But I was far from downtown. All that hustling I’d done on the subway system would throw off any bloodhounds. I still had time.
“Shut it off.”
Xochitl killed the TV.
“You got my money?”
“It’s under the bed.”
I got down on all fours and found it down there. My money belt. I opened it. It was filled with green. On top of it was the Purple Heart that Coltrane stole from me my first night back in Chicago. I zipped the money belt shut.
“Did you count it?”
“Ten thousand.”
I knew that Coltrane and Johnson would have never agreed to release my full forty G’s, even if they thought they would double-cross me later and get it back. Why risk losing the whole egg? I took what I could get my hands on.
“Beautiful.” I tossed the money on the bed. “You got my tape player?”
Xochitl dug it out of her purse. She gave me my cell phone too. “Eddie, if you needed money, you should have come to me.”
“What, so you could ask your husband for it? I didn’t need money. I had my own stash that I needed to recover. That’s all. Did you listen to the tape?”
“You told me not to.”
“Good. Were you able to rent a car?”
“Yes.”
“In your own name, Xochitl?”
“Of course. It’s the white one right outside the door here. The keys are on the dresser, next to the room key. Am I gonna be implicated?”
“I already told you no. I’ll drop the car at Miami-Dade and that’ll be that.” I added: “If I get caught, I’ll just say that I forced you. Threatened to hurt your kids if you talked—that kind of thing. You say the same thing. OK? You bring my change of clothes?”
“In the bathroom.”
I went in and shut the door behind me. I took the fastest shower and changed, but did not put on a shirt. When I came out, Xochitl was standing by the exit with her purse on her shoulder, looking nervous and sad. She winced when she saw the bruise on my bare chest.
“You need to get that x-rayed.”
“I’ll survive.”
She touched the bruise lightly, but did not ask what happened. She said, “Why are you trusting me with all this?”
I thought about it for a second. “You have the most unforgettable smile.”
Xochitl hadn’t smiled once that day. And she didn’t do so now. I stood in front of her by the door.
A kiss on the lips would not have been appropriate or fair to either of us. Xochitl put her fingertips just above my bruised skin. Her eyes watered. She leaned in and kissed me soft on the collarbone. I hugged her, and smelled her hair for the last time.
“Xochitl. . .”
“Please don’t.”
We were in each other’s eyes now. Xochitl opened the door.
“Cuídate,” she said.
I would have understood if she said, “Please don’t ever call me again,” but she didn’t.
I sat on the bed. I desperately wanted to take a nap, but I had one more task to confront, and it made sense to take care of it as soon as possible, before I got in the car and rode away from the motel.
I dialed Coltrane’s cell.
“Santiago!”
“What up, cowpoke?”
“Where the fuck are you? You lied to us.”
I had told Coltrane and Johnson about the heist all right. But I had given them all the wrong information. And I made sure that they did the money drop for Xochitl at the exact time when the crew left Pelón’s, to make sure they didn’t just follow us. At the time when we were in one state holding up one casino boat, these morons were more than a hundred miles away, in another state, thinking some other casino boat was about to get robbed. They waited at a fake rendezvous spot.
Coltrane said, “You think you’re pretty clever, don’t you?”
“So will you when you hear what else I got.”
I put the tape recorder close to the receiver on my cell and pressed play. It was a recording of the conversation I had with Coltrane and Johnson by Buckingham Fountain. You could plainly hear each detective, who I repeatedly refer to by name, as they conspired with me to rob Tony, Pelón, and Cabezón after the casino heist. You hear them negotiate me down to ten thousand on the return of my stash, and also the part where they agreed to provide me with a bulletproof vest.
I shut off the tape. “Have you heard enough?”
Coltrane said, “What the fuck do you think you’re gonna do with that?”
I said, “The quality’s not the best, but you can clearly hear what’s being said, right? You recognize the voices, don’t you? I’ve made several copies.”
“Go on.”
“I have friends, Coltrane.”
“Bully for you.”
