by Keri Lake
Scratching the small patch of skin above his beard line, he huffs. “While they’re not all that religious, folks in this town can be superstitious and suspicious. ‘Specially toward what they deem a gabacho who shows up out of nowhere. Probably doesn’t help that Father Javier didn’t speak too highly of you coming last Sunday.”
“He’s not fond of newcomers, either, is he?” Running my hand over the back of my thigh reveals the knot I can feel forming beneath my skin where I was hit.
“Always found him a little strange. He has a way about things. Very private man.”
Private indeed. I still find it curious that he’s chosen to live across town from his church, when there’s a perfectly good and well-maintained rectory right up the street.
“In the case of Rafael, the kid who swung a homerun on your leg there.” Gordon nods toward my thigh that continues to throb beneath my hand, as I rub the ache through my slacks. “I think he blames the last priest for his brother ending up in prison. Seems Father Vasquez wasn’t quite so patient about their pranks as you seem to be.”
It has nothing to do with my patience, but I don’t tell him that. I don’t need the police nosing around right now.
A quick glance around shows a number of cars parked along the street curb, any one of which could be his. “Do you live around here?”
“Few blocks over. The less affluent part of town.” It’s only then I notice his flannel shirt is somewhat worn, along with his jeans and shoes.
“The rectory is right here,” I say, pointing to the house on the corner. “Can I offer you a coffee, or something to eat?” Admittedly, I haven’t even looked in the fridge yet, to see what Ramira stocked for me.
“No, thank you for your generosity. I’m just gonna mosey on over to the church to get my confessions out of the way.”
“I’m happy to take confession for you, if you’d like.” One hobble toward the church, and I notice the tight stiffness forming in my thigh muscles.
Perhaps taking notice of my limp, he shakes his head. “No, that’s quite all right. Kinda got accustomed to doing it in Spanish, ya know? Makes it easier to come clean.”
“I see. Well, thank you again, Gordon. I hope to see you at Mass sometime.”
“Same. And give these kids a bit of time to warm up to you. They do, eventually, believe it, or not.”
“Thanks. I’ll certainly believe it when I see it.”
“So, when do I get to spend the night?” Ivy asks, between chomping whatever she’s eating on the other end of the line.
Peering through the bedroom window of the first floor, I stare down at the empty street, before pulling the curtain closed. “It’s not a good idea to come here. The locals have been somewhat hostile.” I’d have taken one of the two nicer rooms upstairs, but the thought of climbing a staircase with a battered leg has left me content with the simpler room. Besides, after the night’s events, I’d prefer to sleep where I can hear what’s going on.
“How so?”
I scratch the top of my head and limp toward the bed, falling onto the mattress there, and massage the lump on my thigh. “Let’s just say, I’ve learned more about spray paint than I ever cared to before.”
“Oh, no. Seriously?”
“They advised that I go fuck myself.”
She snorts a laugh. “That’s horrible. Why would you fuck yourself when you’ve got someone eager to do it for you?”
“Perhaps I should’ve made the drive north tonight, in spite of the graffiti on my car.”
“I certainly would’ve made it worth your time.” The slurping sound announces she’s reached the end of whatever she’s sipping. “I met a friend today.”
“Ivy ...” The reflexive pinch of my muscle upon hearing that makes me flinch. “Thought I told you to lay low.”
“I am.”
“Making friends isn’t laying low.”
“Well, he insisted.”
“He?”
“A kid whose grandma owns the little shop next door.”
“He didn’t harass you, did he?”
“At first, but grandma whooped his ass for it. Was a total gentleman after that. Anyway, his grandmother made me some tamales and torta.” She adds a Spanish accent to the last word. “Was so good.”
“Look, we don’t know who’s connected down here yet. I learned the goat has little birds keeping an eye on things for him.”
“I know. But I doubt Sergio is one of them. He’s planning to go to college next fall. Has been saving up for years for it.”
“It seems you’ve learned quite a bit about your new friend. Still. Don’t get too friendly. And don’t give out your real name. If they find out you’re here, it’s game over.”
