Angel Baby

by RICHARD LANGE

  El Príncipe steps into the room. “Good-bye, you son of a bitch,” he shouts as he squeezes the trigger of his Beretta.

  Jerónimo dives behind a pool table and makes himself as small as possible. Bullets thwack into the wall behind him. He rests the Glock on the edge of the table and fires blindly, trusting that El Príncipe’s survival instincts will take over and back him off.

  Sure enough, when he pops up, the Prince is nowhere to be seen through the haze of gun smoke. Jerónimo makes for an open door beside the fireplace. El Príncipe reemerges and looses another barrage. Dropping and rolling, Jerónimo finds himself in a tiny bathroom, where he crouches next to the toilet until the shooting stops.

  “Have you gone crazy?” El Príncipe yells.

  “I’ve come for my family,” Jerónimo replies.

  “Like this?”

  “Give them to me, and I’ll let you live.”

  Jerónimo stands and wedges himself next to the doorjamb, ignoring the light switch digging into his back. The movement draws another shot from El Príncipe, the bullet shattering a mirror over the sink.

  “What about our deal?” the Prince says.

  “I did the best I could,” Jerónimo says.

  “So where’s Luz then?”

  “I don’t know. She got away.”

  “And you couldn’t just come here and tell me that? You had to break into my house and kill my men and threaten to kill me? I thought we were compadres, hombre. We always did right by each other before.”

  Jerónimo hesitates, wondering if there might have been another way to handle this, a way without blood, but then he remembers everything he knows about El Príncipe, every betrayal and atrocity, and tightens his grip on his gun.

  “My family,” he says.

  “I’ll give them to you after you give me your gun,” El Príncipe says.

  “As easy as that?” Jerónimo scoffs.

  “As easy as that.”

  Jerónimo cranes his neck to look through the doorway. He can’t see El Príncipe, but his voice sounds like it’s coming from the hall. He draws the .25 with his left hand, keeps the Glock in his right.

  “Where are they?” he says.

  “Throw down your gun,” El Príncipe says.

  “It’s a simple question: Where’s my family?”

  “You’ve got two more seconds.”

  “Are they here?”

  “You already know, don’t you?” El Príncipe says. He moves out of the hall and into the foyer, stupid pride making him fearless. “You already know they’re dead.”

  Jerónimo steps into the living room to meet him. They stand face-to-face twenty-five feet apart, blasting away at each other. A round nicks Jerónimo’s ribcage, tearing his shirt. El Príncipe is hit in the shoulder but keeps shooting until he empties the Beretta. He then hurls the pistol at Jerónimo and runs across the foyer to the stairs leading to the second floor.

  Both of Jerónimo’s guns are empty too. He searches the floor near Esteban’s body for the knife, but then feels the weight of the rat’s fancy .45 in his back pocket and pulls that instead.

  El Príncipe is halfway up the staircase when Jerónimo reaches the bottom. Jerónimo fires one of the two rounds in the gun and hits the Prince in the back of his left leg, the bullet destroying the kneecap as it exits. El Príncipe goes down with an agonized scream and rolls onto his back to watch Jerónimo climb the stairs toward him.

  “I won’t beg,” he says. “Not a dog like you.”

  Jerónimo stands over him and lets him look down the barrel of the .45. He knows that even the toughest men shit themselves when they see the end coming, and he wants this bastard to die terrified.

  El Príncipe doesn’t crack though. He grins up at Jerónimo and says, “I liked your family, I really did. Especially your boy.”

  Jerónimo plants his foot on the man’s shattered knee and grinds.

  “What a tight little ass he had!” El Príncipe roars.

  Jerónimo can’t hold off any longer. He sends his last round into the center of the man’s forehead, then steps up to kick the smirk off the corpse’s face.

  He’s exhausted by the time he reaches the second floor and collapses on the top step. His legs are shaking, and grief is like a stone in his chest. He’s got one more job to do. If Irma and the kids are still here, he has to find their bodies and bury them.

  He’s steeling himself for the search when a sound cuts through the music and the ringing in his ears: a child’s cry, short, sharp, and abruptly muffled, coming from somewhere behind him. He struggles to his feet and wobbles down the second-floor hallway. A bedroom, a bedroom, a bathroom, and then a locked door.

