by Erb, Thom
He wanted to cover his ears as Isandro’s baleful laugh echoed, and the temperature dropped.
“Manny, you and this pendejo of a brother of mine, get rid of the empties behind the dumpsters and meet us inside. I need me some chow, yo.” Isandro tucked a bottle into his jacket, got out of the car, and slammed the door.
Hector shook all over, and he no longer cared. Fuck the other gang-bangers in the car. He hoped they all died tonight. He prayed that whatever chemical or germ attack hit the east coast would come and wash them all away like the swirling storm outside.
Manny grabbed the girl and yanked her out the car. As fast as his large frame could manage, he dragged her out of sight of the diner’s windows, toward the dumpsters. Hector met Bobby at the back of the car and didn’t even look at the pudgy punk. He just opened the trunk lid, and the creak of its rusty hinges was lost in the thunder pounding above them.
Hector paused as the spastic bright flash of lightning bathed the immense trunk in its light, and the dead girl stared deeply into his bloodshot eyes. He knew she was dead. At least two hours gone. But her eyes bore deep into his soul and wrenched around like a knife cutting a deer. He pushed the painful thoughts out and prayed they’d wash away amongst the torrent.
He grabbed the teenager by the thin wrists and motioned for Bobby to get her ankles. They yanked the girl from her metal casket and out into the pouring rain. They moved quickly, robotically into the darkness of the dumpsters, and dropped the girl on top of her rigor-filled sibling.
Hector waved Manny and Bobby away. They turned, shaking their heads, laughing, and walked toward the front of the diner.
Hector fell to his knees into the mud and wept.
24
El Loco
Inside Jimbo’s Rusty Cactus Diner
Friday, 12:30 p.m.
The old bell jingled from the worn door as Isandro stepped inside. He was familiar with the railroad car diner. He remembered banging a bitch with tattoos in the bathroom, a year or so before his stint in Oklahoma. It still was a shit-hole, he mumbled, taking the bottle from under his jacket. The diner had a dated 50’s décor, with all kinds of useless Army or Marine bullshit on the walls. Photos of pendejo Texas Rangers and other white boy assholes that Isandro would love to use for target practice. He was thinking about burning the roach trap to the ground, but decided he was far hungrier than anything else, so he filed that idea away. He did a fast check of the occupants and smiled.
He stood in the center of the diner. In front of him a long counter ran the length of it. Only one guy sat there. From the looks of his fat body, long hair, and ball cap, Isandro guessed he was a trucker. Nothing to worry about there. Off to the right, by the bathrooms, a young white boy with a smoking hot chica, were talking to a blonde, beehive-haired waitress. They looked like rich college kids. Must be on a date. “How fuckin’ sweet.” Isandro tasted the words and spat on the chipped, yellowing floor. The rest of the diner was empty. The place was all his. He sipped.
“Sit anywhere, hon. I’ll be right with you,” the short, pudgy waitress shouted, never looking at him or his crew.
He found a corner booth to his left that offered a complete view of his diner and plopped down on the end. Bobby and Manny sat down. Cahill walked like a damn zombie and nearly fell into the booth.
“Christ, holmes, you’re a fuckin’ lightweight.” Manny slugged the pale kid in the arm. Cahill started to fall off the seat. Manny grabbed him and pulled him up.
“Yo, you gonna make it, bro?” Bobby asked.
Isandro just stared and drank from his bottle. He didn’t even know why Hector brought him along in the first place. Kid was probably a rat from the DEA or ATF. Isandro felt the comfortable grip of his pistol and thought about putting a hole in the punk’s face, right here and now. But again, his craving for pancakes and sausage outweighed his trigger finger. For now.
“Can’t hang with the big boys, huh, esé?” Manny laughed, and patted the kid on the back. Cahill almost slid onto the floor again, but Manny yanked him up by his sweat and blood-soaked covered wife-beater.
“Shit, yo, take your nasty white ass to the shitter ‘n wipe that funk off of ya.” Bobby pinched his nose closed and laughed loudly.
