by Glenn Trust
“It’s not much, but we live comfortably here over the store,” Edgar said, leading Sole down the short hallway into the living room. “And this is our world.”
He laughed and spread his arms out, motioning around the room. The walls were covered with an odd mix of art, some of it clearly from south of the border, mixed with images and landscapes that reminded Sole of the south, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on why.
A woman came from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. Her hair was black, her eyes brown, and her smile as broad as Edgar’s.
“You must be Bill Myers, the one Edgar phoned to tell me about.” She extended a hand to Sole. “I am Magdalena, but call me Maggie.”
“Alright, Maggie.” Sole returned her smile and the handshake. “Nice to meet you.”
He turned to Edgar. “You phoned?”
“Yes. While I was with Carmen at the hospital.” Edgar shrugged, a sheepish smile on his face. “I had to check with her first before I spoke to you. She is Ben’s mother after all.”
You were set up John-boy, he thought. They set an ambush and you fell right into it.
He shook his head and looked around. The apartment was homey and comfortable with an old-world air about it. Edgar and Maggie were clearly happy to have him as their guest. He was instantly at ease.
“Nice home you have here,” he said, taking in the room. “Wouldn’t expect all this up here over the store.”
“Ah,” Edgar laughed. “Yes, our small oasis in the midst of the barren desert. Magdalena makes it a home for us.”
“Papa, show Mr. Myers his room so he can put his things away, and then we’ll have a drink and eat.”
“Yes, madam,” Edgar said with a nod. “This way, Bill.”
They walked down a small hallway to the rear of the apartment. Edgar pushed a door open and stepped aside. “Here you go. Your home away from home.”
Sole entered and found a room lined with books. A desk had been pushed to one side and a folding, roll-out bed positioned in the center of the room.
“It’s not much. I use the room as a den mostly, but the bed is fairly comfortable,” Edgar said and laughed. “I should know. I slept on it for years after Louisa died. We never had time or money to buy real furniture. We were saving for it, and then the baby came, and we put every extra penny into making a room for Jean Paul.” He shrugged. “After she passed, I lost the desire to worry about beds and furnishings. It was a dark time for me. If not for Jean Paul and the need to care for him …”
His voice cracked, and he swallowed and said no more.
“This is perfect,” Sole said. “Couldn’t ask for a nicer place to stay.”
“Yes, well, make yourself at home. There is a bathroom across the hall and three other rooms. Bedrooms for Magdalena, Benjamin, and me. You’ll find you have lots of privacy. Nobody will disturb you.”
“Thank you, Edgar.” Sole placed the duffel he carried on the bed. “Feels like home already.”
Edgar smiled. “Good, good … and no thanks are needed. I owe you thanks for agreeing to stay for a while to try and help my grandson.”
It was an uncomfortable reminder of why he was standing in this apartment with a man he hadn’t known until today. Sole wasn’t sure what help he could be but found it impossible to say so to Edgar and dash his hopes. of salvation for his grandson.
“And Benjamin, when will I meet him?” he asked.
“Oh, we never know.” Edgar shook his head. “He comes and goes, but at some point he has to come home if only to eat. Then you’ll meet him.”
“Fair enough.” Sole nodded.
“Dinner is ready,” Magdalena called from the kitchen.
“Good. I’m famished,” Edgar said, patting his stomach.
They sat around an old-style kitchen table, chrome-plated steel with a pink formica top. There were four places set, but only three were needed. Maggie placed a large pot on a trivet in the center of the table.
“Hope you like jambalaya,” she said. “Please help yourself, Mr. Myers.”
“That’s what I smelled,” Sole nodded, grinning. “Couldn’t put my finger on that aroma.”
He lifted the ladle and filled his bowl, then held it out for Maggie. She shook her head.
“Nope. Guests first, then the others at the table. The cook always goes last.” A mischievous look twinkling in her eyes, she added, “The cook knows what’s in the pot.”
