Trashed: An Eastside Brewery Novel

by Mia Hopkins

  “Retire me from the gang,” I say.

  His smile is slow and sinister. “You sure?”

  I’ve never been more sure about anything. “Yes.”

  Ruben shakes his head slowly. “Never thought I’d see the day. Trouble Rosas. Gone straight.” He turns to me. “Okay. Consider it done.” He studies my face. “You know, it’s not going to be easy for you.”

  I look him in the eye. “Nothing ever was.”

  It’s almost dark by the time I find the kid. He’s standing in the parking lot of a grease-burger joint, smoking and joking with one of his little friends. I didn’t have to ask a lot of people to find out where he deals.

  Ochoa is so green he doesn’t see me walk up to him until I have him slammed up against the wall of the restaurant. I twist his arm behind his back, remove the gun from his waistband, and tuck it into mine. His friend takes off down the street, abandoning him.

  “Remember me?” I say quietly in his ear. “Because I remember you.”

  “Fuck you!” He can’t move, so the only thing he can do is insult me. “Let me go, you fucking faggot.”

  “Hey, be nice.” I kick his legs apart and search him for another weapon. He’s clean, except for a wad of cash and a few baggies of merchandise. I drop all his shit on the ground.

  “Fuck you.”

  “I said, be nice.” I twist his arm at a sharper angle. “Now, tell me. Why did you take a shot at my brother? What did my brother ever do to you?”

  “That was for you, bitch.”

  He’s going to talk tough now. On top of his anger about getting jacked, he’s embarrassed that I saw him on the floor pissing himself. Now he’s embarrassed that he let someone get the drop on him. The embarrassment of a teenage boy turns to violence really fast—I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. I have to needle him, break him, and make him listen.

  “Do you see how fast I could’ve killed you? Killed you with your own piece? Do you know what kind of shit they would’ve said about you afterward? Everyone would be laughing at your funeral.”

  Again, Ochoa yells, “Fuck you!”

  I look at him closely. Tiny tears are in his eyes. This is not from the way I’m holding him. It’s from the embarrassment—a deep and never-ending embarrassment.

  “Ask me,” I say. “Ask me why I didn’t kill you just now even though you tried to kill my brother.” I shove him harder against the wall and press his forehead against the stucco. “I said, ask me.”

  He howls. “Why?”

  “Because it isn’t worth it.” I let his head go. “They made me rob your house. I didn’t want to do it. I don’t give a shit who you are or what you have. I did it because they made me.”

  I look around. We’re partially hidden by the Dumpster, but there are customers just around the corner. I have to wrap this up.

  “Listen to me. The Hillside Locos didn’t green-light me or Lalo because they know a war with East Side Hollenbeck isn’t worth three-hundred-dollars’ worth of heroin and five minutes of your fucking pride.”

  Tears are running down his cheeks.

  “I was like you.” I drop my voice. “I had so much to prove to the world. That kind of thinking put me in prison for five years. Five years, dog. I just got out last year. I don’t wish that on you. I don’t wish that on anyone.”

  The kid has nothing to say. He struggles one last time and seems to give up, sagging against me.

  “Your bullet missed my brother. That was a lucky shot. That was the universe telling you you’re a fucking lucky man. If you had hit him, we’d be having a very different conversation right now.” I loosen my grip a little. “I have no beef with you. If you let this go, we can both walk away. It ends here. You feel me?”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “Do you feel me?” I ask again.

  I stand there holding him until he takes a deep breath and says, “Okay. Fine.”

  When he says the word, I let him go. There’s anger in his eyes, but it’s blunted—he understands me, even if he doesn’t want to. We stare each other down. I nod, turn and walk away—just like I promised.

  When I’m a safe distance away, I check to see if anyone’s following me. I take the gun out of my waistband, wipe it down, and throw it in a storm drain.

  Back in the garden, Rafa’s just sitting down to his dinner. I’ve brought him a cold six-pack.

  “What the hell’s that?” he asks instead of saying hello. “Where’s your brother’s beer?”

  “I wasn’t able to get it,” I say. “You’ll have to drink this stuff for now.”

