by Tiana Laveen
“Motherfucker, you can’t beat me at dominoes! I’ll take all of your money tonight. Lo prometo.” Nester chortled as he grabbed Pedro and hugged him tight.
“The cake is coming! We’re going to bring it out. Make way,” Marie called out from the open patio door of the kitchen. “Turn the music off.” She yelled and snapped her thick fingers, a vexed expression on her wide, rosy-cheeked face as everyone barely paid her any attention. “We’re going to sing to Pedro,” she added when no one moved or did a thing.
“Why? It’s not his birthday!” Javier smirked and shrugged. “Just cut the fuckin’ cake, Marie.”
“¡Vete a casa!”
“Go home? Why?” Ashley wasn’t the only one lit. Javier had had too much to drink, too. He often said the wrong thing when smashed. Tonight was no exception.
Marie ignored the man, sucked her teeth, and turned away from the door. Her salt and pepper hair was pulled taut in a ponytail, and dark red rose tattoos that extended up the side and back of her neck stood out against her light, golden skin. Marie was a revered Latin Queen, one of the few that had survived the decades of violence that had stirred like the beginning flames of hell, then had exploded into an all-out inferno in the late 1990s. She was treated like a favorite aunt by all in Little Havana, and came across as if she wouldn’t hurt a fly, but when the night fell, the whispers about her were true. She was dangerous when provoked, and would protect her own at all costs.
She’d paid her dues, had survived several bouts in prison, even took the rap for charges she hadn’t committed, all to keep her ol’ man safe. She was streetwise, and her tongue still curled with the heavy ethnic cream of a defiant Cuban accent that wouldn’t dare let go. She’d come to America with her sisters and father at the age of seventeen, from her hometown of Santa Clara. Yes, everyone knew Marie. Three of her sons had been gunned down in the last several years, and her revered husband, Latin King Kilo, an elder, was serving a life sentence in Chicago for the murder of two rival gang members from The Satan’s Disciples. She’d helped Viper several times, offering advice, letting him in on information that served him well, and treated him as well as her own children. At times, he needed that, regardless of his refusal to ever admit such.
People ignored Marie’s request after she returned once again, demanding silence, so Dominic pulled himself away from his shady tree and the dogs lying at his feet, clapped loudly, then whistled. He had a whistle that was so loud, it rattled bones. The music immediately stopped. When he clapped and whistled, that meant everyone’s attention was needed right away. Anyone who kept fucking around would suffer the consequences. Now things were so quiet, he could hear a lawn mower in the distance, and the revving of a motorcycle engine as it zoomed down the street.
“Javier, apologize to Marie for how you spoke to her earlier.”
Everyone looked at the man, then at Marie.
“But I was just—”
“Motherfucker, don’t argue with me. Apologize.” Dominic crossed his arms and cocked his head to the side. Waiting. He was counting in his head. If he reached the three seconds mark, there was going to be a problem. A big one.
“Marie, I’m sorry.” Seeming to sober up, Javier quickly lowered his gaze, first to the ground then at nothing in particular. The silence was deafening.
Dominic snapped his fingers, and the music began to play again, then the talking and partying resumed. The exhale from held breaths filled the world once more.
Viper suddenly felt out of place, despite the smile he kept on his face. Something didn’t feel right. Something was missing. His home was beautiful, but he hated being away from Little Havana, where he still had family and friends. The people at the party weren’t in their element. They all had traveled to him, just as it had been planned. He craved the familiar crowd of Little Havana, his King comrades, family and brothers, the familiar restaurants, shops and nightlife, but for now, this would simply have to do. Things had gotten hot, but he had business to attend to, and the last thing he needed was to go back to prison. He’d been out for three years and never wished to return, though he had to admit, some days it seemed easier wished for than done.