Edgar laughed, slapping the table with his palm. “That’s a good one!”
Sole grinned and filled his mouth with jambalaya.
The conversation was mostly about Salvadore Estevez’s condition and how Carmen was handling things. Edgar filled in the blank spots for Maggie. She had stayed behind to mind the store after they left to get Carmen and go to the hospital. Occasionally, she would shake her head and mutter, “Animales.” Animals.
“Yes,” Edgar would agree and nod.
Sole said little, keenly aware of their concern that Benjamin was on track to become an animal like the ones who had attacked Salvadore Estevez. They were hoping for a miracle from him. He felt all out of miracles.
After dinner, Sole helped them clear up and sat with them in the living room. Edgar poured absinthe into small glasses and passed them around. He held a glass up to the light and smiled as the emerald substance shimmered in his hand.
“From my French Creole heritage,” he said. “A habit I acquired from my father.” Edgar lifted the glass higher, looking into Sole’s eyes. “To new friends.”
“To new friends.” Sole nodded and sipped the absinthe. The flavor was complex, anise with hints of fruits and bitters. He nodded, pleasantly surprised, and sipped again.
They finished their drinks in silence, and then Edgar placed his glass on a side table and turned to Sole. “You must have many questions. Perhaps you should ask them so you know we are hiding nothing from you.”
“I’ll probably have plenty of questions later,” Sole replied. It was time to be honest. “But truthfully, I am not sure what I can do to help. I’m a stranger. Seems like Ben is as likely to resent me and anything I have to say, than to listen.”
“This is true.” Edgar nodded. He looked at Maggie. “Explain. You say things better than me.”
“I understand my boy,” she began. “He is not bad. I can’t speak for the others … these gang boys … but my son is not bad, but there is something missing.” She looked into Sole’s eyes. “He lacks a father. We try our best, but he needs more than a grandfather and a mother. He needs a man to help him see what a man is and how to become one.”
Sole knew most gang members came from broken homes, single-parent families, or families where parents turned their children over to the streets to be educated. A common denominator was the lack of a male figure in the home.
“Just be who you are,” Maggie continued. “Let him see what a man is. It’s that simple.”
It didn’t sound simple, and Sole was more than a little uncomfortable under her intense gaze. Maggie read it on his face and laughed.
“Don’t worry, Bill Myers. I am not looking for a man in my life, only one in my son’s life.” She turned to a picture on the wall over Edgar’s chair. It was a soldier, wearing desert utilities, an M-16 rifle cradled in his arms as he smiled into the camera. “There will only ever be one man in my life.”
The front door crashed open and slammed shut. Heavy footsteps tromped down the hallway. A young man came in wearing baggie jeans, the ubiquitous, flat-brimmed ball cap, sneakers, and a tee-shirt. He was tall like his grandfather, dark-haired and brown-eyed like his mother.
Benjamin Dupart stopped as he entered the living room, stared at Sole, and scowled. “Who the fuck is this?”
Maggie was about to reprimand him for his rudeness. Sole shook his head, rose, and stepped across the room to stand directly in front of the boy. He put out his hand.
“Bill Myers.” He smiled. “You must be Benjamin.”
The boy made no effort
to accept the handshake.
“His friends call him Ben,” Maggie said to break the uncomfortable silence.
“Alright … Ben,” Sole said. “Good to meet you.”
The boy eyed the newcomer in silence, his chin lifted, jaw clenched, eyebrows raised in the typical gang challenge posture. They remained like that, Sole smiling, Benjamin glaring back, for several seconds before the boy turned and stomped down the hall to his bedroom without speaking a word. The door slammed behind him.
“Well, that didn’t go so well,” Sole said, returning to his chair.
“You are wrong,” Edgar said, smiling. “He said nothing. I think it is a good start.”
A good start? Sole wondered what a bad start would have been. The little voice inside his head was laughing.