I said, “Anything happens to me? I get locked up? I disappear? That tape and a letter I’ve written explaining everything—explaining who all the players are—will be mailed to CPD Internal Affairs, the FBI, the Justice Department, the state attorney general, and every major news outlet in this city. You follow?”
Coltrane did not say a word. I could hear him breathe.
I said, “Don’t come after me, Coltrane. Don’t tell anybody you know I was the fourth man, because you are now in this to your tits and you don’t want that coming out. Make believe like I never hit your radar.”
Coltrane said, “Boy, you’re gonna shoot yourself in the foot one day.”
“Maybe. But at least I’ll be in control.”
After that, I jumped in the rental and split. Xochitl left the CD she bought me in the player, cued to “Go Your Own Way.” I slept a couple of times in rest areas, but never comfortably, since I kept expecting a contingent of state highway patrol officers to sneak up on me. They never came. I was in Miami by early afternoon.
I have followed the story since I got down here, on the Internet. Investigators found the car wreck, Tony’s body, the brothers in the woods. According to the news, the money was fully recovered. It is unclear who double-crossed who, since there were two homicides, one suicide, and the fourth man, the one in the gorilla suit, disappeared but did not take the cash. I don’t know if anyone is after me. I’ve never been named as a suspect. So far as I can tell from the news, the investigation seems to be at a dead end.
One news story did catch my attention: About six months after I left, two killers confessed to shooting that kid in the Humboldt Park bathroom. It was Nieve, aka “Sweetleaf,” and Nena, the girls Tony and I had hooked up with on day one. They got picked up for smoking a joint on the Hot Corner. Once they were fingerprinted, their fingerprints matched the ones recovered from the murder scene in the bathroom in the park. Confronted with this, they caved in and confessed that they had lured the kid to the bathroom with the promise of a blow job. They shot him to get props in the gang. No one had put them up to it. The gun was never recovered.
The Sun-Times ran a picture of the killers on its Web site as they were led out of the station by the arresting officers, Coltrane and Johnson. The landlords were cleaning up their neighborhood after all.
Chiva tells me to pay attention. “You gonna make this thing pleasing to the Orishas, you gotta do it right.” He shows me again how to tighten the skin of my handmade batá. The large one finally. It’s full-bodied and shaped like an hourglass, which makes sense, since it is female.
“Mira. Así.”
I do as Chiva tells me. Finally, the drum is ready. We both stand and admire it.
“It looks good,” he says in Spanish. “Bellísima.”
Me and Chiva and a couple of other investors work hard. Our little salsa label is off the ground. I got a woman I visit sometimes. Her kids are grown. I just bought myself an old motorcycle, and I have fun with it, although mostly I ride it slow.
But all of that is out of my mind right now. I look at my drum. It has no polish. It ain’t ever made a sound. But it’s my own creation. And I feel like, This is it. This is why I came here.
“Cúrate,” says
Chiva. “Play it.”
I sit on a stump and lay the drum across my lap. The skin on both ends feels just right. I slap the smaller head and stroke bass tones out of the other end that speak like nascent thunder.
Chiva and I smile.
He winks at me. “Aché pa’ ti, Boricua. Your ancestors are listening to you.”
My drum sounds that good.
FIN
READING GROUP GUIDE
Questions for Discussion
Gunmetal Black may be described as many things, including urban literature, crime fiction, commercial thriller, pulp, noir, and Latino fiction. How would you describe it and why? What are the distinctions between these categories?
Is Eddie just a good guy caught in a bad situation? Is he a victim? A product of his environment? How did witnessing his father’s murder change him? And why did he go into a life of crime?
How did setting and imagery affect the story?
Eddie was incarcerated for a decade immediately preceding the start of the novel. Do you have a sense of how he feels about that? What impact did incarceration have on him? He claims his debt to society is paid. Is it? Could Eddie be considered reformed?
One of the themes of the novel is that of missing or emotionally distant parents, especially fathers. What impact does this alienated affection and guidance have on the lives of the characters?
