a hundred-dollar Hi-Point compact, a hide-away gun cheap enough to make disappear if Paco didn’t want anyone to know he’d used it—all he had to do was wipe it clean of fingerprints, and leave it with ammunition in the phone booth of some old Southside cholo bar, yip.
Paco said, “I still think it’s best I stay.”
Trini said, “Naw, circle around the block and park back down the street there by the ivy. Follow us if we leave.”
Paco said, “You didn’t say you was leavin.”
Trini said, “I ain’t fixin to.”
Paco said, “What if Eloy gets cranky?”
Trini said, “I’ll pump my brake pedal a bunch so you’ll see my stop lights blink. So take off before the Wolfcito shows.”
Trini knew what Eloy had to be thinking, and that he would be bent on killing him. But he also knew that Eloy would always try to protect Chicky. Trini had already worked out how he’d use his hoppers to play Eloy’s feelings for the kid against the old man himself.
¡Ay!
Paco had gone to his pickup truck, and was driving from the parking lot as the Wolf moved out through the arena’s wide doors. Eloy saw Paco’s truck scoot off, and thought Trini might be with him. Tomorrow, he thought. He tossed Chicky’s gear bag into the back of Fresita, then turned and noticed that Trini’s car was still parked in the lot, right next to the taco wagon. He squinted against the sunlight. He couldn’t be sure if he could see Trini because of the dark interior of the car, but he thought he could see him behind the steering wheel. Eloy’s indio eyes showed no emotion, but inside he was doing whirligigs, and right quick he forgot all about his plan to blow both brothers away with his Mossberg the next day.
The part of Eloy that was still rational warned him not to kill Trini in the parking lot. It would be better to get Trini and Paco inside the San Nacho, get them defenseless and both at the same time. But here was an opportunity. Kill Trini on the spot. The idea got so good, he forgot about his nausea, forgot everything except squaring things for Chicky. He tapped his right-rear pocket for his Buck jackknife, a solid 6.8 ounces of honed steel, brass, and antler.
Eloy’s new plan was to go back into the building, exit at the rear, and slip up behind Trini as he sat in the car. One quick move was all he needed. If the car door was locked and the windows up, he would slash all four tires, and use the butt of the open knife to break the driver-side window. He’d stab Trini two fingers down from the bastard’s breastbone, then gouge around to sever the aorta. Blood would cover the dashboard, then clot on the upholstery and floor mats. Afterward, he’d go looking for Paco, catch him some way, somehow. He’d go to the liver, or lungs, or slit his throat and watch him spurt and gurgle.
As he was choreographing the slaughter, Chicky came up behind him, and touched him on his shoulder. Eloy almost jumped straight out of his boots.
“Yaaah!”
Chicky asked apprehensively, “You all right?”
“Yeah, I’m all right, why?”
“Oh, nothin,” said Chicky. “What tire went flat?”
Eloy wondered how he’d get out of the flat-tire lie, and decided to stall. “I’ll show you when we get home.”
From his car, Trini saw Chicky and leaned forward for a better look. Chicky being there messed things up.
As Eloy caught his breath, he also caught a quick look at Trini’s scum face inside his car.
Chicky said, “Ready to go?”
Eloy said, “Soon. But you got to go on over to Crockett’s.”
“Huh?”
“Go on, git, I’ll be there shortly.”
Chicky said, “You said we was to head home.”
“I’m gonna talk to Steuke about the walkover, see about filin a protest.”
“You think she might work?” Chicky didn’t sound too convinced.
“Never can tell. Now you git. Go eat.”
“I ain’t hungry,” Chicky said.
“Boy, eat anyway.”
Chicky heard boy, and the tone Eloy used meant there was no room for mess-around. Chicky thought of baby back ribs, a whole rack, and salivated. He started off for Crockett’s. Paco cruised into position, but Chicky’s mind was on the walkover, and he missed Paco’s move altogether.
Trini slid down in his seat when the kid started in his direction. He didn’t understand what was going on, but it was good that Chicky was taking off.
Eloy watched as Chicky walked away. His grandson was still in a fog. He almost fell when the toe of one boot hit a crack in the sidewalk.
Chicky turned a corner, saw that the Sunday downtown streets were nearly empty. When he was sure no one was looking, he edged into the doorway of a failed travel office, and went down on one knee. He covered his face with his hands so no one could see.
“Ahh, God.”
He cried out once, his voice high and helpless, couldn’t help himself, but he wasn’t about to give in to no wet-eye.
Chapter 21
Once Chicky was out of sight, Eloy turned and made his way through the departing spectators, his plan still to head for the dressing room exit at the rear of the building, and then go get Trini. That done, he’d quick find Paco someplace, and finish him before he knew what had happened to Trini. But as he was about to enter the building, he remembered Chicky’s gear bag in the back of his truck, and was afraid someone would steal it. He moved swiftly to the bag, and unlocked the passenger side of Fresita.