“Told you to keep moving. You never listen, do you, John-boy?”
News
The chorus of an old Hank Williams song began playing in his pocket. It was Billy Siever’s ringtone for calls from unknown numbers.
John Sole called infrequently and never from the same number, preferring to use disposable, burners. Billy accepted the minor inconvenience. It meant he ended up answering the occasional robocall or survey-taker or salesperson trying to convince him about the best deal on a mortgage or insurance, but he reckoned he owed at least that much to his friend.
Hank’s mournful voice sang out, "I’m so lonesome I could cry …"
Billy answered the call. “Yes?”
“Semper Fi.”
Hearing John always made Billy smile
“How are you?” he asked, careful not to inquire about John’s whereabouts, information he would not have provided in any event.
“Wandering as usual. How about you?”
“No changes in Happy Valley.”
It was the signal they used. Isabella, Sandy, and Jacinta were safe and well. Sole nodded, satisfied.
“Good.” He sat on the rollaway bed in Edgar Dupart’s den and spoke in a low voice. “Anything out of the ordinary going on? People nosing around, asking questions?”
“No. Not that I’m aware of. Why? Is there a problem?”
“No problem. Just wanted to be sure. I’m thinking of staying put where I’m at right now, at least for a little while. Maybe a few weeks. Kind of up in the air, but I wanted to be sure everything was okay in Happy Valley.”
Billy understood. Wherever John was, he wanted to stay for a while and postpone his game of chase with the cartel.
“Everything is fine here,” Billy said, reassuring him.
“Good. Then you may not hear from me for a while. I don’t want to spend much time on the phone as long as I’m in one place, using the same number.”
“Understood.” Billy didn’t hear from him much now and wondered how long ‘a while’ might be in John’s estimation.
“Alright, then.” Sole was about to end the call.
“There’s some news you need to hear.”
Billy hesitated, reluctant to mention the information Isabella had shared with him, but he knew he had to. It was only fair.
“Okay.” Sole listened, curious. Billy was not given to drama.
“Well, first of all, Sandy and Jacinta …”
“No names,” Sole interrupted.
“Right, sorry,” Billy continued. “They are having a baby … the young ones. Looks like you are going to be …” Billy paused. “An uncle, I guess.”
“That’s wonderful! You’re right I needed to hear that.”
Billy could almost see John grinning through the phone. He worried that the next piece of information would not be so welcome but pressed forward.
“There’s something else.” Billy hesitated considering how to say it without mentioning names. “She met someone.”
“She?” John understood immediately who ‘she’ was, but he hesitated anyway, working hard to push his lingering feelings for her deep down inside. “Oh. That’s … that’s good too.” His tone was soft and distant but became firmer as he spoke. “That’s very good.”
Billy had one more piece of information, and he felt like an ass saying it, but John had a right to hear it. “They are planning to be married.”
John was silent for several seconds, then his voice was back, firmer and in control. Billy knew that the grin had faded, replaced by grim acceptance. John would feel duty-bound to say the right thing.
“Of course,” John said. “It’s what she should do. It’s time. She should be happy. Tell her I said so, and give her my best.”
“I will.”
“Anything else?” John asked, businesslike and abrupt.
“No. That’s about all … enough I suppose.”
“Alright. Like I said, you won’t hear from me for a while. I’ll contact you when I am on the move again.”
The call ended quickly after that. One minute they were talking, the next the line went dead.
Billy’s conscience nagged at him. He second guessed himself and wondered if he should have given John the news about Isabella. What would it matter of he hadn’t? John Sole was alone. Why make him feel even lonelier?
Because John never lied to him, and he deserved to hear the truth. It was a shitty situation, but it was the only one they had.
See How It Is?
Ben Dupart ran the gauntlet every day. At least, he did any day he went to school.
As in many inner-city communities, the gangs were the real power on the streets, controlling blocks of territory like feudal lords. If you were known as a local by the controlling gang, it was usually safe enough to move about, but as soon as you left your neighborhood you became a potential target.
