by Gary Soto
Gabe chilled. Lupe was built, scarred from fights, without remorse for the harm he had done to others, and possibly still dangerous. But he was old school now, and wiser, with a devilish beard on his chin. He was a father, too. In the yard, there was a toppled-over stroller and a blow-up swimming pool, with flakes of grass floating on the surface of the water.
“Y qué? What happened, little dude?” Lupe asked, with his arms out, as if expecting an embrace.
“They took him after you ran away,” Gabe began to explain, wise enough not to signal brotherhood with Lupe by embracing him.
Lupe sneered. He didn't like those words—ran away.
“You think I ran because of them? Those freaks!” He pointed at the tattoo of crucified Jesus on his neck. “I don't run from nobody, ese. ”
“You must be fast,” Gabe remarked. Sweat began to flow on his scalp.
“What does that mean, homeboy—‘You must be fast’?” Lupe stepped toward Gabe, who could smell hair gel and cigarettes. “You think I'm fast and that I run away from lowlifes? I banged a lot of heads in my time. You feel what I'm saying?” Lupe directed a hot stare at Gabe.
“I didn't mean it like that, Lupe.”
Still, Gabe conjured up the scene in the Fulton Mall. Yes, Lupe had turned and fled when Tony Torres and his crew spotted him. And, yes, Gabe recognized his mistake when he used the words ran away. For years, his English teachers had tried to pound into his head that using the correct words was important. At that moment, he could see their point.
“I didn't mean run, you know. I meant you had to, like, leave,” Gabe babbled. His scalp was releasing sweat and the stink of fear.
Lupe wagged his head at Gabe. “You're a bad liar, little dude.” He hooked his thumb at Pablo and asked, “Who's your carnal?”
Pablo, who had been stationed behind Gabe, edged a few steps toward Lupe. He shoved his hands into his back pockets.
“Pablo. We play baseball together.”
Lupe lifted his chin in greeting, and Pablo returned the gesture. Lupe then hitched up his pants and said, “You know where I been?”
Gabe shook his head.
“I been to your place.” Lupe told how the last couple of nights he had gone to Gabe's house to fetch his puppy. With a smile that revealed a single gold tooth, he reminded Gabe that the puppy's daddy was a killer. Lupe asked, “What do you do, keep him inside where it's cool?”
Gabe could see it now. Lupe was the mystery man moving in the yard at night. He hadn't come for ripe tomatoes—he had come for the puppy. Was he intending to raise him and use him in dogfights? Gabe was against dogfights.
“Nah, Lupe, those guys took it.”
“You mean Tony?” The grin on his wide face suddenly vanished.
“Yeah, Tony,” Gabe answered. He touched his upper lip and his finger came away wet with nervous sweat. He was wondering, How do you know where I live?
Gabe guessed that Lupe was savvy about street life. He only had to put the word out that he was hunting for a thirteen-year-old, and everyone would say, “Yeah, the little vato lives off of Tulare Street. He can't hit a softball worth a pile of frijoles.”
“You got some nice tomatoes,” Lupe complimented. “Three or four jalapeños, onion and cilantro … mmmmmm. You could make some killer salsa.” He beckoned Gabe and Pablo to his backyard. He pulled open a tall wrought-iron gate and maneuvered past two dusty cars up on blocks.
“Don't be scared,” Lupe told Gabe. “I ain't going to hurt you. I want to show why I want my pup back.”
In the backyard, Gabe found reasons other than Lupe to be scared, as he was surrounded by three pit bulls, two of them licking their moist chops. The third had narrowed its eyes at Pablo, who hoisted a fake smile, clicked his fingers as a sign of friendship, and sang, “Nice doggie.” When one of the pit bulls began to sniff Gabe's shoes, Lupe giggled. A tattoo of the Virgin of Guadalupe seemed to rumba on his chest. “What did you do—step in caca? Or you got a pile in your pants? The dog smells you.”
“It's my cat,” Gabe explained. “Your cat!” Lupe exploded. “Cats ain't nowhere. They ain't loyal. You don't feed ’em for one day, and they gone.” Lupe's face was stern and soulless as a snake's. Then he smiled and pounded Gabe's back in a friendly way. “It's OK if you like cats. But dogs is where it is. You feel me?”