“Marie and Pedro, stand together,” he ordered. People made way as the woman presented the big cake covered in layers of icing. She set it on the glass patio table, then wrapped her arms around Pedro who seemed to struggle to muster a sincere enough looking grin. He took a few photos of the two on his phone, then after Marie lit the flickering candles on the big white cake with black lettering and white and gold frosting, they all began to sing,
“Na, na, na, naaaaah! Na, na, na, naaaaah, Hey! Hey! Hey! Look who’s ouuut! Na, na, na, naaaaah! Na, na, na, naaaaah, Hey! Hey! Hey! Look who’s ouuut!” Pedro burst out laughing, showing a mouth full of gold before blowing out the candles. Everyone surrounded him now, holding and pulling him into vigorous hugs. When the man was finally able to come up for air, he raised his index, thumb and baby finger of both hands, overlapping them, forming a crown. The others followed suit to the rap tune of ‘Shooter,’ by Hector, which blasted through the speakers.
“Hey, we want to all officially welcome Pedro home,” Dominic yelled over the music, which was immediately turned down again to allow him to speak. “It’s been a long ass time. This, here is my brother.” He pointed to the man with his tattooed hand. “When Marie asked if we could have the party here for Pedro, I didn’t hesitate.” Marie was smiling from ear to ear. “You’re home now. I have your back. We have your back. Kings don’t die. One crown. One nation!”
“Amor dey Rey!” many began to chant as the music was turned back up. “Amor dey Rey!”
After a while, a second wave of food covered plates began to pass back and forth. The eating, carousing, and dancing was nonstop. Liquor, wine coolers, and ice-cold beers were replenished and people indulged in the decadent cake, big bowls of fresh berries and mangos, and ice cream.
As the night drew on, and the setting sun was replaced with the glow of the fire pit, tiki torches, and half-moon, he found himself sitting back on a lawn chair, a celebratory cigar in hand. It wasn’t long before Stacks approached him, puffing on a joint and donning his familiar tilted smile. This time, it didn’t seem hard to come by. The guy stood there for a bit, as if not certain what to do with himself.
“Sit down, man,” Dominic encouraged, pointing to the chair beside him. Chance barked at a passing car that was coming down the street. “Chance.” He whistled then stomped his foot. “No. Silent.” The dog immediately sat back down on his haunches, whimpering, then looked away sheepishly.
“How’d you train him like that, man?” Stacks took a drag of his joint and shook his head in disbelief.
“I learned the dog’s language.”
Pedro laughed. “I’m serious, Viper.”
“I’m serious, too.”
“Come on, man. Stop bullshittin’. I want you to teach me how you do it. I can’t be out here sellin’ anymore.”
“Not just anyone can train dogs well, Stacks. They have to respect you. That’s not something you teach. You either have it or you don’t.” Their eyes settled on one another. After a while, Stacks looked away and shrugged.
“You train these dogs like it isn’t shit. Been doin’ it for years. Glad you’re able to make a business out of it now. Maybe I can get into it, too.” The man reached down and ran his fingers along Sarge’s head. “You’re like the dog whisperer. Nothin’ but a thing. I know you make nice cash doin’ it, too.”
Dominic nodded in agreement.
“Yeah, it’s decent money. People come to me when they’ve got a dog no one else can break. That language thing though, sounds funny but yeah, I’m serious.” He looked at his pets, then back at Pedro. “Everything and everyone has a language, my man. Even grasshoppers and fleas.”
“So the dogs tell you how to talk to them?” Pedro burst out laughing before he could even finish getting the sentence out.
“Nah, that’s stupid. That was a dumb t
hing to say.” Pedro’s smile immediately faded. “It’s not up to anyone to teach someone else how to rule over them. Ya know, someone who wants to be their master will know their native tongue, and that’s what I am. It’s up to me to figure it out.” He pointed at himself. “Trainers are a dime a dozen. If you learn and understand what drives a beast to act, to obey, to do everything you say, then you rule them. That’s what makes me a master.”
Stacks stared at him long and hard, then smirked. Dominic mirrored the expression.
“I see you’re on that Mr. Miyagi shit today.” They both burst out laughing. “Thanks for havin’ this party for me, man. I really appreciate this.” They knocked fists together, then Stacks looked away, running his hand across the stubble on his cheek.