“Sure. Got it.” The brevity in her voice isn’t reassuring, at all, though. “So, when do I get to see you again? I’m bored and hot.”
“Did you go to the pool?”
“Yes. I went to the pool twice. I’ve worked out. I’ve showered. I’ve touched myself. I still miss you.”
“And I miss you. Give me a day, or two. Perhaps they’ll lose interest in me by then. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
“I like the sound of that. I get to call the shots this time?”
“C’mon. You know better than that.” The thought of her pleading eyes staring up at me, asking that question, brings a deviant sort of smile to my face.
“Okay, I guess. Sweet dreams, Father Damon. And remember, masturbation is not a sin.”
“I’ll remember that. Goodnight.”
Clicking off the phone, I stare up at the ceiling, and it’s then that a thought pops in my head. Call it old habits, but on one gimp leg, I search the ceiling, the floor, the lamp, the bed, the closet and the bathroom, for any sign my room has been bugged. In my short and cursory hunt for anything unusual, I find nothing.
Movement out of the corner of my eye draws my attention toward the wide nightstand beside my bed—one I thought oddly monstrous for such a small and simple room. Tipping my head, I take careful steps toward a whitish-looking object that’s half crawled out from beneath the nightstand, pale against the dark gray carpeting. It scampers backward, and before it can attack, or escape, I nab one of my shoes from beneath the bed and crush it, grinding its crunchy carapace into the carpet.
Scorpion.
I open the cupboard of the nightstand to make sure there aren’t any others, and the air catches in my lungs. My stomach turns over on itself.
What in God’s name?
31
IVY
Freshly showered, I head out to the balcony, fluffing wet hair with my fingers, and swipe my pack of smokes from the table. I’ve done more smoking in the last forty-eight hours than I have in the last month. If this Mexican druglord doesn’t find and kill me first, the cigarettes surely will.
As I plop down on the cheap plastic chair out here, I glance downward to find Sergio setting out fruit in baskets. The moment he catches sight of me, he smiles and deposits the rest of the fruit, before plopping down on the curb to light up.
“Please let your grandmother know I lurved her tamales,” I say, resting my elbows on my thighs. “Best I’ve ever had.”
“I will.” He stuffs his smoke into his mouth and rolls his sleeves up, exposing a tattoo inked across his forearm.
“What’s that?” I nod toward the dates beneath something in Spanish.
“Quisieron enterrarnos, pero no sabían que éramos semillas.” The way he stares down at it, gently running his thumb over the ink tells me it holds somber meaning to him. “They tried to bury us, but they didn’t know we were seeds. The date is my brother’s birth and death.”
“The one you spoke of yesterday?”
Staring off, he nods and draws another hit of his smoke. “Was killed in a drive-by shooting down in Mexicali. At a buddy’s house. I was supposed to go with him that night. He planned to introduce me to some cholo he rolled with at the time. Said he could help me make fast cash for school.” With
his cigarette dangling from his fingertips, he picks at his thumbnail. “Stupid culero got himself killed.”
“Gang members shot him.”
“These weren’t gangs. They’re worse. There’s brotherhood in gangs. Friendship. This was business. No family. No heart.”
“What made you stay back that night?” I wonder if he’ll tell me it was divine intervention, or an act of God, and that he’s lucky to be alive.
Instead, he shakes his head and flicks his ash. “I chickened out last minute. Decided I didn’t want to get caught up in all that shit. I should’ve though. I should’ve been there. Maybe he’d still be here.”
I lower my gaze and shake my head. “You don’t know that.”
He doesn’t respond, still staring off.
“Sergio … are you familiar with a man who goes by El Cabro Blanco?”
Twisting around, he swings his attention to me, brows set to a frown. “Where’d you hear that name?”
“Around.”
“I’d keep it to yourself, if I were you. People start talking. They get suspicious.”
“Do you know him?”
“Everybody knows of him.”
“Any idea what he looks like?”
