"How should I know?" Julio tried hard to keep his voice steady.
"Great kidders, you English," Paco said. "Hey, you guys, he don't know." He looked over at Danny Arriaga. "You didn't tell him?"
"For Chrissakes," Danny said.
"All right, all right, so. You still want in The Aces?"
Julio nodded.
"By which means you got to do whatever I say you got to do, no matter what, right? Okay." Paco drank from the bottle and passed it to Manuel Morales, who drank and gave the bottle to the younger of his brothers, who only wet his lips and gave it back.
Julio knew he'd have to wait, because he remembered Albert's initiation, and how Paco had stalled and watched to see how scared he got. They'd sent Albert to swipe a car that was owned by the manager of Pacific Fruit who always left the key in. That wasn't so bad, even if Albert did wreck the car the same night, driving it back to the club. Swiping a car would be all right.
But from the way Danny looked, it wasn't going to be anything like that. Paco had it in for him ever since he found out about his going to church. Though there must be more to it, because Julio knew that Hernando and Juan went to church, too.
Something deep and strange, hard to figure.
But strong.
"Pretty soon it's time," Paco said, leaning back in the chair. The others were smiling.
The boats rocked uneasily in the small currents, a short drifting.
Julio thought about Paco, about how he'd come to The Aces. It was Danny who joined first, long before, even before Julio was wearing jeans. Paco was later, a new guy on the street. Mr. Mendez was dead, and his mother worked in the Chinese grocery on Aliso Street with the dead cats in the window. No organization to the club, then. Paco moved in and organized. He beat up Vincente Santa Cruz, who was the strongest guy in the Heights, and he introduced the guys to marijuana and showed them where to get it. He'd been booked three times at the jail and was seen with girls tagging after him, even though he wasn't good-looking, only strong and powerful. Danny admired Paco. Julio didn't, but he respected him.
"Charge up, kid." Paco opened a pill box which contained four crude cigarettes.
"Afterwards," Julio said.
"So okay. Afterwards." Paco grinned and winked at the others.
There was silence again: only the water sloshing against the boats and the painful creak of the wicker chair straining back and forth.
The room was very small. THE ACES was whitewashed on the walls, and initials were carved in various places. Except Julio's. His were not on any of the walls. That distinction would come only when he'd finished his job.
No one seemed prepared to break the quiet.
Julio thought, Danny knows. He knew all along, but he wouldn't tell me. Danny was a full-fledged member now. He'd had to break windows out of Major Jewelry and swipe enough watches for the gang. A tough assignment, because of the cops who prowled and wandered around all the time. It took nerve. Julio had broken into a store himself, though--a tire shop--and so he knew he could do it again, although he remembered how afraid he had been.
Why wouldn't they tell him, for Chrissakes? Why stall? If they'd only tell him now, he'd go right out, he was sure. But, any later.
"Scared?" Paco asked, lighting another cigarette and taking off his jacket.
"Listen close--you'll hear me shaking," Julio said.
Danny smiled.
Paco frowned and brought his chair forward with a loud noise.
"What are you so cocky--I'll give you in the mouth in a minute. I asked a question."
"No. I ain't scared."
"That's a crock of shit. Who are you trying to kid, anyway? Me?"
Suddenly Julio hated this leering, posturing Paco as he had never hated a person before. He looked at his friend Danny, but Danny was looking elsewhere.
"Mackerel snapper, isn't it, Julio?" Paco scratched his leg loudly. "What did you, go to confession today or was the priest busy in the back room?" He smiled.
Julio clenched his fists. "Gimme to do, already," he said; and, all at once, he thought of his father, Papa Velasquez. Papa would be working late right now, in the pharmacy, mixing sodas and prescriptions. Business was very good, with the new housing project and all the new trade.
Julio was going to be a pharmacist--everybody knew that, though no one believed it. No one but Father Laurent: he talked to Julio many times, softly, understandingly. And there were many times when Julio wanted to tell the priest what he had done--about the motorcycle or the time he helped the guys push tea--but he could never seem to get the words out.
