by Keri Lake
I’ve got Ivy set up in a small, but clean, motel, about twelve miles north of here in El Centro, one of the bigger nearby cities. One I hope she’ll blend into without getting noticed. Hard to expect from a woman who never goes unnoticed. Even ten minutes away seems too far, for the way this place makes me uneasy, but there might be some logic to staying right under the Goat’s nose.
I turn the car into the parking lot of Our Lady of Guadalupe, toward the parish offices at the back. Exiting my car, I notice a kid, maybe sixteen, or seventeen, leaning against the wall of a cheap motel across the street. When I nod at him, the kid flips me off.
Nice town.
Inside the building, a short, pudgy woman, pushing sixty, is sitting at a desk, and she greets me with a smile. “Hello,” she says with a strong Spanish accent. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Father Damon Russo.”
“Ah! Welcome, Padre! We’ve been expecting you! One moment.” She pushes up from the desk and hobbles off toward what must be offices behind her, stopping at the first door on the right. “Padre Damon está aquí.”
I understand a sparing amount of the language to recognize she let him know I’m here.
“Gracias.” Seconds later, he exits the office with a smile that withers as he approaches me. “You’re the new priest?” Like the secretary’s, his accent is also strong.
“Yes. Damon Russo.” I hold out my hand, and he frowns as he returns the handshake.
“Javier.” He tips his head, studying me. “Are you bilingual, Damon?”
“No. I understand some Spanish, having lived in LA, but I don’t speak it fluently.”
“I see. The diocese typically sends Spanish-speaking priests, based on the demographics here.”
“I’m assuming many of your parishioners understand English?”
“Of course, but they prefer a priest who is familiar with their ways. The church has become a very strong presence in this community. I’m not sure you’d be a good fit for our congregation.”
There’s something odd about this priest, a strangeness to his personality that already has me on alert, but it’s also the first time any man of the cloth has ever attempted to turn me away. His mannerisms are a red flag.
“I worked in the same parish as Fernando Ruiz. He told me about your church. How you needed some help.”
The mention of Ruiz seems to spark some small measure of curiosity, at least, when his brows wing up. “Ah, yes. I’ve been trying to get Ruiz himself down here.” His eyes sweep over me, and he clasps his hands behind his back. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll try a few days, and if it works out, you stay. If it doesn’t, well, you wouldn’t be the first.”
“There’ve been many who left?”
He glances back toward the secretary, who has her head buried in paperwork, and returns his gaze to me, giving a nod. “Let me show you the rectory.”
I follow him out the door of the offices, and both of us come to a stop beside my car, where Vete al carajo has been spraypainted in black on the side of it. Go fuck yourself. I know that one, too.
“My apologies, Damon.” With a sigh, he shakes his head. “I’m trying my best to reach out to these kids, but it’s not been easy. My comments earlier have little to do with you, and more to do with the experiences I’ve had with other priests.”
“Were they non-hispanic, as well?”
“No, we had one … Father Vasquez. They found him to be quite strict.” He blows out an exasperated breath and waves his hand for me to follow after him. “They drew obscenities on his alb and tied an obscene sex toy to his window, using his cincture.”
Rounding the church brings a fairly modern, two-story house into view. Flowers planted in the front gardens, and the nicely trimmed lawn, make me wonder if Javier manages it himself.”
“The church must be very sacred to these kids?”
“I wish I could say that’s true, but none of them tend to show for mass, or reconciliation. And believe me, they have much to atone for.”
“Then, why are they so protective of this particular church? And why haven’t they run you out of town?”
Brows raised, he shrugs, and a smile stretches across his face. “It makes no sense to me, either. I didn’t request you. I haven’t requested help in quite some time. We’ve managed just fine here.”
I know he didn’t request me. I requested myself, and by the looks of things, that request wasn’t welcome. “I see that. But perhaps I can take some of the pressure off of you.”
He leads me inside the house, which is far more modern and well-kempt than the rectory back in LA. “You pretty much have full run of this place.”
“You don’t live at the rectory?”
“No. I like having my own space, so I rent a home across town.”
There’s no way our church would’ve supported an unused home like this and paid rent for a second home across town. “How does the church afford it?”
“Generous donations from the congregation.”
Taking the lead up the staircase, he points out the two bedrooms of the upper level, which make my old, small room look like a closet. What looks to be a king-sized bed doesn’t even take up half the room’s size. A dresser made of polished cherry wood and a walk in closet fill some of the space, too. The bathroom at the opposite side of the room looks like something out of a magazine, with beautiful ornate tiles, and a glass shower stall with shiny brass hardware. Excessive.
“This is quite opulent,” I say.
“Either bedroom is open to you. They’re both similar in size and layout, though this has the nicer view of the neighborhood. The other is just the backside of the church.”
In all my years as a priest, I’ve never stayed in anything more than what the church was able to afford, which in all cases, didn’t come close to this.
“I’m speechless. You must get rather large donations.”
“We do. Our older, retired members, in particular, insist on taking care of their priest. I have to admit, it’s what has kept me here. Not the money, of course, but the loyalty and generosity are unlike anything I’ve seen anywhere else.”