“I’ve never seen him. But people say he’s big. And his eyes are black as death.”
“That … sounds like something out of a Twilight book.”
“Look, don’t fuck with that name, or those people, okay? They’re not good people.”
“What makes them bad?”
“They kill children. Rape women. Murder brothers.”
“They killed your brother. He did. This El Cabro Blanco.”
He flicks his cigarette onto the street and jumps to his feet. “I’m not going to tell you again, Ivy. In this place? The girl who noses around, gets her nose cut off.”
Face colored in frustration, he storms off.
32
DAMON
Although it’s entirely in Spanish, I attend mass early following morning prayer, but the sound of Father Javier’s voice is only white noise to the thoughts in my head.
The night before, I opened the cupboard of my nightstand to find something I’d never seen before in my life. Something that keeps my focus glued to Father Javier, examining much closer than before, searching for evidence that this man might be capable of the atrocities I’ve heard about. That he might be capable of murdering my family in cold blood.
The bottom of the cupboard had been removed, and a hole big enough for one body extended into the darkness, with a ladder for someone to climb down into it. An underground tunnel that, if I had to guess, was, or is, likely used to smuggle drugs.
And who would question, or bother to investigate, the rectory?
Maybe that’s why none of the other priests have worked out. Maybe they opened their mouths. I probably would, too, if I didn’t come from a world where one keeps their enemies close, until they’re ready to strike.
After mass, I steal the opportunity to greet some of the parishioners in the narthex, most of whom ignore me for Father Javier. A few of the younger women offer flirtatious smiles, but for the most part, I get the sense they haven’t accepted me quite yet.
Standing back a few steps, I observe his interactions with them, the way he’s far more affectionate and kind than he seems. There’s an air of discomfort in the way he keeps his smile slight and clasps his fingers together between greetings.
This is his mask, the face he puts on for others, and I intend to find out what’s behind it.
“And there he is!” The familiar voice draws my attention toward the bottom of the concrete stairs, from where Gordon waves.
With a smile, I meet him there and offer a handshake. “I didn’t see you during mass.”
“Nah, I only go to church on Sunday. Just here to meet with Father Javier about something.”
“Ah, then you’ll bear witness to my first homily in the new place. Or, as I like to call it, the Mass Disaster.”
“You’ll do fine.” He turns away from me, and a smile crinkles the deep grooves already etched in his face. “Well, well. Look at this rowdy bunch of trouble makers!”
A beautiful young girl with long black hair that’s held back from her face by a thick headband and bronze skin steps forward in a beige skirt and white top. She’s probably sixteen, or seventeen, I’d guess. A slightly older replica of her follows after, wearing a bright smile and a floral dress, and behind them, a man dressed in slacks and a crisp white shirt.
“Gordon, you’re already harassing the new priest?” the older woman says, offering me the first friendly, non-sexual glance I’ve received today.
“Somebody’s got to!” He shoots me a wink and sets his hand on the young girl’s shoulder. “Father Damon, allow me to introduce you to the finest family in Southern California. This is Ariceli, her mother Veronica, and our much respected mayor, Raul Martinez.”
“Mayor?” I hold out my hand, certain I’ve made a grave error by assuming the church will help me to lay low. I don’t even know the mayor of Los Angeles. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Welcome to Calexico. We’re happy to have you here, Father Damon.”
“Some more than others, I suppose.”
“Yes, eh, seems Father Damon has been subjected to the unofficial greeting committee.” Abandoning the young girl, Gordon stands beside me, and the pat on my back hits the bruise there, making me flinch.
“My apologies, Father.” Raul lowers his gaze and sighs, frowning like he’s had this conversation before. “We’re working on a solution for the gangs that seem to be cropping up in our town. We’ve assembled a small task force and neighborhood watch.”
“Task force? They’re kids.” Arms crossed, Gordon shakes his head and scoffs. “C’mon, Raul. The solution is the checkpoints. It’s not a gang problem, it’s a bunch of bored kids borderhopping. Get some business going here. Open a damn mall. Give ‘em something to do. We’ve talked about this.”