It is clear for most of the novel that Little Tony is on a downward spiral. Why does Eddie feel responsible for Tony? Was Eddie’s loyalty misplaced?
What did you think of the use of music throughout the novel? What does Eddie’s commitment to drumming and studying with Chiva tell you about him?
Eddie expresses antagonism toward Pelón throughout the story. What did you think of Pelón? How did his account of childhood poverty and the death of his little brother affect your opinion? How did you feel when Pelón smashed the disabled man’s skull with an elephant tusk?
How do issues of race, gender, and culture manifest themselves in the lives of these characters? What about issues of class?
Eddie indicates a growing desire not just for sex, but for intimacy with a woman. Why has this need not been there before? What is different now? How does what Eddie learns about the love lives of Tony, Pelón, Blutarski, and Xochitl affect him?
What did you think of Xochitl? Why did she get involved with Eddie? At one point, Eddie says that Xochitl made the right choice in ending it. Why does he believe that? What was the value of their relationship? Could Eddie and Xochitl have had a future together?
What does money mean to these characters and why? Why did Eddie choose to work at the ink mill while he angled against Coltrane and Johnson to recover the forty thousand dollars? Should Eddie have accepted the loss and left for Miami after that first disastrous day out of prison? Why did he leave the casino’s money with the bodies in the woods?
What did you think of the use of Spanish and slang throughout the novel? What does it add? How would the novel be different without these?
C, the Italian gangbanger, ordered Eddie and Tony to shoot the black kids in retaliation for a gang-related attack. When Eddie recalled that C viewed Puerto Ricans as derisively as he did blacks, he wondered why he and Tony ever sided with C about anything in life. Eddie claims to not know the answer. Do you?
Why did Eddie shoot those black kids? What choice did he have? How would you have handled the pressure that teenaged Eddie was under to take such violent action?
How is this novel’s depiction of gangs unique? Did you see anything to relate to? What distinguishes gangs from fraternities, the military, or a tribe? What is the appeal for people who commit their lives to their gang? What alternatives might they be offered that would derail their involvement?
What is the role of spirituality, morality, or religion for these characters and throughout the novel? Each major character either explicitly or implicitly expresses belief in a higher power, yet they all make choices that may be described as “immoral.” Why is that?
How is Gunmetal Black similar to other works, books, and movies that you are familiar with? How does it relate to the Great Books? Is it in conversation with any of them? What makes Gunmetal Black a novel?
Pelón tells Eddie and Tony that if they hunger for the American Dream they better seize it. He says, “These people’ve been running things in this part of the world for five hundred years. You think they gonna stop now?” What does he mean? Do you agree? What are the arguments for and against Pelón’s point of view?
How did you feel when Eddie avenged his father’s and Tony’s murder by crushing Cabezón’s head with a rock? Was he justified? Wasn’t he taking the law into his own hands? When, if ever, is that acceptable? Does it matter that Eddie’s experience of law enforcement is that of corruption?
Eddie tells us that after he heard the shot marking Pelón’s suicide he was surprised to experience grief. If Pelón was Eddie’s nemesis, why did Eddie cry over his death? And why did he hand Pelón the gun?
Were you surprised that Xochitl was at the motel after the casino heist? Did you expect her to ride off with Eddie? Were you disappointed when she didn’t? What would you have thought of her if she did?
The final scene finds Eddie in a state of peace and contrition. He is in Florida somewhere with a new identity and a new mission, doing something he loves. How does the rest of his story go? Do you think Eddie will be able to live out his days in relative quiet? Or is Eddie, as Little Tony puts it, “a straight-up magnet for trouble”? What do you expect to see in the sequel to Gunmetal Black?
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Since Gunmetal Black is my first novel, its completion and publication are part of a larger story of how I became a novelist. Many people contributed to this development in many ways, great and small, and I cannot possibly recall every kindness. To everyone who supported or encouraged me in any way, thank you. What follows are more particular expressions of gratitude.
Praise be to God for giving me the words and vision.