“Yeah, you smell like Bobby’s mamma’s coochie.” Manny laughed and held out a hand for Isandro to high-five, but it was left hanging. Manny dropped it quickly.
“Fuck you, asshole.” Bobby shot Manny a sharp look.
Cahill suddenly jumped up from the booth and ran toward the bathroom.
“Heh, see, told ya. Your mamma’s snatch is nasty enough to make ya puke.” Bobby slapped Manny across the back, and they began to wrestle in the booth.
Isandro sat back and drank from his bottle, caressed the wooden grip of his pistol, and felt his stomach growl for pancakes. He could hear the Voice talking again.
The Voice had been his best friend since before he could walk. He found it comforting, but scary as all hell at the same time. It started small and told him to do things. Bad things. Violent things, like stomping on ants or tearing off flies and bees wings. He really liked doing that. When he got older, the Voice encouraged him to see what was inside the stomach of local cats and dogs. He really, really enjoyed doing that. When he was twelve, he and Hector cornered some retarded kid from the next shit town over, walking through their hood. The Voice commanded him to teach the ’tard a lesson. Isandro watched and knew his puta of a brother was faking it. Hector threw a few pansy-assed punches, but wimped out. When the Voice whispered into Isandro’s ear, he followed the command. Hector just stared, eyes wide, and mouth hung open.
It made Isandro laugh. But not as much as when he followed the Voice’s orders and slit open the dumb-ass kid’s throat with a broken Coke bottle. Isandro made his brother help him dump the body in Old Man Rojas’s pigpen. The fat bastards made short work of the retard. His loser brother went home, but it was okay, because Isandro and the Voice watched with excited eyes and approving smiles as the pigs relished in their midnight snack.
The Voice had become Isandro’s constant companion. It always spoke to him when he was the most lost. The dark, smooth voice talked his damn ear off while in prison. Non-stop. Every day, he was lucky if he could get an hour of straight sleep each night. Isandro hated the Voice at first, but then it began to tell him things. Wise things. Whenever he couldn’t make a decision or had a hard choice to make. That usually included the times he'd take care of a fellow member that went off the reservation and had to be dealt with. In the dark moments when he was filled with doubt and had deep feelings of weakness, the Voice spoke to him the loudest. The Voice always knew just what to do.
The memory of the time back in Nacogdoches, when the word came down from the Perez Cartel in Mexico City, that a fucking rat had infiltrated the organization. It was Manuel Santos, that Isandro had sponsored into the gang and was about to be jumped in. It turned out that the pendejo prick was an undercover Texas fucking Ranger. That kind of betrayal and loss of trust meant a death sentence for the cop and his sponsor—Isandro. He knew he was a walking dead man, and he had to do something. He felt betrayed. He’d trusted Santos, and they'd become brothers. Done things that he was damn sure as a cop, the dude shouldn’t have done. He even brought the bastard into his home for Christmas dinner with his family. Isandro was furious, but torn. His mind swirled with anger, disbelief and fear. He actually was considering letting the asshole off the hook, and was going to talk to the Cartel and see if there wasn’t a mistake or another way of handling things. That’s when the Voice bellowed.
Kill the worthless puta. Do it now! The Voice repeated the cold words for twenty-four hours straight. He knew the Voice was right.
The pendejo Ranger was laughing and drinking in his back yard having a Fourth of July picnic with his family, along with a handful of other off-duty Rangers, when Isandro and his crew crashed the party.
The Voice shouted in his drug-rattled mind. Kill them… Kill them ALL!
&
nbsp; The news reported later that night, that twenty-four people had been brutally slain at the Santo’s residence. Amongst the dead were four children ranging from six months to eight years of age. It was also reported the Ranger’s tongue, eyes, and heart were missing. That made Isandro smile, and he knew then and there the Voice always spoke the truth. It was that little incident which sent the other asshole Ranger, McCutcheon, after Isandro’s ass. Hell, Isandro was honored that he was the sole target of the Rangers. But it was McCutcheon that seemed to have a big hard-on for him. He didn’t know and didn’t give a rat’s ass either. He was just another puta the Voice would tell him to butcher like the pig he was. Isandro let the words warm him. They always made things so simple. He liked simple.
