Gunmetal Black

by Daniel Serrano

  We started in the master bedroom. As we tossed every drawer, we found things to take, like a jewelry box full of rings, cuff links, earrings, necklaces, bracelets. We found passports, a gold watch. Pelón made sure he was in the room the whole time. He rifled, but kept an eye on us as well. He wrapped a small statue of an armless woman in a towel and put it in a bucket.

  Tony sprayed himself with different colognes. He found a vibrator in the table next to the bed and tried to buzz first me, then Pelón, in the ear with it.

  Pelón shooed him away. “Déja la jodienda. Get to work.”

  I found an envelope with cash in the back of a panty drawer and Pelón took it and put it in his pants pocket, under the coveralls, without counting.

  Tony dug in the bedroom closet. “Shit, look at this.” He held up a gleaming revolver.

  Pelón took it. “Children shouldn’t play with these.” He put it in his back pocket. “Help me with this rug. Es oriental.”

  We rolled it up, wrapped it in a tarp, carried it downstairs, then moved on to the other bedrooms. The daughter had a lot of stuffed animals and posters of unicorns. She also had a small TV, a stereo, and a Commodore 64 computer, which ended up in buckets. The son had an electric guitar.

  “Snap!” said Tony. “I’m taking this ax. And that amp.”

  Pelón shook his head. “That’s no gonna fit in a bucket.”

  “Fuck that,” said Tony. He put the guitar in its carrying case, pulled the bedsheet off the bed, and began to wrap it. “I’ll get you a backstage pass when U2 opens for me and Van Halen at the Rosemont.”

  Pelón looked at me. “What the fock he talking about?”

  I put my hands up. “Can’t stop a rock star with a dream, Pelón.”

  After that, we were warmed up. We went through the family room adorned with pictures of the balding husband, blond wife, daughter, and son. The kids smiled less in the pictures where they wore braces. We removed a reel-to-reel deck from the wall, and other components of a sound system, but sadly left the speakers, which Pelón said were too big. We took a portable TV, a VCR, an early Nintendo, a Sony Walkman, and two portable phones that were the size of small toasters. Pelón removed a painting of water lilies and wrapped it in a blanket, and did the same with another painting in the same style, this one of a small bridge.

  In the office Pelón held a small statue of a blindfolded woman with scales and a sword. He held up the statue and said, “La Justicia,” in a mocking tone, then wrapped it and put it in a bucket.

  I noticed the man had a golden pen and pencil set displayed on his desk. I looked at Pelón.

  “Take it.”

  I put just the pen in my pocket. Pelón found more cash in a drawer, which made him laugh out loud. Tony flipped through the man’s collection of Playboy and Hustler. On the wall was a picture of the man of the house shaking hands with Ronald Reagan.

  I pointed at it. “Pelón, you better be right that this friend of yours wants you in here. He looks pretty connected.”

  Pelón came over, looked at the picture, and smirked. “Mira, you donate enough money and politicians’ll let you take a picture of their daughter with your finger up her ass, OK? Let me show how I vote.” Pelón took the framed picture off the wall, let it drop to the floor, and smashed the glass with his heel, really dug it into the President’s face.

  In the kitchen we loaded the silverware, of course, but also a blender, a juicer, a coffeemaker, a milkshake maker, an automatic can opener. Tony helped himself to a beer.

  In the garage we picked up all kinds of power tools, which we would never know how to use. Much of it was organized into toolboxes, which was convenient. We carried everything to the foyer.

  Pelón sized everything up. “First we gotta get that rug into the van, along one side; then we carry the tools, the buckets, and finally we put the paintings in on the side. This has to be in and out; we can’t give the neighbors too much time to notice.”

  We moved like an assembly line. The last painting was loaded and Pelón had his hands on both back doors, shutting them, when we heard a woman’s voice from the front of the van.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen? Señores?” She said it in that accent that white people have when they learn to speak Spanish in school.

  We all froze. Pelón whispered, “¡Puñeta!”

  Tony said, “What’re we gonna do?”

  The three of us remained hidden behind the van.