He waited, hands tight together, listening to the breathing, and thinking: I could go right to the drugstore now, if I wanted. It was only a mile away . . .
He cleared his throat. Albert Dominguin was staring at him.
And now Danny Arriaga was getting sore, too: Julio could tell.
"You want to know, huh? Guys--think I should tell him?"
"Tell him already," Danny snapped, rising to his feet. He looked a lot bigger than Paco, suddenly. "Now."
"Who asked for your mouth?" Paco said, glaring. He looked quickly away. "All right, Julio. But first you got to see this."
Paco reached in his pocket and took out a large bone-handled knife. Julio didn't move.
"Ever use one, kid?"
"Yeah."
"Hey, no shit? What do you think, guys--Julio's an expert!" Paco pressed a button on the knife with his thumb. A long silver blade flashed out, glittering in the greenish light of the boathouse.
"So?"
"So you're going to use it tonight, Julio," Paco said, grinning broadly and rocking in the chair. The others crouched and held their cigarettes in their mouths.
Danny seemed about to speak up, but he held himself in check.
"On what?" Julio said.
"No, kid--not on what, on who." Paco flipped the knife toward Julio's foot, but it landed handle-down and slid to a corner. Julio picked it up, pressed the button, folded back the blade and put the knife in his pocket.
"All right, who. On who?"
He remembered what the Kats had done to the old woman over on Pregunta. For eighty-three cents.
"A dirty son of a bitch that's got it coming," Paco said. He waited. "Hey, kid, what's wrong? You look sick."
"What are you talking, for Chrissakes? What do you want I should do?"
"Carry out a very important mission for our group, that's what. You're a very important man, Julio Velasquez. Know that?"
Near Cuernavaca, by the caverns of Cacahuamilpa, Grandfather had seen a man lying still in the bushes. The man was dead. But not only that--he had been dead for a long time. Grandfather used to sit after the coffee and tell about it; and it was always terrifying because Grandfather had a quiet way of talking, without emphasis, without excitement.
-- "Quien fue el hombre, Papa?"
-- "Quien Un hombre muy importante en el pueblo!"
Always; theii the slow description, unrolling like one of Mama's stringballs. The man had been a rich one of the village, influential and well liked, owner of a beautiful hacienda, over two thousand acres of land. Then one night he didn't come back when he should have, and the next night it was the same, and the next night, and after the searches, he was forgotten. It was Grandfather who found him. But the flies and the vultures had found him first.
-- "Como murió el hombre?" He had been murdered. The knife was still between his ribs and the flesh had softened and decayed around the knife.
Death . . .
Julio always thought of death as the rich man from Cuernavaca.
"What'd he do?" Julio asked. "This guy."
"He got to do something?" Paco said, laughing. Then: "Plenty. You know when we all went to the Orpheum the other night and you had to stay home on account of your old man or something?"
"Yeah. Sure."
"Okay. They got Billy Daniels and a picture that's supposed to be good, y'know? Okay, we start to pay when the chick at the window picks
up the phone and says, 'Wait a minute.' Pretty soon the brass comes out and starts to look us over, real cool, see, like he had a bug up or something. I talk to him and it's all right--we go in. Five goddam dollars. So--the show stinks, the movie: it's cornball, and we go to get our loot back. Guy at the window now, no broad. He says 'Nooo.' I ask to see the manager, but he's gone. They won't give us back our loot. What do we do? What would you do, Julio?"
"Raise a stink."
"You bet your sweet ass. That's what we do, what happens? Big Jew punk comes barrelin' down the aisle, says he's the assistant manager. We got to blow, see. But no loot, no, man. Then he took Albert by the hair and kicked him. Right, Albert?"
Albert nodded.
"So naturally this isn't for The Aces. I didn't say nothing after that, except I let the schmuck know he'd get his, later on. So we just casually walked out. And here's the thing--" Paco's eyes narrowed dramatically. "That louse is still walking around, Julio, like he never done a thing to anybody, like he never insulted all of us. Know what he said? Know what he called us, Julio?"