Gabe did his best to smile.
Lupe relaxed. He described his plan for breeding guard dogs. “And you probably thought I was like breeding them for the pits. That's messed up. Dogfights is like evil.” He slapped Pablo's arm with the back of his hand. “Huh, dude?” He took the snout of one dog into his grip and shook it. He then scratched goo from the corners of its eyes. He wiped it on his pants. “These guys love me. They would die for me.”
“Yeah, they seem loyal,” Gabe responded weakly. Lupe ruffled the scruff of the biggest dog. “This dog is named Pretty.”
Gabe thought the dog had one ugly mug, but he kept his mouth shut tight.
“This one here is Brownie, and this one is Tiger.” After the introductions, Lupe became sullen. He cracked his knuckles and snarled under his breath, “That Tony—he's a punk. So he took my pup?” He stepped within inches of Gabe. “You know what?”
Gabe remained still. His upper lip had grown another mustache of sweat.
“I want you to get the dog from Tony.”
Gabe swallowed.
“Where you live, it's dangerous. You need a guard dog. You need protection.”
Gabe swallowed twice and issued a meager, “Yeah, I know what you mean.” He imagined a dozen Frankies running after him.
“He's yours. I want you to raise him good.”
Gabe was glad that Lupe wasn't into dogfighting. He lowered his hand and let Tiger snort and lick his fingers. He didn't feel afraid of the dog anymore. After all, what did he have to fear? The dog was whipping its tail in friendship.
Gabe hopped the fence, crouched behind a dumpster brimming with garbage, and glanced at the puppy sleeping by the back porch. The puppy had a rope around its neck. A water bowl was tipped over, and a canned dog food label was torn to shreds. Flies buzzed around the puppy's head like a halo.
I'm going to save him, Gabe promised. He pictured himself running with the pup in his arms and Frankie and crew chasing him.
Gabe heard music inside the house, music and a television, and party sounds of laughter, and things falling. He heard the refrigerator door slam, and a girl screamed, “YOU STOP THAT, YOU STUPID!”
They're all stupid, Gabe thought.
Suddenly the back door swung open, and Frankie appeared with a Popsicle stick in the corner of his mouth. He climbed down the steps, flicking the Popsicle stick at the puppy. He disappeared into the garage next to the house, and Gabe could hear rummaging sounds. Minutes later, Frankie tottered out of the garage with a case of soda. Before he returned inside, he tickled the puppy's chin with a toe. He laughed when the puppy sniffed and licked his toes. Frankie then poked his foot into the puppy's side. The puppy yelped but went on trying to lick Frankie's toes.
I'm going to get you, Gabe swore. He would smile on the day when he found Frankie all alone. He would roll his hands into fists and aim for Frankie's mouth. We'll see if you laugh then, Gabe thought angrily.
But that was some time in the future. For now, Gabe had to retrieve the puppy. He was hunkered behind the dumpster—the smell was making him dizzy—and he was prepared to rush across the ragged lawn, undo the rope, and be on his way with the puppy. He had to make his move. The sun crowned his head and made him sweat. The overfilled dumpster also radiated heat, and he could hear stirring sounds coming from within. Were there rats the size of small dogs in there, feasting on spoiled grub?
When Gabe rushed forward, the puppy rose to its big floppy feet and wagged its tail. He pulled on the rope and marched in place. There was happiness in his small body and in his eyes. He began to lick Gabe's fingers as the boy struggled to undo the knot.
“Come on,” he muttered.
The knot was tight, his fingers clumsy. He wished he had a knife to cut through the rope.
Gabe heard footsteps in the kitchen. Did they belong to Frankie or to his older brother, Tony? Gabe quickly tiptoed inside the garage and retreated toward the back, careful to not kick anything over. His hands trembled. In the oven-like heat of the garage, sweat began to roll from his scalp.
“Dang,” Gabe muttered as he eyes became accustomed to the dark.
Inside the garage were stacks and stacks of sodas, bottled water, canned foods, cereals, dog food, and fifty-pound bags of rice and pinto beans. Were they expecting a world famine? The garage was not nearly as large as a Costco warehouse, but it was loaded with a lot of what Gabe figured was stolen stuff. He laid out a theory: the Torres family intended to raise the puppy to guard their loot. And there was no telling what was stored inside the house. They could have stolen computers and plasma televisions stacked to the ceiling.