  The woman’s voice got closer. “Pardon me? Hellooo?”

  Pelón looked at me. “Háblale.”

  My stomach turned. “And say what?”

  “Get her to leave. Si no, we gonna have a lotta trouble.”

  I looked at Tony.

  “Do it,” he said. “Be smooth.”

  I went around to the front of the van. “Can I help you?”

  The woman walked slowly up the long driveway. She had a Rottweiler on a leash. The dog’s head was massive.

  “Do you speak English?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Are you housepainters?”

  I looked down at my coveralls with its array of staged paint stains. “Um, yeah.”

  “I didn’t know the Knutsons were having work done.”

  “Yeah, um, it’s a surprise. I guess he, um, he—he wanted to surprise his wife.”

  “Really? Wish my lump of coal would think like that.”

  I smiled. I kept my eyes on the dog. It sniffed.

  “We need some fixing too. Harold keeps promising to find some Mexicans, but he never gets out of his La-Z-Boy. Do you have a card?”

  “A card?”

  “You know, with your number? You’re not union, are you?”

  I shook my head. “I forgot to bring my card today.”

  “Are you union?”

  I wasn’t sure what she meant.

  “Do you have a number?”

  I swallowed and tried to think of one. “Yes.”

  “Can I have it? Actually”—she turned toward the front door to the house we just burglarized—“let me just go inside. Madge keeps a notepad and pen by the phone in the kitchen.”

  I put my hand up. “Don’t go in there!”

  She stopped in her tracks and looked at me. “Anything wrong?” The dog did not make a move, but it peeled its upper lip enough to show choppers.

  “It’s just we’re not supposed to let anybody inside.”

  “I go in there all the time.” She held up her key ring. “See? Got my own set. Who do you think waters their plants when they’re in Boca?”

  “It’s not that. It’s just, there’s, um, there’s a lot of fumes and everything. From the paint. It’ll make you dizzy. You could get very sick. The dog too.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. We practically had to run out of there ourselves.”

  The woman pointed at the windows. “Well, then, how come those windows aren’t open? Shouldn’t you air the place out?”

  “Yes, yes, you’re right.” I remembered Pelón disappearing around to the back when we first got there. I said, “We left the windows in the back open. We left these up front closed because we don’t want nobody to see from the street and climb through.”

  “That’s good. You can never be too careful. We’ve had a lot of break-ins lately.”

  “Right. Let me get a paper from the van. I’ll write the number down for you.”

  “Wonderful.”

  I went to the front seat of the van, where I left the copy of the Tribune that I read on the ride up. I ripped a corner off one page and used the golden pen from the office to write “Painter.” For the number—I was so nervous, instead of just inventing one, I wrote the only number that would come to mind, Bella’s Pizza on Chicago Avenue.

  I handed her the number. “There you are. Just call when you want us to start.”

  “Don’t you wanna come across right now and see what it is? It’ll only take a minute.”

  “Oh no, I, um, we—we got another place to paint. Right no
w. We’re already late.”

  “At this hour?”

  “We work a lot.” Out of nowhere I said, “My kid needs braces.”

  “Seems every kid in America nowadays got a mouthful of crooked teeth.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “You seem awfully young to have a child old enough for braces though.”

  I smiled. “I kinda messed up.”

  “Que sera, sera.”

  She turned and led the Rottweiler down the driveway. The dog looked back at me as it walked. Once they were off the property, I went around to the back of the van. Pelón stood with the shiny gun from the closet in his right hand.

  “What the fuck were you gonna do with that, Pelón?”

  He looked at the gun almost as if he were surprised to see it there. “Nothing. Scare her. Take her inside and tie her to a chair.”

  “You think that humongous Rott was gonna let you get away with that?”

  Pelón raised his eyes from the weapon and looked into mine. He lingered as if working his way through a decision.

  In Spanish he said, “Let’s just thank God that it didn’t come to that.”

  I studied Pelón now, so much older, in the back of his limo, on our way to the track. Pelón was no longer the cocky, muscular home invader that he had once been. But he still emitted that same macho air that he carried all those years before when we executed that first burglary together. It was true that Pelón had wrinkled some. He had lost fingers, and picked up a cane since then. But he still filled his shoes like he could stomp somebody at any moment.