Trini watched Eloy with the gear bag, then turned to make sure that Paco was back by the ivy. Eloy was still by his truck, so Trini dropped his transmission into low gear and hit the gas. He was across the parking lot before Eloy realized what was happening. Trini punched the brake and skidded up to Fresita.
“My nigga,” Trini smiled, “git on in.”
Eloy was surprised by how calm he felt. “You goin to stab me in the back, too?”
“Don’t talk shit,” Trini said.
“Where we goin?” Eloy asked, trying to keep his tone level.
“We ain’t goin, we’re stayin.”
“Turn off the key, and put it up on top of the roof,” Eloy told him.
Trini chuckled for Eloy’s benefit, but turned off the ignition, reached out the window with his keys, and dropped them on the metal roof above his head. “What, you don’t trust your brother after all these years?”
“Shit,” Eloy said. As he opened the door with his left hand and got into the car, he slipped his right into his back pocket for his Buck, the curved back cuddling into his palm. He could open it with one hand, click.
Eloy could also see that Trini’s bony hands were on the steering wheel. There were no weapons in sight, and Eloy wasn’t worried about a fistfight in or out of the car. With the Buck open and resting alongside his knee, Eloy didn’t fear Trini or anyone else, but he knew that he had to keep his guard up against Trini’s underhanded brain.
“Bienvenido, mi hermano.” Welcome, my brother. “I’d offer you some Zijuatanejo jump rope, but I know you don’t like no hemp.”
Trini had heard the click. He was not surprised that Eloy had a knife.
“Talk to me, talk to me,” Trini said, “but put that machete away, okay? What the fuck.”
“I’m gonna put it away in you, unless you can jump short cholos in a single bound.” Eloy moved his knife hand from beside his knee to rest on his right leg. “You ruined the one thing I got in the world.”
“Why don’t you go ahead and close that ol’ cutter?”
Eloy jerked the knife up shoulder high, was ready to slash and plunge. He wanted Trini to cringe and struggle, wanted to justify cutting Trini’s head clean off. Trini didn’t move. Eloy waited. When Trini didn’t even beg, Eloy grabbed Trini by the throat with his left hand, and raised the knife to get his shoulder into the downward stroke, but he snagged his hand in the sagging head liner.
“Stumblefuck,” Trini said. “You’re lucky I ain’
t somebody wants a new hole put in your ass.”
Eloy drew back again, but Trini leaned in and calmly took a steady bead straight on into Eloy’s eyes.
“No matter you kill me nine times, you fuck, you’ll be hurtin your kid more’n he’s already hurt. Talk to me, think. You do me, Paco does you.”
“No, I kill Paco, too.” Depend on it, you piece of shit, Eloy thought.
“But what if Paco gets Chicky first?”
“No,” Eloy said, feeling the knife clutched in his hand. “I get you here, and easy as pie I go get Paco.”
Trini shrugged. “So you get me. Listen close now, I’m tryin to help, okay? So you get me, right? Maybe you’ll be doin me a favor, ever think on that? And say you get Paco, okay, big deal, but let’s say some chickidín cholo with big round chicken eyes sets Chicky’s head on fire for a nickel bag of Kibbles ‘n Bits if we get dead? There’s nothin you can do about that, and that deal’s already been done with a devil, unless I call it off. It’s snake eyes no matter how you roll ‘em, mi rey.”
“You hurt the kid again,” Eloy said, “you best kill me first, or it’s your head what gets torched.”
Trini waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Nobody wants to hurt your kid, ése, and let’s say nobody torches nobody, okay? Only way to butcher me and Paco so’s Chicky’ll think you did right is to tell him why you done us in the first place, ¿no es verdad?” Ain’t that right? “Are you sayin Chicky don’t feel bad enough already? Eh, hermano, one thing if they put you in the death house in Huntsville. But you want Chicky to know the inside truth so he can trigger-happy himself all the way to Huntsville, too?”
The parking lot was almost empty. Trini knew what Eloy needed most, and it wasn’t revenge. “Lighten up, think, talk to me. What’s important here? It’s important I made some scratch, okay? I ain’t made dick money on Chicky, you know that. Chicky’s nickels and dimes, he’s if-come at this stage, like every other amateur, right or wrong?”
Eloy said, “Except he ain’t just anybody’s grandkid, and he couldda been somebody.”
Trini said, “Yeah, and he still could, so?”
Eloy saw that he had only two cards left in his deck. He pictured both as blank, but he could still bluff. “You’ll know he’s somebody when I report you to Lamar Steuke.”