“Of course. Tu eres mi hermano.”
“Yeah, we’ll always be brothers, man. No blood needed. No prison bars can keep us away from each other for long, either.” Dominic nodded. “I got your birthday card.”
Dominic gave him a quizzical look. “Birthday card? It’s not my birthday.”
“Nah, man. Not that birthday card.” Stacks grinned as he dug in his jeans pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. After unfolding it, he handed it over. Dominic took it from him, and burst out laughing. It was his old mugshot and charges. The very first time he was sent to prison.
“Ahhh, man!” He chuckled. “Where’d you get this shit?”
“From Juvey.” His chest filled with warmth. “He gave it to me last year before he got moved out of my cell. Told me to give it to you.” King Juvey was dead. Good dude. He’d been killed in prison. The guards had found him in his bed, his neck slit. No one around. No snitches. No witnesses. No one was certain what had happened, but he had his suspicions. They’d all been close, grew up on the same street.
Dominic placed his cigar down in the black and green sugar skull ashtray he’d placed on the arm of the lounger, and read the prison intake information.
“Damn, this is so old… Let’s see.” He read the info.
Name: Dominic Martinez
Hair color: Black
Eye color: light hazel
Age: 22
Height: 6’3
Weight: 235 lbs.
Gang Affiliation – Latin Kings
Nickname – King Viper/Viper…
It was then that he noticed that it was not just his first charges listed, but everything was up to date. He continued to read the penal laundry list.
Rank in gang – Warlord – (LKs call this 3rd crown.)
Notable Tattoos – Cross on forehead, Crown on chest, ‘Viper’ on upper chest, Eagle wings on chest, Cuban black hawk on left side of chest, Christ crown on lower neck, Cuban flag on back of neck, ‘L.K.’ on side of neck, ADR on front of neck, Aztec structure on neck, Diamond on abdomen, large viper snake wearing crown on back – covers entirety of back, ‘L.K’ written beneath it, five black dots denoting five point crown on left shoulder, war symbol – Trojan with shield on left arm, large lion on right shoulder, skull with third socket for eye, three point and five point crown on hands, money signs on upper hands… and so it continued.
Prior incarcerations: 7
Prior charges: Aggravated assault (13), resisting arrest (2), 2nd degree manslaughter (2), 3rd degree manslaughter (1), larceny/theft (2), attempted bribery (2), breaking and entering (1), 2nd degree murder (1), firearm use (13), motor vehicle theft (2)
Dominic continued reading the list of his transgressions, then turned the sheet over and checked out his old mugshot. He didn’t feel anything when he looked into the eyes of a guy who’d been pretending to be tougher and harder than he was at the time, just to survive. But now, he truly was. He at times had to remind himself to smile. To feel. To simply be. The young man standing there in that creased, old photo had a look of death in his eyes, but on the inside, he’d been falling apart for years prior to that first incarceration. His first time going to prison had been a living nightmare. Viper had been afraid after sentencing, but he couldn’t show it. He recalled so well how he knew he had to find his people in that institution once he got in there, or he’d be a target. He’d already been told what to expect from his brothers in the Nation. Prison wasn’t a matter of if for his kind; it was when?
He had to find his niche, and if punked, he had to put in work. No insult or disrespect could go unpunished. He’d spent several initial days in the hole for fighting, and he’d made sure he won each and every combat. Later in life, after his third stint, things were more hectic, but he had a reputation to uphold. He’d climbed the ranks in the Nation by age twenty-seven. This brought a new set of problems behind bars. Most notably, he’d been jumped by three Crips all at once.
At one point he’d even temporarily lost his hearing in his left ear after being punched so hard on the side of his face. Once word spread that he was a Latin King Warlord, all bets were off. If you could take down a LK Warlord, that gave you big ass prison stripes. A badge of honor. You were considered the shit. After all, warlords were the ones that put in work. They were the enforcers. The muscle. The brawn. The best fighters. Fastest shooters. Quickest to stab. The tanks of the army. A one-man wrecking ball.