"What'd he call you?"
"Pachooks. Wetbacks. Dirty Mex bastards. Crapped his mouth off like that in front of everybody in the show."
"So you want him cut up?"
Paco rocked and smiled. "No, not just cut up. I want that liddle-Yiddle dead, where he can't crap off any more. That's your assignment, Julio. Bring back his ears."
Julio glanced at Danny, who was not smiling. The others were very quiet. They all looked at him.
"When's he get off?" Julio asked, finally.
"Ten-thirty. He walks down Los Angeles street, then he hits Third, down Third till he's around the junction. It's a break, Julio. We followed him for three nights, and there's never anybody around the junction. Get him when he's passing the boon docks over to Alameda. Nobody'll ever see you."
"How will I know him?"
"Fat slob. Big nose, big ears, curly brown hair. Carries something, maybe his lunch-pail--you might bring that back with you. Albert'll go along and point him out, in case he wants to try to give you trouble. He's big, but you can take him."
Julio felt the knife in his pocket. He nodded.
"All right, so this is it. You and Albert, take off in half an hour, wait and hang around the loading docks, but make sure nobody sees you. Then check the time and grab a spot behind the track next to Merchant Truck--you know where it is. He'll pass there around eleven. All right?"
Julio reached for the pill box and controlled his fingers as they removed the last cigarette. Paco grinned.
"So in the meantime, let's have our meeting. Whoever got what, lay it out on the floor."
The boys began reaching into the bags and parcels, and into their pockets, and taking out watches and rings and handfuls of money. These items they spread on the floor.
The rich man, Julio thought, lying still in the bushes, with his fat dead face, waiting for the flies, waiting, while a little Mexican boy with red wet hands runs away, fast, fast . . .
The grating sound of heavy machinery being pushed across cement came muffled through the wooden doors of the freight dock. There were a few indistinct voices, and the distant hum of other machines that never stopped working.
The night was still airless. Julio and Albert Dominguin walked along the vacant land by the boxcar, clinging to the shadows and speaking little.
Finally Julio said, "This guy really do all that that Paco said?"
"He got smart," Albert said.
"Kick you?"
"You could call it that. Just as good."
"So what kind of stink you guys raise to cause all that?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing my ass."
"Aah, you know Paco. He got p-o'ed at the picture and started to horse around. Dropped a beer bottle off of the balcony or something, I don't know."
"Then this guy booted you guys out?"
"Yeah."
"Did Paco give him a fight?"
"No," Albert said, thoughtfully. They climbed up the side of a car and jumped from the top to the ground. "He's too smart for that. They would of called the cops and all that kind of crap. This way's better."
"Yeah."
"Nervous?"
"Yeah, real nervous. I'm dying to death, I'm so frigging nervous. Listen--when I get through tonight, Paco and all the rest of you guys better lay off me."
"Don't worry."
"So what is it?"
"Twenty-of. This is the place--he went by right over there."
Julio wondered if Albert could hear his heart. And if Albert could read his thoughts
He felt the greasy knife handle slip in his hands, so he took it out and wiped it on his trousers and tested it. He pushed the point of the blade into the soft wood of a car, pretending it was the Jewish boy's neck.
He pulled the knife and didn't do that any more.
They sat on the cindery ground beside a huge iron wheel.
"Really a rat, huh?" Julio said.
"The most," Albert said.
"How old?"
"Who knows--twenty-five, thirty. You can't tell with them."
"You don't suppose he--I mean this guy--you don't think he's got a family or anything like that, do you?"
"What the hell kind of thing is that to say? Christ, no! Who'd marry a greaseball slob like that?" Albert laughed softly, and took from his leather jacket pocket a redhandled knife that had to be operated manually. He opened it and began to clean his fingernails. Every two or three seconds he glanced up toward the dark unpaved street.
"So nobody's going to miss him, right?" Julio said.