  “Mijo,” he tries to shout, “mija,” but the words come out garbled, soaked in bloody phlegm.

  Bracing himself, he kicks the door again and again until it gives way and swings open on another bedroom. Light flooding in from the hall reveals Ariel and Junior crouched behind the bed and Irma charging toward him, a lamp raised over her head.

  “It’s me!” he says, ducking and throwing up an arm.

  Irma pulls up short and squints like she can’t believe her eyes. Jerónimo moves toward her, but she drops the lamp and turns away. The kids are crying and need her attention. He watches, grateful and ashamed, as she gathers them in her arms and whispers comforts to them that he can’t make out. He doesn’t deserve her, doesn’t deserve them, but now isn’t the time to add everything up. He tries to put a gentle tone in his voice, but it’s difficult, shouting over the music.

  “We’ve got to move,” he says.

  Forgetting what a bloody mess he is, he reaches for Junior, who screams and clings to his mother.

  “Leave him to me,” Irma says.

  He turns to Ariel. “Do you know who I am?” he asks her.

  She nods, her body wracked with suppressed sobs.

  “We’re going to run now, so I need to carry you, okay?”

  She nods again.

  He picks her up and lays her over his shoulder. “Close your eyes,” he says.

  He leads the way down the stairs, through the foyer and kitchen and around the pool. A stiff breeze is blowing, and ominous shadows lurch in every corner of the compound. As he and Irma are jogging across the yard something big gets blown over and lands with a metallic clang. Jerónimo jumps at the sound but keeps going.

  “This one,” he says when they reach the driveway, gesturing to the Escalade. Irma climbs into the passenger seat with Junior, and Jerónimo hands Ariel over to her. Now that they’ve made it this far, he’s thinking about the mess inside the house.

  “Give me five minutes,” he says to Irma.

  “What choice do I have?” she says.

  He kisses his fingers and presses them to her cheek.

  The side door of the garage is unlocked. Jerónimo turns on the light, revealing a couple more cars and all the tools needed to maintain them, including a mechanic’s bay with a hydraulic lift. A bright red five-gallon gas can catches his eye. He picks it up and shakes it. Almost full. A paved walkway leads to the house.

  Entering through the kitchen again, he works from front to back, sloshing gasoline all over the first floor. He opens every closed door and dowses every room. In El Príncipe’s office he soaks the desk, the computer, the couch; in the living room, Esteban’s body. He then detours upstairs to sprinkle the Prince’s corpse as well. Music is still playing. Pink Floyd now. The Wall.

  By the time Jerónimo finishes in the kitchen, the can is empty. He rolls it down the hall and goes to the sink, where he washes the blood off his face and hands. Stepping into the backyard, he grabs a barbecue lighter from under the grill on the patio. The smell of gas funneling out of the house when he squats in front of the slider makes him dizzy. He holds his breath and sparks the lighter.

  The gas ignites immediately, a carpet of shimmering flame unrolling across the kitchen floor and down the hallway. Jerónimo closes the door and runs. He doesn’t look back until he gets to t
he Escalade. Fire is visible through the upstairs windows, and smoke curls out of every gap and vent. A pane of glass shatters from the heat, releasing long fingers of flame that claw at the side of the house.

  Jerónimo slides into the driver’s seat and starts the truck. The kids are quiet now, mesmerized by the swelling conflagration.

  “Where are you taking us?” Irma asks, flames dancing in her eyes.

  “South,” is all Jerónimo can think to say.

  Everybody’s quiet during the ride downhill into the mad heart of the city. Reflections of traffic lights and blinking signs roll up the hood and over the windshield as Jerónimo navigates the bustling late-night streets, and young badasses lounging on corners glance furtively at the Escalade, trading guesses on who might be inside. Jerónimo ditches the vehicle a couple of blocks from the bus terminal and walks the rest of the way with Irma and the kids.

  “We shouldn’t be seen together,” he tells Irma, pressing money into her hand at the entrance to the station. “Get tickets for the next bus out of here for you and the kids, and I’ll do the same for myself.”