Anything was possible.
Frankie came into the garage, stepped over a case of SpaghettiOs and another case of Campbell's soup, and, ostrich-like, bent over to pick up a box of Rice-A-Roni. He tossed the box into the air and caught it.
Frankie returned to the house.
The heat within the garage had a smothering effect. Gabe reached down and tore open a case of bottled water. He took a bottle and drank down its warm contents, then poured some of the water on the back of his neck. He tiptoed over the stuff in the garage, stood at the door, and peered out onto the patio. Grateful for the fresh air, he wiped his face with the front of his T-shirt.
The puppy was gnawing at his rope. He was no dummy. Even he had the instinct to escape. The pup, aware of Gabe in the door of the garage, stood up, tail wagging.
Gabe made his move. He struggled to get the puppy's head out of the noose, becoming scared when the puppy whined and barked. Would the sound bring Frankie out the back door to see what was happening? He waited and listened. When he didn't hear footsteps, he continued working at the noose until the puppy's head finally slipped through.
Gabe scampered away with the puppy in his arms.
But home was a two-mile walk in the sun's glare, and it was more difficult than Gabe had imagined, as the puppy kept wriggling to get down from his arms. When Gabe put him on the ground, the puppy had to stop and sniff every leaf, candy wrapper, Popsicle sick, and crooked line of ants hauling goodies to their hole. Everything was exciting, even a splotch of gum pasted to the sidewalk.
“Come on, let's go,” Gabe begged, when the dog began to lick a crushed soda can in the gutter. Gabe was so thirsty he was almost ready to push the pup away and lick the can himself.
But Gabe had a reason to move on, and quickly. Two shirtless gangsters were staring at him from the porch of a nearby house. They were like vampires, unwilling to come out into the daylight. They would hang on the porch until the net of dusk began to shroud the neighborhood, and then they would saunter down the wooden stairs. Then, with their vampire eyes, they would scan the world for something to steal or someone to hurt with their fists. They would draw blood from a passerby and drink it down.
Today they seemed eager to get the evening started.
“Come here!” one of the vampires ordered. He had been killing time in a white plastic chair, and now he stood up. His pants hung low on his waist, revealing striped boxers. His ribs showed evidence of his workout of Marine sit-ups. The humps of chest muscle shone like trophies. His belly button, like the eye of a Cyclops, seemed to stare at Gabe, too.
Gabe pretended not to hear. He hoisted a smile to his face, but there was nothing funny about the possibility of the vampires flying down the steps and going for his throat. He had been jammed up by guys like these before. It was la vida loca of gangsters who would search you for coins and dollar bills.
“Fool, I said, come here!” The vampire snapped his fingers, as if Gabe were a dog. His friend, who had also stood up, revealing a wobbly belly, chuckled.
“Me?” Gabe asked, from the edge of their scraggly lawn.
“Yeah, you—fool!” the wobbly-bellied vampire scolded.
Gabe swung the puppy into his arms and began to walk away, then trot, with the afternoon sun on his back. The puppy's ears flopped with each step.
Gabe hadn't gone far when he saw wheeling shadows in front of him—both of the vampire gangsters were on their bikes, trailing him. From a distance, someone might have thought they were friends off to the playground. But they were neither friends nor enemies. Gabe just had the bad luck of stopping in front of their house.
One of the vampires slapped Gabe on the back of his head as he rode by.
“Fool, what are you doing on our street?” the vampires snarled. He circled back.
Gabe was dead meat. He stopped, head down and peering into the eyes of his puppy, who was breathing hard, though Gabe was the one who had been trotting, the one who had exhaled his fear with each step. The vampire gangsters circled and then came to a stop in front of him.
“My bro asked you a question, fool,” the slim vampire roared. He had grills in his mouth, which was red. Gabe could tell it was only the red from a Jolly Rancher, not from sucking blood.
“I didn't hear you,” Gabe lied.
The two vampires looked at each other and smirked.
“You smell,” the chubby vampire growled. “Say, ‘I smell like a pedo.’” He nudged the front tire of his bike against Gabe's shin. He spat.