“Likewise.” I stare out the window, where the kid from earlier, the one who flipped me off, sits smoking on the curb across the street. “You said old, retired members, correct?”
“Yes. They make up the majority of the congregation.”
“Any gang members?”
“A few. Some of them have oddly skewed views on what is considered sin, but either way, we don’t discriminate, so long as they don’t bring trouble into the church. So far, that hasn’t been an issue.”
“I’ve heard rumors of one. He goes by the name El Cabro Blanco.”
“Ah, yes. The fabled white goat of the south.” There’s an air of amusement on his voice, in spite of the man’s austere demeanor.
“Fabled?”
“I’m afraid his stories are a bit taller than his actual accomplishments.”
“You know him?”
“I know of him, just as you. If you stay long enough, you’ll find he’s not the threat everyone makes him out to be.”
“I think you’re the first to tell me that.”
He chuckles, crossing the room to stand beside me, where he looks down toward the kid still sitting on the curb. “Pajaros.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
With a nod toward the kid, he doesn’t bother to break his stare. “They work for him. The Goat. He calls them his little birds. Supposedly. They keep an eye on things. You’ll be fresh news.” Stepping away from the window, he shuffles back toward the door. “Get settled. I’ll have you perform Reconciliation tonight. This Sunday, I expect a large turn out for Mass, and I’ll be sure to introduce you then. Our secretary, Ramira, took the liberty of stocking the fridge in case you get hungry.”
“Thank you.”
“Buena suerte,” he says, before exiting the room.
Seconds later, the click of the door on the lower level tells me he’s
left.
When I look out the window again, the boy is gone.
29
IVY
My room smells like chlorine from the pool at the back of the building, and the throbbing ache in my skull tells me I need some fresh air. Rubbing my temple, I step out onto the balcony of my room, two stories up from the sidewalk, and light up a smoke. Okay, not quite fresh air, but it’ll do. While El Centro is one of the bigger cities this far south, it’s certainly not as overwhelming and smoggy as Los Angeles.
“¿Como te llamas, Mami?”
The shout comes from below, and I look down to see a young kid, maybe eighteen, holding his junk as he kisses two fingers and points toward me.
With a frown, I ignore him, and his request to know my name, and take a drag of my cigarette.
“S’like that, huh?”
I don’t even spare him the glance this time. Reason number two I’ll be swapping rooms. Preferably one too high to hear his catcalls.
“Juliet! Oh, Juliet! Come down on Romeo!” He snickers and thrusts his crotch toward me, but doesn’t see the older woman who comes up from behind and slaps him upside the head. “Ah! I’m sorry, Abuela! I’m sorry!”
A chuckle escapes me, watching him try to duck away from her swatting arms.
She points a finger to him, then to me. “Si no tienes nada bueno que decir.” Gripping his chin, she looks him in the eye. “Mejor no digas nada.”
My Spanish is horrible, but I’ve picked up enough to know she’s chiding him.
His face scrunches with remorse, and he drops his gaze. “Lo siento.”
For the second time, she points to me. “La dama.”
The huff of frustration tells me he’s embarrassed, but he steps toward me, fingers curled around the stick of his broom. “I’m sorry if I disrespected you.”
Snorting a laugh, I shake my head. “It’s okay.”
His grandmother hobbles off back inside, and he goes back to sweeping the sidewalk in front of what appears to be a mom and pop kind of store.
I take another drag of my cigarette, eyeing him as I do. Not a bad looking kid, with his sun-bronzed skin, light colored eyes, and dark hair—certainly one who doesn’t need to solicit strangers to get attention, that’s for sure.
Once he’s finished, he plops down on the curb beneath my balcony and lights up a smoke of his own. “Are you here for business, or pleasure?” he asks, resting his elbows atop his knees.
“I’m not answering that.” I stare off across the street at the La Taqueria calling my name.
“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I just mean … what brings you here?”
Shrugging, I flick my ash into the styrofoam cup I left out from last time. “Just visiting. Hey,” I say, nodding toward the restaurant. “They have good food?”
“If you like the fast food shit. My abuela makes the best tortas and tamales on the block.”
Leaning forward, I scan over the fruit set out on the sidewalk in baskets and a sign in the window that reads las mejores tortas y flautas de tu ciudad. “Cool. I’ll stop in.” Flicking the butt of my smoke into the cup, I swirl it around in the small bit of water until it’s out. “So, what’s your story? You work for her?”
“For a while. Until I head off to community college.”
“College? Really?”
The look he shoots me, brimming with all kinds of disdain, makes me regret the comment.
“Sorry, I just thought—”
“I was a thug. Tunnel rat?” He takes another drag. “My older brother went that route. Didn’t work out for him. ‘S’why I’m working here. I’m getting out of this city. Gonna make something of myself.”
“That’s great. I didn’t mean to imply …. I think that’s awesome. What will you study?”
“Agriculture. Maybe business. My grandma and grandpa opened this place, one of a handful of changarro, back when my mom was a baby. Been here ever since.”
