by Jeff Klima
“I would never let anyone hurt you. Never.” I don’t step forward again, instead giving her the space she needs. “I don’t know that I can solve the mental shit yet. But I think I can at least slam my two physical problems together. And I think I can do it without you or me getting hurt in the process.”
“That sounds good,” she says, wiping the mascara tears, streaking them across her face. She takes a step back toward me, a small one. “God, we’re so fucked up, aren’t we?”
“We are.” I nod. “But I think we’re getting better.”
Chapter 24
The gun, still loaded, tucks uneasily into the waistband of my black slacks, and I pull my white T-shirt over it to suppress the handle. It still looks bulky and obtuse, an obvious indication that I am stashing something. But in this neighborhood, it is best to let the natives know I am packing. Climbing out and around to the back of my car, searching out prying eyes, I see nothing on this late Monday morning. It doesn’t mean no one is watching—neighborhoods like these have mastered the art of seeing everything. I add a faded zippered hoodie from my truck to the mix, pulling the sweatshirt’s hood down low over my eyes. It’s hot for a sweatshirt, but a white guy will stick out less in this neighborhood if he looks like an oblivious junkie. I begin my deliberate trek toward the clubhouse, adding a sort of meandering sway to my step—just a whacked-out tweaker in search of fresh crystal. The house seems innocent enough up close, pale green exterior, shingled roof, the little plots of grass a mix of dying and dead blades, yellow and tan through the black metal fence with its tarnished spikes. They’re just a little too spiky to climb over, so I continue on, seeking movement inside the house from side glances. There is nothing, but I continue my sway past the gate and onward, up the sidewalk toward the next house. Tall unpainted fences separate the front yard from the back, obscuring my view, but there is an alleyway behind these houses and I decide it’s my best bet.
I reach the corner, counting three houses away from my target. Far above, a hawk circles, also in search of a meal. Am I a hawk or a meal now, I wonder. I’m just a block away from my car, but it’s an impossible distance now if shit goes off. Dropping the druggie act, I make my way quickly to the alley and back down it, stopping at the boxy garage door of the Sureño’s clubhouse. The same weathered unpainted fencing extends here as well, with a gate that has been padlocked closed. The fence is too tall to see over, so I glance around once more ensuring that no one is actively clocking my movements. The world on both sides of the fence is cemetery silent. I steel my reserve, nervous and sweating buckets into the lining of my hoodie. “You were never gonna live forever, Tom,” I remind myself. Easing myself up onto a boxy city-issued trashcan outside the fence, one that has been graffitied to hell with indecipherable symbols tagged atop one another into a mess of obfuscated nothing, I wait for the plastic lid to dimple beneath my weight. When it does, I rise slowly, lifting my frame so my eyes can peer into the backyard.
Empty, the backyard is a tidy square-shaped ode to normal SoCal living. The only indicators that any ruckus occurs here are a well-spattered iron barbecue grill missing its top half and the city-issued recycling bin, also missing its top and nearly full of empty bottles and cans. The grass back here is less mowed, but trampled down from countless parties. Beyond that, the back door stands above two small concrete steps and a screen, meant to keep bugs out, has been tied open from a knotted length of twine. The twin windows on either side of the door have their shades drawn, half-closed, giving the back of the house a sort of exhausted look to it. There’s still no movement to be seen, but that means nothing now.
I’d been to my office extra early this morning, nervously circling, looking for signs of a Sureño Lowrider watchman. Cruising the blocks several times, I’d scanned rooftops and the entranceways of stores. Fortunately, most businesses were still closed and their protective metal roll-top doors were down and locked, offering little in the way of hiding places to an SL spotter on the lookout for me. When I was certain I was all alone, I parked, pulling the Charger close to the front door. The eyes of Mikey’s movie billboard stared down at me in silent judgment, still angry. Perhaps it knows what I’m up to? I’d thought. It was to my benefit now that the work truck was still in the police impound lot. It was one less thing to worry about. For the time being, Trauma-Gone is effectively closed for business.
I’d loaded anything into my car that was irreplaceable or expensive—my computer, my work crate, camera, power tools, and any relevant paperwork from the desk. Fortunately, all the biohazard I’d collected during the previous week had been picked up on Friday. There was nothing left in the garage but some empty metal drums and my overstock of cleaning supplies. Everything would go into storage to wait out the forthcoming war. And if I died . . . it wouldn’t matter anyhow. Trauma-Gone could die with me.