“Say what?” Gabe asked as he stepped back. His sweat began to create a funky smell called fear.
“Say, ‘I smell like a pedo.’ A cheesy fart!”
Gabe couldn't. He clamped his mouth shut. He lowered his head again and only stepped back when the chubby vampire nudged the tire against his shin, this time roughly.
“Come on, man, say it!”
Gabe unlocked his mouth. “You mean you smell like a pedo,” Gabe said. He took a step back. He wished he had bitten his tongue off.
“What you say!” the built vampire roared, his chest rising. His eyes flashed, like scissors in a crazy person's hands. He pushed Gabe.
Gabe staggered backwards, the puppy whimpering in his arms. He winced when the chubby vampire rammed the bike against his shin. That hurt, and so did the slap on the side of his face.
“You know what respect is? You know how to show it?”
The vampire suddenly lifted his eyes, as if he were watching the flight of a child's balloon. It wasn't a balloon but a shadow, and the shadow had a thundering voice.
“What you doin’?” the voice boomed.
For a second, Gabe wondered if a third vampire had arrived to get some of the action. But he was wrong. When he turned, he recognized the brother from near the Rescue Mission, the man who wore the sombrero on his small Afro. God, it seemed to Gabe, had sent one of his biggest angels to help out. He was shirtless, rippled with muscle, and stern.
“I said, ‘What you doin’?’” the brother asked the vampires. “You jackin’ up my friend?” He hooked a thumb at Gabe. “We go way back. Huh, amigo?”
Gabe nodded like a bobblehead.
The two vampires, straddling their bikes, backpedaled. They had nothing to say. With the air in their pumpedup chests slowly leaking out, they weren't so big after all. They slowly glided away. They had come out too early to mess with people.
“Ah, man, thanks,” Gabe sighed. He shook the front of his T-shirt, sweaty from fear.
“I see what's happenin’. Those little cholos going to the grave real early.” The brother petted the puppy, smiled a golden smile, and said he'd just had a marvelous piece of luck. A rich guy needed some muscle to clear out a garage. He patted his pocket and said, “Got me forty dollars and a pair of new socks.” He pulled up his pant cuffs and shared the glow of white socks before he continued down the street.
Gabe had no doubt about the existence of God. No telling when, at the hottest hour of the day, He might send an angel earthward, disguised as a black brother in a sombrero.
There
was mercy in the world.
The puppy had free rein in the living room. He poked his nose in all the corners, climbed the recliner and couch, and put his paws up on the coffee table. But when he began to gnaw on the legs of an end table, Gabe put a stop to his play. He cuddled his puppy with all his heart and christened him Lucky. He plied him with lunch meat and set a water bowl near the back door. Outside, on the patio, he washed the puppy with a hose. He squeezed two ticks from under his chin and watched him frolic in the yard.
“Lucky,” he answered, when his mother pushed open the front door and asked, “Who's this?” She set her purse down on the coffee table and looked absently at the mail. The bills and junk mail held no interest.
“Isn't he cool, Mom?” He reminded her that she had promised him a dog.
She groaned. She was too tired to argue about the surprising presence of a dog—she kicked off her shoes and headed to the bathroom, lingering a moment in the hallway to enjoy the air from the cooler vent in the ceiling. Then there was the sound of water running in the bathroom. Gabe surmised that his mother was sitting on the edge of the bathtub and running cold water over her tired feet.
“You want dinner?” she called, after she stepped out of the bathtub and stamped her feet on the bathmat.
“Nah, Mom,” Gabe answered.
“Good! Because it's too hot to cook.”
Then her next ritual: she clawed ice cubes from the refrigerator, arranged them in a washcloth, and plopped into the recliner. She patted her cheeks, throat, and the back of her neck. She smiled at the puppy licking his paws.
“Where's he from?” she finally asked. “And when is he going back?”
“I found him in the street,” Gabe lied. But it was a small lie that would not darken his soul. He knew that he had rescued the dog from a terrible fate. He deplored the image of Frankie tickling Lucky's throat with a large toe. “I know you're joking, huh? I can keep him, huh?”
When Lucky pulled a sock from under the couch, and began to wrestle with it, his mother smiled. “He's talented. He can find your dirty clothes. But he has to stay outside.” She placed the washcloth on her forehead.