Gang eyes were everywhere, and an unwary pedestrian ran the risk of being spotted by a local gang member from a different neighborhood. Simply crossing from one corner to the next always carried with it an element of risk. Harassment by groups of gang thugs was common. Tolls were often required to pass safely through the gang’s turf, and once the offending outsider paid up, there still was no guarantee he wouldn’t be waylaid in an alley as soon as he turned the corner.
Robbery, random assaults, and murder were all part of life in gangland. Victims were usually those the gang did not accept as one of theirs but could be anyone, often determined by the quantity of meth, cocaine or pot the gang members had consumed that day.
Ben Dupart’s walk to and from school stretched a half-mile. Too close to qualify for school bus service, in that painfully long half-mile he passed through the turf of three separate gangs. It would have been infinitely safer if the entire area had been controlled by the Demonios de la Muerte—DMs—the gang that controlled the street where he lived over the store with his mother and grandfather. The school board, however, drew the district boundaries without consideration of the turf staked out by the gangs.
After passing unscathed through DM turf, Ben faced the three-block stretch claimed by the Death Bombers—DBs. The final four blocks, with the high school in sight at the t-intersection ahead, belonged to the Central Avenue Killers—Cent Killers, or just Cents.
He maintained his usual brisk pace, eyes focused ahead, not making eye contact with anyone. His senses tingled, searching for signs of approaching danger. Seven minutes had elapsed since he left the store, ignoring his mother’s goodbye. In that time, he had covered three-quarters of the distance to the high school. Ben began to breathe easy.
“What you doin’ here, boy?”
He tensed, his muscles twitching involuntarily, his fight-or-flight reflex taking over with flight dominating. He wanted to run as quickly as possible to the relative safety of the school. He had to force himself to hold his ground. Don’t run. Running will make things .worse, maybe get you killed. Take the beating if you have to, but survive another day.
He turned to face the two Cent Killers dressed in the gang’s blue and gold colors. His eyes met theirs but he remained silent. There wasn’t anything he could say that would change the outcome. This was about maintaining a certain amoun
t of street credibility—cred—by showing that he wouldn’t run. Unflinching silence in the face of the danger—fearless indifference to the threat—these were his only real defense. An air of passive defiance might make them go easier on him. It didn’t always work out that way, but resisting or fleeing would only make it worse.
The speaker was short and stocky. A long scar across his cheek proved that he was a blooded member of the gang, knifed in some fight with a rival gang or one of his own gang members. His mother named him Carlos. The Cent Killers simply called him Cicatriz—Scar—or Triz for short.
The second was taller and although his face bore no scars the three red tattoos on his neck in the shape of drops of blood were evidence that he had assaulted others and drawn blood, possibly killing them. No one knew for sure, but he was known on the streets as Rip, short for Jack the Ripper.
Ben recognized both, had passed them before on the street without incident. Today fate had turned against him. For whatever reason, they decided that this was the day to fuck with the interloper onto their turf.
“I said what you doin’ here, boy?”
The gangbangers closed in. The speaker pushed his face to within three inches of Ben’s, his chin held up in the gang challenge posture. His partner moved in close enough for his chest to touch Ben’s shoulder.
Ben let his eyes move in a lazy unconcerned way up the street to the school and then back to the speaker. The next few seconds were critical. They would either respect his fearless indifference or beat the shit out of him.
“School?” Triz sneered and looked at his taller partner. “This pussy thinks he can just walk up our street ‘cause he goes to school.”
“Fuck him,” Rip growled back.
He was almost leaning against Ben now, and the speaker had his face so close their chins nearly touched. The blatant violation of his personal space sent a message. They had no fear of him and dared him to resist or fight.
Mentally, Ben resigned himself to the inevitable. He knew they had already made their decision. All he could do was try to survive the inevitable beat-down that was only seconds away.