  Rafa makes a face. “But that stuff’s no good.”

  “Tough.” I make myself a bowl of hot caldo de vegetales and sit down next to him on the couch. “You didn’t used to care what you drank.”

  The old man smiles and pats my shoulder. “Yeah, well, now I know better, don’t I?”

  The next morning, Rafa wakes me up by turning on the TV news.

  “Hey,” he says. “Watch this.”

  I sit up and yawn. This was the first good sleep I’ve had in days and I’m cranky that it’s been cut short. “What the hell, viejo?”

  “Just watch.”

  On the screen, a body lies on the sidewalk covered in a white sheet. It’s nighttime, and red-and-blue flashing lights illuminate the scene. Police have set up a crime scene with yellow tape.

  “Eighteen-year-old Jose Eduardo ‘Lalo’ Garcia was shot and killed last night near Hollenbeck Park. At about eleven o’clock p.m., Garcia was walking home from a party when a person approached him, pulled out a gun, and shot Garcia on the sidewalk before fleeing on foot. It’s unknown whether the suspect knew Garcia but police believe the shooting is gang related. The shooter is described only as a Latino male, seventeen to twenty-one years old. Police ask anyone with information to contact the Hollenbeck Division homicide detectives.”

  Rafa turns off the TV. “That’s your homeboy, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” He was a dumb little tweaker who had watched Training Day too many times, but he was still a kid, and he didn’t need to go out this way. I lie back down and sadness hits me hard. Ochoa couldn’t leave this alone. If I had killed Ochoa instead of letting him go, Lalo would still be alive.

  “Do you know who the shooter is?” Rafa asks.

  I nod again. “HSL. Hillside Locos.”

  Rafa hisses between his teeth. We both know this means retaliation between HSL and ESHB. Unless there is an immediate sit-down between leaders on both sides, the violence is just getting started. And me—I had a hand in it, whether I wanted to or not.

  “Bad times,” the old man says. “Bad times ahead.”

  Thirty

  The next morning, I sit down in front of my parole officer’s desk, take my usual unfair share of verbal abuse, shake his hand, and thank him for his support.

  My bruises are faded. He has no idea what kind of tonterias I’ve been up to in the last few days.

  If he’d caught just a whiff of the shit I’ve been up to, he would’ve sent me straight to jail.

  But he suspects nothing.

  After I leave his office, I make a halfhearted visit to my case worker, who gives me two job listings and tells me to call them right away. I put them in my pocket and look at the nameplate on her desk. Instead of calling her Sugar, I call her by her real name.

  “Deanna Delgado.”

  She looks up from her computer in surprise. “Yes?”

  “Listen. I know I’m not the easiest person to deal with,” I say. “I really do appreciate what you’ve done for me.” I pause. “Thank you.”

  She nods, a little suspicious.

  “I’m serious,” I say. “Thank you.”

  Back at Vanessa’s, Sal is sitting on the back porch. Vanessa’s daughter is on the far end of the backyard, dressing up her wiener dog in an old princess Halloween costume.

  Today is Sal’s last day stuck at home before he heads back to work and school. He’s happy about it, like he can’t wai
t. We pop open two bottles of Eastside Pride and I get down to business.

  In a low voice, I tell him everything—jacking the imaginary gun arsenal, finding Daisy, going to Washington, learning the truth from our dad, blackmailing Ruben, and talking Ochoa out of carrying out his hit on me. Sal listens carefully, memorizing all the details.

  When I’m finished, I take a deep breath and let it out.

  I swear to God, I feel lighter, like I’ve dropped the invisible cuffs and shackles I’ve been wearing for weeks.

  “Fuck,” Sal says at last. “You know, you don’t have to do everything by yourself. You’re not alone.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “I’m always here.”

  I wince. “I know, but…”

  “But what?”

  “You’ve got a lot more to live for now. Vanessa. Muñeca. School. Your business. You can’t go off and do the same reckless shit anymore. You have too much to lose.”

  “Yeah. I do. And one of those things is my younger brother. So shut your face and stop arguing with me.” He kills his beer. “What are you going to do now?”