To my mother again, the strongest person I know, for giving me life, and teaching me so much. And to my stepfather, Marcelo “Yuyo” Aguiar, for taking such good care of her.
To my wife, Yajaira Yepez, Esq., for sharing your brains, beauty, passion, laughter, and love.
To my father, Hilario Serrano (1943–2002), a tough prince of salsa and the greatest storyteller I’ll ever know. Thanks, Pop, for letting me in.
To my beloved brother Alexander Serrano (1973–2003), a brave man and a genius of love. I miss you, baby brother.
To my beloved brother Ruben Serrano, a wordsmith, musician, athlete, and coach. Thanks for listening with a poet’s ear.
To my huge extended family, and para mi gente de Puerto Rico, Chicago, Philly/Bristol, and Nueva York.
To my badass uncle Eddie Pacheco. You were a real father figure when you didn’t need to be.
To Raymond Reyes. Thanks for letting me use your encyclopedia.
To my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Chang, who cried the first time she heard me read.
To my sixth grade teacher, Mr. Paul Tomasello, who taught responsibility, compassion, and self-control; and that every piece of writing must be rewritten and sanded like a piece of wood that you wish to make smooth.
To Peter Hilton, who ran the tutoring program and mentored teens at Onward Neighborhood House. Thanks for reading my one-page autobiography of the first thirteen years and coming to find me.
To Steve Lara, brother and lifelong friend. Thanks for digging the parts that I knew you would, but mostly for your huge heart.
To Annette Louise “Netty” Vargas, a true homegirl and the sister that I never had. Thanks for having my back, and for finishing the novel and leaving me a voice mail saying that it was good.
To the teachers and my fellow students at Wells High School in Chicago, especially the members of the Academic Olympics English Team that won first place three years in a row: Eli Martinez, Adriana Medina, Olga Rizo, and Christina Napoles.
<
br /> To Tim Schellenberg, for listening to a true story involving my dad and a baseball bat covered in blood, and saying that if I wrote it someone might actually pay to publish it. That was the exact first moment I considered becoming a writer.
To the Suarez sisters, Anita, Genoa, and Lucha, for all the movies, and the many gifts, especially that summer all those years ago, when you gave me a journal and said that I should write something.
To Jose Valle, friend, mentor, and photographer, for interrupting my speech on writing with, “Dude, first you write. Then you’re a writer.” Brilliant.
To Jane Jerrard for drafting a critique of my first effort, even though you didn’t know me.
To my cousin Jeannie Vazquez for reading that first effort and passing it to a friend to read on a plane.
To my paisan Daniel Foerst, el salsero, for feeling this novel so much and letting me know with such enthusiasm.
To Carmen Santiago for finishing the last page and immediately saying that you couldn’t wait to see the movie.
To Cleo and Duke, two mutts, for keeping me company.
To Fanny Mei Po Moy for many reasons.
To the faculty, staff, and my fellow students at Shimer College, where I studied the classics and produced the first draft of Gunmetal Black as my thesis.
To the faculty and staff at St. John’s University School of Law, where I became a more disciplined writer.
To the instructors and students at the Frederick Douglass Creative Arts Center in New York City, where I worked on both Gunmetal Black and Boogie Down.
To Dr. Adam Lynn and the other members of our little tribe. Thanks for listening.
To my excellent agent, Jennifer Cayea of Avenue A Literary, LLC. Thanks for representing me and also for giving me such terrific feedback. Your suggestions deepen the work.
To Karen Thomas, my editor at Grand Central Publishing. Thanks for seeing the potential.
And last, but never least, to Mrs. Marsha Brody, guardian angel and teacher of high school English. Without knowing me, based only on what you heard in the teachers’ lounge, you pulled a fast one and changed my schedule to enroll me in your creative writing class. It was the start of a beautiful journey. I never stop learning from you and I doubt that I could have become an attorney or a novelist without your influence. Thank you forever. I hope you are proud.
Gunmetal Black Page 32