“You have a better plan than I do. Stick with it.” Rubbing my hands together, I smile. “My name’s … Ivy.” The small bit of hesitation is quickly doused by the understanding that this kid probably isn’t hanging around known criminals, if he’s working toward college.
“I’m Sergio.”
“Nice to meet you, Sergio. See? Isn’t that so much nicer than what’s your name, Mami?”
A burst of laughter escapes him, and he shakes his head. “I try.”
“Well, try harder. Me gusta que me traten como a una dama.” I like to be treated like a lady. I don’t speak a lot of Spanish, at all, really. Think I might’ve heard that one in a song, or something.
With a smile, he nods. “No disrespect.”
30
DAMON
An hour has somehow slipped by, and not one person has entered the confessional, but that doesn’t exactly trouble me. I’m not here for the parish, I’m here to find a killer, a ruthless murderer, who, in spite of what Father Javier says, is thought to be responsible for unspeakable atrocities. Including the slaughter of my family.
I thought the church would be a good cover and help me lay low, but there’s something odd about the way the street kids, or pajaros, as Javier called them, seem to be connected to this place.
As if they’re protecting it from outsiders.
Why?
I’m guessing the only way I’ll ever truly know is by asking, and I’d have to get close enough to do that, which would put me well within spray painting distance.
With a huff, I exit the confessional. While it’s been a good opportunity to sit and reflect, as I’ve always enjoyed, there’s no sense wasting anymore time. About a dozen bowed heads greet me as I exit the stuffy box, not one of them bothering to look up at me as they kneel, scattered throughout the pews.
Javier stands off to the side of the sanctuary, speaking with an older woman. He smiles and kisses the top of her head, before leading her toward the confessional.
As I make my way back inside, Javier sets his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll take her confession, Damon.”
Rolling my shoulders, I glance to where the woman has stepped inside already. “Of course.”
“I know you’ve had quite a day. Perhaps you’d like to get some rest in preparation for tomorrow morning’s mass.”
“That’s probably wise.”
“Have a good night, Damon.” With a pat on my shoulder, he disappears inside the box, and simply out of curiosity, I wait a couple minutes to see the woman step out, and another enter after her. A few of the others glance up from their prayer, as though gauging their turn.
Shaking my head, I make my way back to the Sacristy to remove my vestments, and take the back entrance toward my graffiti-laden car. I’ll have to Google what effectively removes spray paint without messing up the paint job itself.
The moon is high and bright here, where the open spaces and lack of big city lights make the stars pop. I round the church on my way to the rectory, and a force hits my spine, knocking me forward. Pavement scrapes against my skin, tearing my palms as I smack the cement. Before I can turn to face my attacker, another whack hits the back of my thighs.
Red heat climbs my muscles, where an aching throb has settled down to my bones, and I can damn near feel the bruise taking hold there.
“Ah, fuck!” I twist just enough to catch the business end of a baseball bat raised above the masked face looming over me, and I lift my arm to shield what little I can.
“Hey! What are you doing?” A distant voice calls out, and when the masked man startles, I steal the opportunity to kick his legs out from under him.
His body crashes to the ground, spine-first, and the bat rolls onto the street.
The pain in my legs turns numb for the rage that seethes in my blood, offering just enough adrenaline to scramble over top of him, fist drawn back, and yank his balaclava mask away to get a good look at the face I’m about to mutilate.
It’s the boy from earlier. The one who flipped me off and watched me from the rectory
window. No doubt, the one who spray painted my car. Brows pinched together and hands raised to shield his eyes, he looks like a frightened child beneath me.
“Why are you doing this? What is this church to you?”
The voice from before belongs to an older man, who hobbles alongside the two of us, and I glance to the side to see him bent forward, catching his breath. “Phew! Time to trade this model in for a new one.” He doesn’t carry a Spanish accent, and the redder tones of his skin that I can make out under the street light tell me he probably isn’t Mexican. In fact, his graying beard and silvery hair, pulled back into a slick ponytail, makes him look like Santa Claus in the off season.
I lower my fist, and the boy slides out from beneath me, scrambling to his feet.
The old man straightens himself, and the small bit of amusement on his face hardens to something more threatening as he points a finger toward the kid. “I’m watching you. Get your ass home, before I tell your madre what happened here.”
The kid swipes up his bat and mask, and books it down the street.
The pulse in the back of my legs and between my shoulder blades is a reminder that I just got my ass kicked by a teenager, as I push off the pavement to my feet. As soon as he’s out of sight, I turn to the good Samaritan and extend my hand. “Thank you for saving my skull from an aluminum bat. I’m Damon.”
“Ah, yeah, you’re the new Padre at the church.” His accent is terrible, spoken like a true Gringo. “I’m Gordon. Gordon Tuefel. Nice to meet ya, Father.”
“Please, call me Damon.” I rub my thumb over the burn on my palm from the scrape there, wishing I had some water to douse the flames across the heel of it. “You know that kid’s mother?”
“Oh, yeah. I know just about everyone in this town. Knew that kid when he was running around his front yard in diapers.”
“Any idea why he seems to have a problem with me?”