  I take the two listings out of my pocket that I got at the employment agency. “I’ve got two numbers to call.” I squint at the papers. “This one’s for a factory. Maintenance at a frozen-food factory in Vernon. This one says, ‘general warehouse worker’ at a cold storage facility downtown.” I shrug. “Either way, I guess I freeze my nuts off.”

  I hand the papers to Sal. He looks at them and then he looks at me. “You really want those jobs?”

  “Not really. But it’s work,” I say. “I’m going straight like you, so I’ll never see easy money again. Best get used to it.”

  In the yard, Vanessa’s daughter picks up a wooden sword and hits a bush with it. It takes me a minute to figure out she’s the knight in shining armor trying to save the wiener dog princess from a dragon.

  “Listen,” Sal says. “I’ve still got a couple years to complete this program. Vanessa’s still full time at her firm. I’ll be making the beer at Bay City Brews until we can afford our own equipment. Vanessa thinks it’ll take us a year, maybe two to raise that kind of capital.”

  “What are you saying?” I ask.

  “I’m saying, we need a full-time employee to take care of the business while we get it set up. Someone trustworthy who can run the taproom and get shit done.” He raises his eyebrows. “Eddie, that’s you.”

  I’m stunned. He’d trust me with this? “Are you fucking with me?”

  “No, I’m not. Think about the last few days. The things you’ve accomplished. If we could use your talents for something good…” He shrugs. “What do you think?”

  I think he’s smoking something. “But…I don’t have my driver’s license.”

  “I was talking to my counselor at school. There might be a way to reverse that for both of us. We’d have to talk to a lawyer, but it’s possible.”

  I think about all the tanks and machinery I saw at Bay City Brews. It was intimidating—Sal has to go to college for two years in order to run it, for fuck’s sake. What do I know? “I don’t know how to operate any of that equipment.”

  “You won’t have to. Like I said, I’ll make the beer offsite for now. You’ll run taps. I’ll show you how to change the kegs out and clean the lines. Vanessa will get you set up on a point-of-sale system.”

  “But—”

  “Motherfucker, you’ve sold drugs, jacked cars, survived prison, and tracked down our no-good father. I think you can handle pouring a few beers.”

  Vanessa comes home from work. She’s still a little sore at me, but her anger burns off like fog after we all have dinner together and Sal tells her his idea about hiring me on as Eastside Brewery’s employee number three. I’m surprised by her enthusiasm, but then I’m reminded how much she loves and trusts my brother—his opinion of me means a lot to her, and I’m reminded of the value of family. Real family. They hire me on a handshake and that’s it—the deal is done.

  I decide right then and there to retire my jersey.

  I’m no longer Trouble.

  I’m Eddie.

  Just Eddie.

  Before sunrise, I walk over the bridge from East LA into downtown. It’s cold. Mist hangs over the shallow slick of river at the bottom of the concrete riverbed. The sidewalks are damp.

  I take the long walk into the flower district. All the storefronts are brightly lit. Flowers fill the white plastic buckets that line the sidewalks. I see red roses everywhere, but I pass them by. I see other flowers too—pink, white, yellow, orange, purple. I see orchids and little cactuses in pots. I see lilies the size of umbrellas.

  They’re all beautiful.

  But none of them seem right for Carmen.

  The sun comes up as I walk emptyhanded back over the bridge. I head back into the garden. Rafa is hoeing some rows. I ask to borrow his shears.

  “What for?” He hands them to me.

  “I wanna make a gift for my girl.”

  With some garden string, I make little bundles of fresh herbs for her. Rafa reminds me of their names. Rosemary is romero. Marjoram is mejorana. Mint is hierbabuena. Thyme is tomillo. Sage is salvia. Some herbs Rafa knows by only one name—toronjil, cilantro, epazote.

  I wrap everything in a clean towel and put the towel in a paper bag.

  Rafa watches me. “Are you sure it was a good idea not to get the roses?”

  I look at the crumpled paper bag in my hand. “I’m kinda regretting it now,” I say.