His enemies came unarmed that day, nothing but their fists. That was their first mistake. They knew his title, but not what he was about. He’d earned that shit, fair and square. You couldn’t be a weak motherfucker, or stupid, to get the title of Warlord. One thing he was taught on the streets was to always know your opponent. Study him from a distance, bide your time, then strike like a viper. They’d done none of that. They also didn’t understand him down to his black, rotten core. He didn’t like to fight. Dominic loved it.
The pent-up energy residing inside him from years of emotional and mental torment had reached a head. He’d been prepared to unleash on anyone tempting fate. After all was said and done, he’d ended up with two minor scratches and a black eye, yet all three of his assailants got a trip to the infirmary. He fought three motherfuckers at once, with nothing but his knuckles, machismo, and strength, and that went down in history. He knew he couldn’t keep at this shit forever, though. Unlike some of his comrades, he never got comfortable in the joint. That was no way to live. He needed his freedom. Vipers need room and space to roam. To hunt… and they preferred to work alone.
Dominic had to work hard to get out of that place, but also make his way up the Latin King levels. He was smart. He knew a hell of a lot about the law, so he imparted his knowledge to those in need. He knew the best Miami lawyers to hire, and which ones to avoid due to his mentor’s affiliations. He knew about the judges, and how to impact, intimidate, and divide witnesses and juries should a case go to trial. He knew what prison guards from various slammers could be bribed or blackmailed. He knew all of this and more from his stints in jail, before he’d even served his first time in prison. He’d then perfected his knowledge once he’d entered the penitentiary.
Having murder charges definitely helped him establish a reputation, versus some of the guys in for petty drug charges or domestic violence. Over time, his enemies appreciated he wasn’t afraid to kill. Regardless, that first second degree murder charge was bullshit. He’d killed far more before that, and certainly afterwards. That was just the charge the cops knew about. The one that had gotten messy. Snakes rattle, but never roll. Kissing and telling was for suckas. Fucking jealous ass snitches…
Dominic shoved the birthday card in his pocket. He casually picked up his cigar and took a long drag.
“How’s that money? You good?” he asked Stacks, wanting to ensure his friend was okay.
“Oh yeah. I collected a lotta money tonight, too.” Pedro jammed his hand in his pocket, pulled out a wad of crisp cash and flashed it proudly. “Should be enough for me to get my own spot if my parole officer lets me change my address from my mother’s house anytime soon. I’m sure someone will take cash.” The guy looked down, as if needing to work out the plan in his mind right then. “My girl tried to get me to come with
’er, but I don’t think that’s the right move. She’s kinda possessive. Likes to yell and hit ’nd shit when she’s drunk. If she hits me, it’ll be a problem, man. I could fuck around and end up right back in prison so I think being on my own right now is the better option.”
Dominic leaned forward and held his breath, but it was short-lived. He burst out laughing so hard that his chest burned with heat.
“Possessive, huh? Is that what they call that shit I saw tonight?” He laughed so much, his cheeks hurt. “That chick is crazy, man.”
“Awww, come on, Viper.” Stacks laughed lightly as he ran his hand along his knee.
“She’s a fuckin’ psycho. Real talk. You’ll catch a case, just like you said. Drunk or sober, makes no difference. Mujer loca!”
“Yeah, she’s a little crazy but she’s aiight, Viper. She held me down when I was away.”
Dominic understood that. He reached for his beer bottle and then realized his precious beasts had left him, seemingly all at the same time. He peered towards the patio, and could make out two of their forms. Then the third one came into view. The three Pit Bulls were lapping water and downing chunks of steak he’d bought for them the night before. Marie must’ve filled their bowls.
“I met her online,” Stacks continued. “Always had money ’cause of her, and you… and she’s been there since I got out. My family sure as fuck wasn’t holdin’ me down.”
He got the double meaning behind the words…