“And now is not the time to continue this discussion.” Raul carries the calm diplomatic warning in his tone that I expect from a politician.
“Right. Sorry.” Gordon turns toward the young girl once again. “Hey, I hear you plan to go to Pepperdine next year. That’s great! Fantastico, young lady.”
“Yes, we met with admissions last week, and it seems like a good fit,” Veronica, answers for her.
“Bet you’re looking forward to moving onward and upward! No farming for this one, no, sir. She’s smart.”
Raul sighs and nudges his wife and daughter. “Again, we’re happy to have you here, Father. Should you need anything, please don’t hesitate to reach out.”
“I’ll be in touch!” Gordon calls out to him, but only Veronica offers a sheepish smile and waves back.
“Gordon, give me five minutes.” Javier says from behind me, and I turn to watch him head back into the church.
“What did you mean by check points?” I ask, recalling Raul’s disinterested reaction to such a suggestion.
“Ah, it’s a longstanding battle with Raul. He thinks we have a gang problem here. That these kids are hooking up with some big drug lord and cartel across the border.”
Perhaps not across the border. Perhaps right here in this very church. But I don’t say that to Gordon. “I say they’re just a bunch of bored kids with nothing to do.” He waves his hand out toward the surrounding neighborhood. “You’re from LA. Look around, Father. There isn’t much to do here. We need some business. Some commerce running through here. Kids get idle … they get … antsy. Violent. Unpredictable.”
“I don’t think a mall will be the solution for kids who take baseball bats to newcomers.”
He flinches and shakes his head. “Maybe not. But not all these kids have the opportunity to get out, like Ariceli. They’re angry. They feel stuck. And when you’re backed in a corner, the only way out is sometimes violent.”
“Which makes them easy to manipulate. The promise of something better is a g
reat motivator.”
His appraisal of me holds more suspicion than anything else. “Raul thinks these kids are following some mythological goat, like some messiah of the underworld. He’s an excuse. That’s all. A scapegoat for politicians to ignore the real problem, which is lack of opportunity.”
“You don’t believe he’s real, then?” It was Javier who first blew him off as nothing interesting, perhaps the only one I’ve come across who didn’t seem threatened by the circulating stories.
“The goat?” He shrugs and looks out over the neighborhood again. “I’ve lived here for decades. The biggest criminal I’ve seen is wasted potential. It’s everywhere you look.”
I feel oddly compelled to tell him he’s wrong. That my family was the victim of this mythical goat, whose reign extends well beyond this small town, and that I stumbled upon a curious portal in my own bedroom. Now’s not the time, though. I have far more to investigate before I begin throwing around accusations in this town. “And the stories? The murders? The families he’s terrorized?”
“Is that why you came here, Father? To deliver us all from the great white goat?” He scratches at his beard, and doesn’t prod when I don’t answer. “Every murder holds a truth. Some are more obvious than others. For the ones that aren’t, I suppose a mysterious goat who runs with dangerous criminals makes for a good story.”
I send a quick glance back toward the church, before returning my gaze. “Well, I don’t want to hold you up. I’m sure Father Javier is waiting for you.”
I click out of the website on my laptop, a discussion board I found on a subreddit from two years ago. Some guy posted a story about El Cabro Blanco and how he came from Mexico to the US back in the early eighties, seeking asylum from a druglord, who apparently wanted to buy his wife. He refused, and managed to cross the border before he was captured by guards who’d been paid handsomely to turn him over to the druglord. The druglord then proceeded to rape his wife and murdered his daughter in front of him. He thought he’d murdered his son, as well, but the boy survived. The story went on to say that El Cabro Blanco took revenge years later by raping the druglord’s wife and teenage daughter, before setting them on fire. He then decapitated his young son and castrated the druglord, as a means of ending his bloodline. Others on the thread debate the story with their supposed facts, until it’s so damn convoluted, I have no idea what originally happened. Whether he originated in the US, or came from some small Mexican village.