  He smiled at me. “We almost there. You gonna see how the air at the track works a miracle on my mood.”

  It appeared to be true. Even with the cane, and the bad hip, Pelón seemed taller, almost peacocklike once we arrived at the track. That lasted until Pelón checked the stats for the fifth race. Curly-Q’s odds had dropped to sixteen to one.

  Pelón cursed in Spanish. In a hushed tone he said, “Maybe the word got out and there’s a lotta people betting my horse.”

  He stepped to the window. “Fifth, nine thousand on thirteen to win.”

  I said, “Pelón, did you just bet nine thousand dollars on a horse?”

  He wiggled his eyebrows.

  Tony said, “Can I bet?”

  “Por supuesto, pero avanza. I wanna get to the stands.”

  Tony took out the thousand Pelón gave him earlier.

  I said, “You’re not gonna drop that whole G, are you, Tone?”

  “It’s a sure thing.”

  Pelón took the thousand from Tony’s hand. He looked at me. “¿Quiere un pedacito de pan caliente?”

  “Too rich for me.”

  Tony told Pelón, “Go ahead and split the G in half, Pelón. Five for Eddie and five for me.” He looked at me and winked.

  I put my hand up. “That’s all right, Tony. I’m just here to watch.”

  Pelón said, “Jódete entonce.” He placed Tony’s bet and we headed for the stands. Pelón noticed that the odds were now twelve to one. He cursed in Spanish. “They gonna drive the goddamn thing all the way down.”

  The smell of horse shit permeated. Pelón watched the other races through binoculars. “Is no fun when you got nothing on it.”

  I ate popcorn. “I don’t know. The circus is fun even if it ain’t your head in the lion’s mouth.”

  Pelón shrugged. Horses raised dust with their hooves. People around us mostly lost, tore tickets, and made lazy comments to each other about balls that bounced and cookies that crumbled. Pelón spoke but did not lower his binoculars.

  “Bueno, Eduardo, are you working?”

  I leaned back in my seat. “I’m on sabbatical.”

  “I don’t know such big words. But I got a lotta friends that need help, if you looking for a job.”

  “Yeah, Pelón? Maybe your trainer friend can get me started cleaning Curly-Q’s stable?”

  Pelón said in Spanish, “Why do you always have to make a sarcastic remark?”

  “No offense, Pelón, but I really don’t feel like going around collecting vig for you or your friends.”

  Tony said, “Good, ’cause that job’s taken.”

  “Eddie, you ain’t working for me. You tongue too loose right now. You could work as a bouncer. I got a friend who run a titty bar on the South Side. He needs help with the horny customers.”

  Tony’s ears perked up. “Working at a strip club?”

  “I think we can get you two hundred a shift.” He threw in the bonus plan: “Plus, all the free toto you can eat.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  Tony looked at me. “Are you crazy?”

  Pelón said, “What’re you gonna do for money? Shit gold?”

  It was risky, especially since I still didn’t know which way was up, but I said, “Don’t wet your hanky over me, Pelón. I got forty grand stashed.”

  Pelón turned his ear. “Forty thousand? ¿Dónde?”

  “Your friends, the dirty cops, Coltrane and Johnson. They’re holding it for me. I’m getting it back from them.”

  Pelón lowered the binoculars. “You gonna do what?”

  I repeated. “I’m getting my money back. From the narcs.”

  Pelón looked at Tony.

  Tony shrugged.

  Pelón cocked an eyebrow at me. “Is you been smoking the crack pipe? They not gonna give you that money back.”

  “They’re not giving me anything, Pelón. I’m taking it. It ain’t theirs to give.”

  “And how you gonna do that?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  Pelón made a gesture with his lips that meant, “Bullshit.” He raised the binoculars. “Mira joven, no hable tanta mierda. You want my advice?”

  “I live for it.”

  He paused. “Forget about that money. And stay away from those cannibals. I might not be around next time to bail you out.”