"No. We're going to all break down and cry. What's the matter, you chickening out? If you are, I ain't going to sit here on my can all--"
Julio clutched Albert's shirt-front and gathered it in his fist. "Shut up. You hear? Shut your goddam face about that stuff or I'll break it for you."
"Shhh, quiet down. . . we'll talk later. Let go. If you want to screw everything, just keep shooting your mouth."
Julio felt perspiration course down his legs.
He tried to stop the shudder.
"Okay," he said.
On tracks a mile distant a string of freight cars lumbered clumsily out of a siding, punching with heavy sounds at the night. There were tiny human noises, too, like small birds high out of sight. Otherwise, there was only his own breathing.
"I want to hear 'mackerel snapper' when this is over," Julio said.
"You ain't done nothing yet," Albert said, looking away quickly.
"Screw you," Julio said. But his voice started to crack, so he forced a yawn and stretched out his legs. "So when the hell we going to get a goddam sickle?" he said.
Albert didn't answer.
"Kind of a gang is this, anyway, we don't have any goddam sickles?"
"Five-of. He ought to be along pretty quick now."
Julio grinned, closed the knife, reopened it with a swift soft click, closed it again. His hands were moist and the knife handle was coated with a grimy sweat which made it slippery. He wiped it carefully along the sides of his jeans.
"The Kats have got sickles. Five, for Chrissakes."
"Kats, schmats," Albert said. "Knock it off, will you?"
"What's the matter, Albert? Don't tell me you're scared!"
Albert drew back his fist and hit Julio's shoulder, then quickly put a finger to his lips. "Shhh!"
They listened.
It was nothing.
"Hey, little boy, hey Albert, know what?" Julio combed his hair. "Know what I know? Paco, he don't think I'll do it. He wants you and Ito come back so he can give with the big-man routine. He don't think I'll do it."
Albert looked interested.
"He's real sharp. Having a great big ball right now. Where's it going to put him when we get back with the Jewboy's ears?" Julio laughed.
In the stillness, footsteps rang sharply on the ground, but ponderously as gravel was crunched and stones were sent snapping.
The
footsteps grew louder.
Albert listened, then he rose slowly and brushed the dirt from his jeans. He opened his knife, looked at Julio and Julio got up. They hunched close by the shadow of the boxcar.
The steps were irregular, and for a moment Julio thought it sounded like a woman. For another moment he heard Grandfather's words and saw the carrion in the brushes.
The images scattered and disappeared.
"Dumb jerk don't know what he walking into, right?" Julio whispered. The words frightened him. Albert wasn't moving. "Wetbacks. Greasers. Mex--right? Okay. Okay, Albert? Okay." The blade sprang out of the handle.
"Shut up," Albert whispered. "There he is. See him?"
There were no streetlamps, so the figure was indistinct. In the darkness it could be determined that the figure was that of a man: heavy set, not old, walking slowly, almost as if he were afraid of something.
"That's him," Albert said, letting out a stream of breath.
Julio's throat was dry. It pained him when he tried to swallow. "Okay," he said.
Albert said, "Okay, look. Go up and pretend you want a handout, y'know? Make it good. Then let him have it, right away."
"I thought I saw something," Julio said.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I thought I saw something, I thought I saw something. You mind?"
"Where?"
"I couldn't make out."
"Who you bulling? You want to go back?"
"All right, so I was wrong."
The figure had passed the boxcar and disappeared into the shadows, but the footsteps were still clear.
"You ready?" Albert said.
Julio paused, then he nodded.
"The hell," Albert said. "You're scared green. You'll probably louse it all up. Let's go back."
Julio thought of going back. Of what would be said, of all the eyes turned on him like ominous spotlights. The laughter he heard was what he hated most.
Albert looked anxious; the footsteps were dying away.
"Screw you," Julio said. "You coming with, or not?" He put the knife up his sleeve and held it there with his palm cupped underneath.
Albert rubbed his hands along his shirt. "All right, I'll follow you--about a minute. Sixty seconds."
The Howling Man Page 21