  She understands the danger they’re in and doesn’t waste time arguing. Jerónimo waits until she’s in line at the ticket counter, then walks to a stall down the street to buy a clean T-shirt. He changes in an alley, and when he returns to the terminal, Irma signals him from across the crowded, noisy waiting room, holding up two fingers and pointing at the departure board. A first-class bus leaves for Durango at two a.m. He purchases a ticket and stands where he can keep an eye on the doors to the station and his family at the same time.

  The next hour drags by, the crowd expanding and contracting with each arrival and departure. It’s late, and everyone’s tired. The long rows of plastic chairs are filled with yawning passengers who scowl at a group of children playing tag around the vending machines. Jerónimo tenses when a trio of soldiers passes through, cold eyes scanning the throng, and again when Irma goes to the snack bar with the kids to get candy and juice. Every loiterer is an assassin, every sudden sound imminent doom. Junior stares at him over the back of his chair, and he risks a wave and a smile. The boy turns away and sinks into his seat without responding.

  When it’s time to leave, Jerónimo hangs back until Irma and the kids have joined the line of people waiting to board, then slips in at the end of the queue. On the bus he sits three rows behind them, resting a hand briefly on Ariel’s head as he passes in the aisle. With a hiss and a jolt, the bus begins to move. Swaying like a boat on a rough sea, it lumbers out of the parking lot and muscles into traffic. There are a couple more scares on the way out of town: a police van with yowling sirens and flashing lights, a suspicious car blocking an intersection. But the cops keep going, and a passerby helps the driver push his junker to the curb.

  Jerónimo relaxes a bit when they merge onto the highway. Soon they’re clear of Tijuana and roaring down an empty road through the desert. For once he’s happy to be out in the open. He stands in the aisle to check on Irma. She’s already asleep, exhausted by her ordeal. The kids too. It’s a good sign, a small step toward normalcy.

  The ancient wrinkled woman sitting next to him breaks off mid-snore and lifts her head from the window. She turns to look at him, as if surprised to see him there, then dozes off again. His own eyelids grow heavy. The heat, the gentle rocking of the bus. The Apaches, his ancestors, appear, ghost warriors hunched over their horses, thundering across the endless prairie. Jerónimo forces himself awake. No dreams tonight; he’s on watch. He and Irma and the kids will hit Durango with nothing, but he’s not worried. He’ll work hard, keep his nose clean, and woe to anyone who dares to get between his family and happiness. They’ll find out just how brutal love can be.

  Epilogue

  LUZ SPENT TOO MUCH ON THE TREE BECAUSE IT’S THEIR FIRST Christmas together and she wants to make it special. She’s not going to stress about it. She’s been careful with money, and there’s still plenty stashed in various hiding places around the apartment. Plus, Mr. Cardoza has promised her another shift at the market beginning next week. The way she sees it, it’s things like this, the holidays, that Isabel is going to remember, and if she gives the girl enough good times, maybe the bad stuff that came before will fade away.

  She’s decorating alone because Isabel lost interest after a few minutes and begged to go play on the patio. The neighbor’s cat hangs out there and lets Isabel fuss over him like a baby doll. She’ll spend hours rocking the fat tabby, singing him songs and tickling him under the chin to make him purr. Luz cocks an ear to her happy chatter as she hangs another ornament. All of the decorations are either silver or pink, Isabel’s choice.

  The little girl has adjusted nicely to her new life. In the beginning she’d cry for Carmen and her cousins once in a while, but she hardly ever mentions them now. The story Luz tells her is that she left her to work in Mexico and came back as soon as she had enough money to get the two of them a place to live. Isabel accepts this as the truth, and even urges Luz to repeat the fable and elaborate on certain aspects, like how lonely she was for Isabel and how she sobbed into her pillow every night, thinking about her. The kid gets a kick out of being a character in her own bedtime tale.