  That felt like a threat. “You wanna talk jobs, Pelón? How ’bout we talk about this casino job, finally, huh?”

  “Shhhhh!” He dropped the binoculars to his chest and looked around to see if anyone heard. “Why don’t you put it in the newspaper?”

  “Talk.”

  “This ain’t the place, Eduardo. Squash it.”

  “Don’t talk to me about no two-bit hump tossing boners out of a strip club, Pelón. Two hundred a shift ain’t shit. I came to this city holding forty large, and I ain’t leaving without it. I don’t care whose wig I gotta peel.”

  Pelón looked at me like he wanted to slap the bold right out of my mouth. Then he raised the binoculars. “Antonio, your friend got a dangerous tongue.”

  Tony put a hand on my shoulder. “Come on, bro, chill.”

  I shrugged him off. The old man focused, or pretended to focus, on the track again. It seemed to me that there were many pieces left in the match between me and Pelón. But by my estimation at least a couple of pawns had just gotten lost.

  The horses came out for the fifth race.

  Pelón said, “¿Dónde está mi numero trece?”

  Curly-Q was the last to come out.

  Pelón checked the board and cursed. “Coño, eight to one. And he’s gonna get the outside post. Maldito sea. Number three’s the favorite, six to five.”

  The other horses went into the gate. Curly-Q acted like he didn’t want to go. The jockey nosed him in, but Curly-Q backed up, like he sensed something invisible to humans.

  Pelón watched through binoculars. “C’mon, papi. Métete.”

  The horse finally went in.

  Pelón thanked God. He looked over his shoulder. In Spanish he said, “For a second I thought he stuck it up our ass.”

  Tony winced. “That woulda hurt.”

  Pelón went back to the binoculars. “C’mon, caballito. Win this one for papa Pelón, OK? No me engañe.”

  Tony clapped. “C’mon, Curly-Q. Fuck them other horses up.”

  The herd roared out of the gate. In half a second Curly-Q was in the middle, on the o
utside, away from the rail. There appeared to be nothing wrong with him. Whatever spooked him at the gate was over. His only visible problem was that half the other horses were out in front.

  Tony held his chin. “That don’t look good.”

  Pelón said, “It’s early,” although he already sounded less confident than a second earlier.

  The horses rumbled round the first turn.

  Pelón said, “Number three’s on the rail.”

  Curly-Q began to fall back.

  Tony said, “Shit!”

  Curly-Q remained on the outside. He was still with the pack, but in an apparent battle to avoid dead last.

  Tony made a face. “This blows.”

  Pelón slapped Tony’s shoulder with a mangled racing form. “You mouth is bringing us bad luck! Shut up!” He followed with the binoculars, urging the horse with a whisper. “Suelta, caballo, suelta.”

  The pack went into the last turn in a cloud of dust.

  “Suelta.”

  The race was in its final seconds.

  “Dale, dale, dale.”

  And that’s when it happened. The curvature in that final turn acted as a slingshot. Curly-Q began to move.

  Pelón raised the volume on his whisper. “Dale, Curly-Q. Aquí viene.”

  Tony grabbed my forearm.

  Curly-Q unleashed the thing that had been buried in its heart. It beamed ahead of the pack to challenge the favorite.

  Pelón hopped. “¡Qué lindo!”

  The horses pounded next to each other in a magnificent whirlwind. The jockeys spanked ass.

  “¡Vuela caballo!”

  And Curly-Q obeyed. From where we stood, it seemed that his feet did not touch the ground. The leaders crossed the finish line right next to each other. Tony’s nails dug into my forearm.

  Pelón grabbed Tony’s other arm. “It’s a photo finish!”

  We watched the board. Number 13 came up the winner.

  Pelón, the senior citizen with a fractured hip, jumped like a teenager. “My baby did it by a nose!”

  Tony said, “We won? We won!”

  The winners jumped and hugged and laughed.

  “Sweet mother of mercy,” said Tony. “We fucking won.”

  Pelón informed him, “And at eight to one! Not bad.” He looked at me. In Spanish he said, “So how does that look?” He nodded at Tony. “Let’s collect.”