Finally, before locking the doors to the space, I wrote a simple note and left it taped to the window of the front door: “We’ve Moved.” I didn’t think it would be a deterrent for what I imagined Coco and his boys would do, but it was a sturdy brick building. It would withstand their rage.
This is for Harold, I remind myself and vault up and over the fence, my feet landing lightly on the barbecue grill. I watch the windows, anticipating movement but there is only silence and so I drop down, continuing. A thump near the roofline surprises me and I halt, but it is only a rodent-like brown bird making its way out of its unseen nest. It goes flapping skyward and I scan quickly for the hawk to make its move, but the skyline above is empty and the little bird gets to live a little longer.
I fix my eyes on the back door, moving to it, traversing the broken grass on the tips of my toes. It worries me that when I heard the thump from the bird, my hands didn’t instinctively reach for the gun in my waistband. I’ve got to be better than that.
Up the steps and at the door, I pull the gun now. It’s me or them from here on out—jail isn’t an option. Sliding the fingers of my free hand back into the loose sleeve of the hoodie, I use the cloth to grip the door. If the cops come looking for a shooter, they’ll graphite the hell out of any surface anyone might have touched. It’s my goal that my fingerprints don’t come up. The knob turns almost too easily and the back door sails open, no squeaks . . . just like my own place. They’ve got pride of ownership in their clubhouse—I respect that. I rest the door, sitting open, quietly against a washing machine to my right. The space is small, built before washing machines were commonplace and the door doesn’t fully open. That must be a pain at parties, I think. Beyond the narrow space is the kitchen. It’s empty.
I move on, my feet seeking out the strong points in the floor so as not to make the beams beneath the ’50s-era tile squeak. The house was sturdily built though, and the floor holds as I edge forward, ears straining for anything. The counters, tiled with ceramic, are clean, but the faint residue of dirtier times remains streaked and stained across their surface. A small table with an ancient blue diner booth sits to one side, also empty of contents.
The dining room beyond looks carpeted, for which I am thankful. My own steps are too loud for my taste and I keep the pistol extended in front of me now, safety off, ready to fire. Dropping it down to my waist, at the entry arch, I poke my head out to surveil the dining room. It’s an open space that feeds into the living room. No talking, no surprises so far. Missing a table, with the giant green banner of the Sureño Lowriders hanging proudly across the wall. Well, now I’m certain I’m in the right place.
The kitchen extends too far out though, and all I can see of the front room’s space is the backside of a couch perpendicular to the front door. Another flag adorns the wall there. The dead bolt on the front entry is thrown, I note, relieved. The seconds will count if someone comes in, and I will at least be able to hear the keys or the lock. I hope.
I take one last breath in the safety of the kitchen and step out into the dining room sideways, facing the living room, the handgun once more raised. And then I see them.
<
br /> Two thugs—boys, really, still teens, are splayed out across the mismatched long couches in the living room. Both are asleep—or passed out, judging by the 40s of King Cobra sitting empty on the floor before them. Another chair, empty, has been forced into the space surrounding a television unit that blocks an unnecessary fireplace. The TV screen is on, silently awaiting direction on a videogame, its action paused at the “Game Over” screen.
I watch the two of them, my pistol aimed, ready to spit fire, but neither of them moves. I don’t know what to do here—the two are small, both smaller than me, their arms free of distinguishing tattoos and it appears they’re only groupies. I see no weapons, only game controllers tucked into their mitts. Exhaling, I allow my self a glance toward the short length of hallway to my right.
Looking back, the boys haven’t moved. What are you going to do? I ask myself and then remember there wasn’t exactly a plan to begin with. Everything has been impulse. Disruption is my goal. I want the Lowriders to know they are vulnerable as well. With that as my mantra, I lean into the floorboards, forcing one to groan, keeping the gun aimed. They don’t even stir. I relax slightly, relieved. My fight isn’t with them anyway . . . not yet, at least. I decide to keep going, moving on into the clubhouse, but keeping my piece aimed in their direction. In the squat length of hallway, I have four doors to choose from, all closed.