The words came again. Soft, at first, then quickly rising in timbre and intensity. The Voice filled his thoughts and were quickly jolted away, as a round of thunder shook the diner. He found his hand gripping the pistol tightly. He was starving for pancakes, but he knew the Voice had a hankering from something a little more…bloody.
The bleach-blonde waitress walked toward them, and Isandro's mouth split into a wicked smile. The old bitch made her way to his booth. Just the way Isandro liked them.
“Sorry, hon, been one hell of a night.” Her face was tired, and her makeup was worn off. She was covered in sweat. Isandro laughed as she adjusted her beehive hairdo and chomped on a wad of gum. “What can I get for ya?” She never looked at him or the other crew in the booth.
“Yo.” He leaned in to read her name tag. Robbie. “I’ll take the biggest stack of pancakes you got and a shit-ton of bacon… Keep ‘em comin’.” He leaned back, pulled out his bottle, and sipped from it, never losing his smile.
The Voice grew louder.
He wondered what her insides looked like.
Not looking up from her notepad, she said, “You want some coff... Oh.” Her gaze caught the bottle in his hand, and she quickly turned to Manny and Bobby and took their orders. Isandro was too busy listening to the sinister words rolling around his maelstrom-filled mind.
The waitress finished, gave him a weak smile, and waddled back toward the kitchen. She passed the two lovebirds sitting at the far end of the diner. They were barely twenty, if that. The pasty white dude wore a University of Houston t-shirt and blushed while talking to the blonde bitch sitting across from him. They think they’re so goddamn smart. The Voice growled. They had books splayed out in front of them, and Isandro had noticed they'd shot Cahill ugly looks as he ran past them, on his way to the bathroom. Snobby, college fucks, he thought, and found himself wanting to explore their arrogant bellies as well.
“What ya thinkin’, Boss?” Manny asked, looking anxious.
“Time to go back to school.” The Voice came out through his mouth. He nodded with a wide grin at the co-eds flirting and eating onion rings.
Manny, and Bobby, turned and watched the couple play grab ass for a couple minutes before turning back to Isandro with the same twisted grins on their faces. Manny licked his lips and drank from his bottle.
“What ya thinking?” Manny bounced with excitement.
Isandro lived for that.
“School’s out forever.” Isandro laughed, his fist closed tightly and dragged his outstretched thumb across his throat. He knew that Manny would understand. The kid must be hearing the same voice. He would be a good replacement for his number two. He sipped the bottle, and waited for the pancakes and floorshow to begin.
The Voice was growing louder and very impatient.
***
Outside Jimbo’s Diner
Hector’s world was torn apart. He’d been his twin brother’s protector, defender, and best friend. Especially inside the Los Malvados. Hector and Isandro grew up on the bloody, violent streets. The gang offered safety and a purpose. But it also rife with backstabbing, treacherous scumbags. The gang was packed with feral dogs, all fighting to be the alpha. Hector never failed to back any of Isandro’s many plans. Even the ones he didn’t fully agree with. But brothers always back each other’s plays. Their Papi taught them that at a young age, and Hector never forgot it.
But here, knee deep in mud, in front of two dead, innocent girls that his brother had slaughtered without hesitation, Hector was lost. The storm was fierce, and the rain felt like a million tiny shards of frozen glass boring into his cold skin. His chest burned, and his tears mixed with the rain. Every inch of his body was filled with pain and felt like dead weight.
He’d done everything for his twin. He’d betrayed, stole, cheated, and even had killed people for him. All in hopes that Isandro would come back to Mexico with him and they could leave the damn gang behind—find a new life somewhere—anywhere. He thought Isandro wanted to get out of the gang life, but he was wrong. It was loud and clear that he loved every sick, twisted part of it. There was nothing he could do to change his dark mind.