  Rafa reaches under his straw hat and scratches his head. “You know,” he says, “if she’s the kind of girl who likes someone like you, she’s probably the kind of girl who thinks it’s what’s on the inside that counts.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, viejo?” I ask.

  “It means, don’t mention the roses. Just to be safe.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I won’t.”

  “I’ll light a red candle for you. They’re good for bringing people together. Maybe that will help.”

  “Couldn’t hurt.” I head for the gate.

  “Que dios te bendiga, mi’jo,” he calls to me. “Buena suerte.”

  God bless you, son. Good luck. With Rafa’s words, I realize I am blessed. I am lucky. I wave at him and walk out into the street.

  I’m almost in front of Carmen’s house when her front door opens. Carmen, her mother and her father walk down their porch steps. Carmen is barefoot, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. She opens the passenger door for her dad, who climbs inside with her help. She shuts the door.

  Carmen and her mother stand next to the car on the driver’s side. I am close enough to hear their voices—they’re arguing, too angry and caught up in the moment to notice me. I stop by the neighbor’s fence, just out of sight.

  “But how can you say that?” Carmen’s voice is sharp and impatient. “The Rosas brothers did their time for crimes they committed years ago. Look at Sal. He’s doing big things. He’s gone straight.”

  “Salvador, maybe. But Eduardo?” Carmen’s mom hisses, “He’s trash.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Mi’ja, listen to me. You have a good heart, but you’re naïve. These people—they’re ex-cons. They went to prison because they broke the law. They deserved to get locked up. They’re felons. Your father and I signed the agreement for one reason, and that’s Vanessa Velasco. I wouldn’t trust either of those brothers. Not for one second.”

  “But Mom—”

  “You never listen to me. That’s why you always get into trouble.”

  “Here we go. Not again.”

  “If I don’t tell you the truth, who will? Who? I told you, don’t go to cooking school. It’s expensive. It’s wasteful. Did you listen? No. Are you enjoying paying off those student loans, Carmen? How many years will it be until you’re finished?”

  “I don’t regret it, if that’s what you want me to say.”

  Carmen’s mom keeps going. “I told you, don’t waste your time
on useless men. The one last year—what was his name? Or the one before that? What did I say? They were no good. Losers. I was right. And now, the worst of all. Eduardo Rosas. Do you really think so little of yourself, so little of your family to carry on like this? To disappear for days at a time? It makes me sick.”

  I’m furious. I’m about to step in when I hear Carmen say, “Look, I know you’re trying to protect me. I know you’re worried about me. But you made your own decisions, Mom. You chose to marry Daddy, you chose to take on the bakery. You chose to have me. I make my own decisions, just like you made yours. And if I decide to spend time with Eddie Rosas, that’s my decision, not yours. I like him. A lot. He’s a good man. You’re just too shortsighted to see that.”

  Carmen likes me. A lot. She thinks I’m a good man. I can’t help it—I smile.

  Carmen’s mom snaps, “Go to him again and we will cancel the lease.”

  “No, you won’t,” Carmen says calmly. “Stop being so dramatic. I’ve seen Dad’s medical bills. You need the income the bakery used to provide.”

  “We’ll find another buyer. They’re everywhere.”

  “You would never sell it to a stranger. You may act like you don’t care, but I know the bakery means a lot to you. To our family.”

  After a long time, Carmen’s mother says, “You think you know everything.”

  “Guess we’re not so different, then.”

  Her mom says nothing. I hear a car door open and slam. The engine starts up. Carmen’s mom pulls out of the driveway and passes by without seeing me, an angry frown on her face.

  Holding the paper bag in my hands, I ring the doorbell to Carmen’s house. A minute passes. I ring again. Nothing. I lean forward and listen. There’s music playing.

  I take out my phone. Carmen doesn’t answer. I hang up.

  After a quick look around to make sure the coast is clear, I decide to do something shady and reckless just for old times’ sake. I creep around the side of the house and hop the same wall I hopped when I snuck into her bedroom.

  The back door to the kitchen is open. I walk through the backyard. As I get closer, I hear Carmen—she’s blasting “Bidi Bidi Bom Bom” and singing along. Her voice is awful. I like it.