I try the first and it opens slowly, giving a sharp crack at the top as the paint rubs against the framework. A bathroom. It too is maintained and tidy. The shower curtain is even drawn across the length of the tub to prevent mildew. Ivy would do well to learn some cleaning tips from the Lowriders. It’s all jailhouse discipline, I realize. The higher-ups in the Lowriders likely learned the importance of cleanliness in prison. I too had been schooled in keeping a well-made cot and living quarters, but I’d learned those lessons earlier, from my parents—that too had been a prison of sorts though.
I don’t bother closing the bathroom door. At this point it doesn’t matter what I do; it’s all part of the message. The next doorway enters into a bedroom. The full-size bed is unoccupied, with an emerald-green bra hanging off one end of its headboard. Above the bed is the flag of Mexico and around it, assorted thongs are staked to the wall like bugs in an entomologist’s exhibit. Beneath the length of the black covers, I spy an AK-47, clip in, lying at the ready on the floor. I tuck the pistol back into my waist and retrieve the machine gun. Having been caught knowing jack shit about weapons the last time around, I’ve spent the past few months becoming more savvy. I slide the safety down to center on the receiver, setting it to fully automatic. It’s a nasty-looking weapon. Unable to control myself, I turn quick to a large wall mural spray-painted behind me, a voluptuous Latina on her hands and knees, ass up, as she smiles demurely back at me. I pretend to blast across the wall, keeping my finger securely off the trigger. In spite of my situation, I smile, liking the weighted feel of my new weapon.
The moment over, I refocus and search the bedside drawers, using my sleeve once again to open them. As expected, an impressive array of loose condoms is at the ready for this pussy crusher. A single photograph is in there along with an assortment of weed pipes. I glance at the photo, not recognizing the thug or the motherly woman in it. Toward the back, in front of a dick pump, a twist-tied baggie of heroin sits, dusty tan in color, beckoning to me. I feel myself salivate at the thought of it and snatch it up too, desperate to reassure myself that it’s only part of my disruption process. I tuck it into my pocket and abandon the drawer. Part of me wants to take the picture of the mom as well, to really fuck with their heads, but it will send a very different message if I do. On my side at least, family members aren’t a part of this. For Harold’s sake, I wished they felt the same way.
The closet appears empty of loot—only clothes and a stained plastic milk crate full of spray-paint cans.
Moving on to the next bedroom, I glance back out at the slumbering guards first. I can only see one couch from my vantage point, but the kid is still dead asleep. The next room is more subdued, wooden shelves hold an assortment of trophies from car contests and muscle-building powder. A single thong is tacked to the wall in here and I feel slightly sad for this guy. He isn’t the lothario his homey is, so he’s duped himself into compensating for it with car culture and bodybuilding. His bedspread, adorned with a printed white Impala, looks to be one of those cheap blankets sold out of vans beneath overpasses all over the city. Having been in so many homes, scraping up the dead, I notice that this invasion of privacy feels second nature to me. I dig into his drawers, finding a single box of condoms, unopened. Along with them, capped and loaded syringes and pills with names like androstenedione and boldenone. I scoop ’em all up and put them in the pockets of my hoodie along with a gallon-size baggie of weed that is less than a third full. There is also a pair of rubber gloves in the drawer, which I decide to make use of. If they were in the other guy’s room, I wouldn’t have trusted them. In a smarter frame of mind, I’d have brought my own gloves, but then, in a smarter frame of mind, I wouldn’t even be here.
The third bedroom belongs to the paterfamilias of the house, no doubt. It’s a man’s room, with pictures of his children instead of cars and pussy. A medallion necklace of an eagle’s head rests on the long wooden dresser—I recognize it as belonging to Coco. Perfect. This is Harold’s killer. This is where I need to leave my message.
A stacked lockbox sits beneath the bed next to a series of small, familiar cardboard boxes—he used to leave boxes like this for me when I did his “cleaning.” I search his dresser for the key to the lockbox and find it quickly beneath his assorted boxers. There is no time to worry about the guys in the living room; it already feels like I’ve been here too long. Opening the box, I find a gold-plated .50 caliber handgun, a shiny thing with an ornate image of Lady Death carved into the handle.