Hector's sobs rocked him, and the storm railed on. The two girls stared at him with wide, death-filled eyes. He had to do something. He didn’t care if he got killed trying, but he had to do something. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t the way they were raised.
His body felt like a hundred sandbags were tied to him, but he managed to climb up from the mud hole, next to the dumpster, and looked up at the ebony sky above him.
“Dios mio. Mamma, Papi, forgive me.” He closed his eyes and prayed for the first time in years.
He turned, started toward the diner, but stopped. He looked down at the girls; their bloodied, bruised bodies lay in a twisted mass of limbs. His heart ached. His soul burned with sorrow, shame, and horror. He made the sign of the cross, mouthed the words, “I’m sorry,” and gripped the cold steel of the .38 Special tucked inside the back of his waistband.
A bright flash of lightning startled Hector as he turned back to the diner. He slogged through the mud; never noticing the slight twitches of movement of the twin girls heaped against the rusty dumpster.
25
Avalon Hideaway
Inside Jay McCutcheon’s 'Cuda
The rain was thicker than mud as we topped the hill above the small valley that was home to my good buddy, Jimbo’s diner. I knew this area like the back of my hand. I'd spent most of my time here, growing up, and as a Ranger. Even shit-faced off my gourd and dead-ass tired, I could find my way here, even if it was through a yellow-piss colored rainstorm. Whatever the biological attacks were, I was pretty damn certain that good ol’ Jimbo would have his shit wired tight and the diner would be secure. I hoped.
The blinding white and yellow of the sign welcomed us as I drove down the hill.
“What the hell?” Stacy Jo yelled, covering her eyes.
I laughed, sipped from my bottle. “That would be Jimbo’s Diner, kiddo. He never was a guy for subtlety.” I shook my head and descended the rain-slicked hill. Despite the raging storm, Jimbo’s sign lit up a good three acre-parcel of the highway surrounding his joint. I slowed the car as we approached the parking lot and took stock. I thought I saw something moving in the darkness around the diner, but the way the lightning was flashing like a damn strobe-light, I couldn’t be sure. And I really didn’t think anyone in their right mind would be out for a stroll in this shit.
An old blue and red Kenworth tractor trailer with a piggy-backed load set at the far end of the lot, while a dented up Dodge pick-up, and a small white Honda, set in front of the diner. The only other car in the muddy lot was a long Caddy that reminded me of one of Elvis’s rides or something from the Munster’s TV show I watched as a kid. I chuckled as I pulled in next to it and put the car into park.
“Wonder if the King’s in for a peanut butter and ’nana sandwich?” I did my best Elvis impersonation. Stacy Jo just looked at me as if I had sprouted a third ear out my forehead and I'd spoken Martian. I shook my head, took a swig from the bottle, and shrugged.
“I told you, kiddo. You’ll be safe here. You hungry? Jimbo makes the best damn pancakes in the world. I swear.” She looked none-too-impressed. Goddamned ki
ds these days, I bitched to myself, shut the car off, and got out. I instinctively felt the grip of my service weapon and the knife strapped to my belt while I looked out at the muddy parking lot. I knew Jimbo would have plenty of food, but I still had to try and sell the whole ‘It’s safer than Fort Knox’ thing to the kid, just to keep things cool. There was some truth to what I told her. James Joseph Ferguson was one bad ass Marine. But that was years ago. The booze and long list of ex-wives had cleaned his clock. And while it’s gospel that the man can make a killer pancake, he is nuttier than a shit house rat. There was no way in hell I was going to tell this to Stacy Jo. The small lie would have to do.
She reluctantly got out of the car. “Yeah, pancakes do sound good,” she said as she closed the door, her wide, blue eyes taking in the entirety of Jimbo’s Diner. Something told me that she was looking for more than the best seat in the house.
I was starting to like this kid.
Shoot me now.
I made my way up the front steps of the old train car-turned diner and actually felt my stomach growl. Maybe coming here was a good idea after all. I’d lost a lot of faith in my gut hunches lately, but the food sounded good.
I should have listened to my gut.
26