  The tickets Luz bought that night after the cab dropped them off at the Greyhound station were for Stockton, a city Alejandro used to talk about, somewhere his parents had lived before they moved to Compton. Luz and Isabel ended up getting off the bus early here in Fresno, though, to escape a woman who was asking too many questions about where they were headed and why. Luz decided this was as good a place as any to disappear, and, after a few weeks in a motel, found a one-bedroom unit in a nice complex on the edge of downtown. The whole apartment is smaller than the master suite of El Príncipe’s house, but there’s a pool and a security fence, and she and Isabel can walk to a shopping center and a shady park.

  They kept to themselves for a couple of months after they moved in, settling down and getting to know each other. The real world wasn’t going to go away, however, and Luz understood that they had to learn to live in it. She started at the supermarket as a bagger, but is now a checker trainee. Isabel goes to a preschool down the street and is crazy about her day care lady, Mrs. Sanchez. On Luz’s days off, they sit by the pool or go to the park or see movies at the mall. Isabel loves McDonald’s French fries, cherry Popsicles, and playing on the swings. It’s the life Luz pictured them having with Alejandro, only they’re living it alone. When men ask her out, she tells them she’s married to a soldier serving in Afghanistan. When she has nightmares about shooting Maria and El Toro, she listens to Isabel’s breathing in the quiet room they share and reminds herself that it was them or her.

  The tree has shed needles all over the carpet. Luz wheels the vacuum cleaner out of the closet, plugs it in, and pushes it around the living room while going over produce codes in preparation for her checker’s test tomorrow: Iceberg lettuce, 119. Tomatoes, 238. Navel oranges, 210.

  “Mommy!” Isabel calls.

  “What?” Luz shouts back.

  Getting no response and thinking the girl didn’t hear her, she shuts off the vacuum.

  “What?” she says again, cocking an ear toward the patio.

  No answer. Fear stirs in Luz’s chest like a long-hibernating beast slowly rousing.

  “Isabel?”

  She steps into the kitchen. The slider that leads to the patio is wide open, and Luz can see that both of the deck chairs where Isabel usually sits with the cat are empty. That’s crazy. There’s nowhere else she could have gone. The patio is tucked under the balcony of the second-floor unit above theirs. Floor-to-ceiling walls on both sides provide privacy from the neighbors’ patios, and a sturdy six-foot wooden fence serves as a back wall.

  Besides the chairs, there are a few potted plants on the slab and some of Isabel’s toys—a plastic rocking horse; a kid-size kitchen setup with a stove, refrigerator, and sink; a half-flat beach ball. Heart pounding, Luz drags one of the chairs to the fen
ce and climbs onto it to check the alley on the other side. She worried about the alley before taking the place, but everyone assured her it was used mainly by garbage trucks. “There isn’t even any graffiti,” they said. This afternoon it’s deserted, and the garage doors that open onto it are all closed.

  The worst kinds of thoughts fill Luz’s head. Could Rolando have found her here? She gets down off the chair and runs through the kitchen and living room and out the front door. It’s a cold, gray day, the sun hidden behind a curtain of thick clouds. Luz’s breath smokes as she jogs down the walkway to the street, calling Isabel’s name. Her hands are freezing. Two white men, one old, one young, are painting a dresser on the sidewalk. She’s seen them around the neighborhood before.

  “Did you notice a little girl?” she shouts at them. “Four years old? Black hair? Wearing a red coat?”

  “A little girl?” the old man says.

  Luz doesn’t have time to repeat herself. She steps into the street and yells in both directions. “Isabel! Isabel!” Her cries go nowhere, muffled by the gloom or snagged in the bare black branches of winter trees. The only movement is a mail truck a block away, the carrier opening the rear door to refill his pouch. Luz wraps her arms around herself and runs stiff-legged back to the apartment.

  “We ain’t seen nobody,” the old man says as she passes by.

  Her phone. Where is it? She bends over the coffee table and tosses aside coloring books and boxes of Christmas ornaments. Whatever trouble it brings, she has to call the police. “My daughter is missing.” The thought of saying those words makes her throat swell. Coming up empty-handed, she heads into the kitchen. Her purse is on the counter. She grabs it and paws frantically through the mess inside. There’s the phone. There. She flips it open.

  “Boo!”

  The room tilts and rights itself at the sound of Isabel’s voice. Luz turns to find the girl pointing up at her from under the table.