Surrounding the enormous pistol are stacked bullets, some with names written on the tips in fine script. I want to search out my name among them, but I focus instead on the two stacks of hundred-dollar bills sorted into increments of $10,000 each. I take the gun and, having no room for it in front, slip it into the back of my waistband where it extends huge and bulky.
Lifting out the top tray, I find a cache of Ecstasy pills, heroin, and cocaine in bulk supplies, nothing portioned out for individual use. Nope, this is all about selling and not using. I’ve run out of room to carry any of it, so I search the closet for a bag. Inside, a large black duffel sits.
Curious, I slide the zipper open on the bag and find steel inside—lots of it. All guns. Black, silver, nickel plated, machine guns, submachine guns, and handguns. Uzis, TEC-9s, none of it legal, I’m sure. Nothing so nice as the golden .50 caliber, but then, what could be? I haul the duffel out of the closet, lifting it with both hands. It’s heavy, but I don’t dare leave it behind. There’s a good chance that the guns that killed Harold are somewhere inside. Setting it on the bed, I find nothing else that would make a good tote for the drugs, so instead, I carry the mess out and to the toilet, which being in the clubhouse of men, has the seat in the up position. The powders go in first, clumping down into the water, absorbing it, diluting. Next I dump the Ecstasy in, the small white pills spilling out through a hole I tear in the bag. The syringes and steroids go in as well, with me uncapping the syringes to let their liquids spill free. All that’s left is the smaller baggie of heroin. I hesitate for a moment, really considering keeping it. It would be amazing to feel that high at least one more time. But then I rip it open and dump it as well. All of it is now worthless. But I am not yet finished.
Heading back into the first bedroom, I grab a can of spray paint in each hand, neon orange and silver, and cautiously rolling the marble around within each can rather than shaking it, I begin my assault, streaking the bedroom with thick mists of paint—walls, bedding, thongs, and bra. I ignore the Mexican flag and the wall mural out of a semblance of respect for culture and art, but tag the TV screen and the furniture as well
as the clothes in the closet. I move into the next bedroom and resume my attack, hitting the trophies and car parts. I stop briefly to dump the muscle powder on the floor, careful not to leave a footprint in it, and then head back to Coco’s room.
Instead of spray-painting the contents of the room as I did the others, I instead focus on the blank expanse of white wall above his bed. Standing on the mattress beside the duffel bag, I aim the orange can of paint and spray out a name: Mikey Echo. The writing is streaky but good. Below it I add a biohazard symbol so there is no doubt. Though I lack the talent of the artist who did the naked Latina, I will get the point across nicely through my tagging. Coco will understand.
Dropping the can, I find I am scared of what I have done. From here on out, this is the point of no return. I toss off the rubber gloves, their exterior wet with paint, and grab up the AK-47. As a final insult, I take Coco’s eagle-medallion necklace from the dresser and, for lack of a better spot, slip it around my neck.
Then I hear the dead bolt being thrown open.
Chapter 25
With an AK-47 in my hands and a bag full of guns beside me, I am not quite trapped like a rat, but this is fucking bad. Scratch that, bad is a fucking understatement. This is now a kamikaze mission, a one-way ticket sort of scenario. The door opens and footsteps, a single pair, enter the house, the metal safety door banging behind them loudly.
“Wake up, fuckers!” I hear the voice announce loudly in the front room, angry and accented. “You’re supposed to be watching the clubhouse—what kind of bullshit is this? You pass out? Fucking worthless.”
The return is groggy, mumbled and indistinguishable. The new arrival doesn’t like what he hears. “You’re lucky it’s just me and not Coco—he would be a lot more furious.”
I glance toward the windows, all of them are barred with thick iron poles. It really is the jailhouse all over again. Through the front window I make out a lowered white Impala on the street, glossy and chromed—a perfect match for the blanket in bedroom number two. The musclehead. He must have come up while I was spraying. I step cautiously to the other side of the room, level with Coco’s bedroom door. The sweat has turned heavy and cold on my skin, clinging, making me shiver, and I have to force my teeth to not clack together. I raise the AK-47 to chest height, readying myself to start firing as soon as I see brown flesh come through the doorway. It’s more fear than I prepared myself for—I am shaking slightly and I realize how much I do not want to die here in this house.
