America Libre

by Raul Ramos y Sanchez

  Rosa watched him silently from under the covers until he turned out the light and crawled into bed.

  “Good night, querida,” Mano said, then kissed her passionlessly and turned away.

  Rosa stared into the darkness. For weeks, she had been trying to suppress the notion that Mano might be seeing another woman. Now, it seemed, her worst fears might be true. Mano had never lied to her, but it was impossible not to doubt him. Why else would he need to keep secrets from her?

  She probed her memory in desperation, trying to understand what had driven them apart. None of it made sense. Mano finally had a job; they had a little money. Things should be better, not worse. Yet when Mano had been out of work, they’d pulled together, giving each other hope and strength.

  Looking back, it seemed the troubles in her family had started with the turmoil in the barrios. She’d tried to ignore the world outside, to keep her home normal and safe. It was useless. Pedro was on his way to becoming another cholo hanging out in the streets—and Julio would follow him before long. Worst of all, the rioting had brought that woman into their lives. Josefina had money, an education, and now it seemed she was beautiful as well. But that wasn’t enough. It seemed she wanted Mano, too.

  Rosa wasn’t sure how, but she had to find a way to protect her family from this woman. Tomorrow she would place fresh offerings on her shrine to Our Lady and pray for guidance. She would not give up her husband without a fight.

  Keith Sawyer was wringing out a fetid mop when the bright yellow poster on the bulletin board caught his eye. After a second look, the school janitor recognized the familiar face on the placard and pushed his wheeled bucket closer toward the wall. The brightly printed poster read:

  Benefit Performance for La Defensa

  del Pueblo of Los Angeles

  featuring

  TOMAS CRUZ!

  Time: 8:30–10:00 p.m. Saturday, January 12

  Place: El Lobo Club—112 Agnes Street

  “Stupid, flashy-assed greaser. What’s he up to anyway?” Sawyer muttered to himself—a habit he had acquired after sixteen years as a night janitor at Cesar Chavez High School. Like almost everyone on the planet, Sawyer knew that Cruz was a Latino pop singer who had made it big in Hollywood, but he was surprised that a big star like Cruz would appear at a small local club in East Los Angeles. Most of all, it infuriated him that Cruz was doing it to help La Defensa del Pueblo—a group Sawyer considered the lowest kind of traitors.

  The paunchy janitor fumed as he imagined the crowds of drooling chicas Cruz would attract. Then an idea surfaced in Sawyer’s mind. Maybe there was a way to fix the smart-ass beaner—and his good-for-nothing fans, too. Walking briskly down the empty halls, Sawyer entered the janitor’s room, fished a number from his wallet, and dialed his ancient cell phone, grinning in satisfaction as the line rang.

  “Hello?” answered a man’s voice.

  “I’ve got news on a little shindig coming up here in greaser land that you might want to know about.”

  “There they are,” Ramon said, tilting his head toward a group of vatos nearly a hundred meters away. “Nesto is the shortest one.”

  Across the litter-strewn length of Belvedere Park, Mano saw the outlines of six young men slouching on a row of benches under the glare of the streetlights.

  Walking toward the group, Mano was again pleased by Ramon’s change of heart. After initially opposing the proposed move against the vigilantes, Ramon had arranged tonight’s meeting to prepare for the ambush.

  “Y que, Nesto?” Ramon said to the mero as he and Mano approached the group, their sullen postures matched by menacing stares.

  “Y que?” the slender gang leader answered, staring past Ramon with a look of indifference. The greeting was the latest insider’s idiom in the ever-changing slang of L.A.’s gangbangers.

  Ramon nodded in respect. “As I told your runner, we have some business to discuss. Podemos charlar un poco?”

  Nesto pointed with his chin toward the center of the park and sauntered in that direction, Mano and Ramon in tow. After a dozen paces, Nesto stopped, just far enough to be out of earshot from his vatos, but near enough to remain within their protection.

  “So what’s up, ese?” the mero asked Ramon.

  “Well, my young friend, we need weapons and some men for a job next week.”

  Nesto stared at Ramon, his head cocked insolently. “Keep talking.”

  “We want six men—four with AKs, two with RPGs.”

  Nesto scratched his chin. “Fifty Gs,” he said after a moment. “Twenty-five up front.”

  “That’s agreeable,” Ramon answered quickly. “Send a runner over tomorrow for the money.”

  “Small bills this time, ese—small bills. You got it?”

  “I understand, Nesto. Now let’s discuss the details. This is Manolo Suarez,” Ramon said, gesturing toward Mano. “He’s the mastermind behind our plan.”

  For the next hour, Mano outlined his plan to the gang leader. In spite of the mero’s impudent façade, he caught on quickly.

  “Then we’re set for next Saturday,” Ramon concluded. “Send a runner if you have any questions, Nesto.”

  “Hey, it’s cool, man. Just be sure you bring the rest of the money,” Nesto called over his shoulder, swaggering away.

  Once outside the park, Mano could no longer contain his curiosity. “AK-47s… rocket-propelled grenades… where does an L.A. street gang get that kind of firepower, Ramon?”

  “The members of El Farol are sons of refugees from El Salvador. Many of their parents were leftist sympathizers who came here fleeing the death squads. The insurgents in El Salvador were supplied with Russian weapons by Cuba and Nicaragua—when they were still socialists. Many of those weapons are still floating around in El Salvador. That’s Nesto’s weapons pipeline.”

  THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT:

  Month 6, Day 3

  A revolution is like a hand grenade. Once the pin is pulled, it must be thrown. There is no turning back.

  —José Antonio Marcha, 1982

  Translated by J. M. Herrera

  Mano walked across the rooftop, the stiff fabric of his new black fatigues hissing rhythmically with each step. Near the center of the building, he met Nesto. “Are we ready?” he asked.

  “Everything is set, man,” the mero said, nonchalantly flicking the remnants of a cigarette into the darkness.

  “Let’s take a look,” Mano said, walking toward the orange glow of the streetlights at the edge of the roof. Shrugging in disgust, Nesto followed.

  The building below them had once been occupied by a collection of retail shops and offices that lined the south side of Agnes Street. The block-long structure was now empty and gutted, its tenants driven away by the rioting.

  Mano scanned the two-lane street below: an urban canyon formed by an unbroken row of two-story buildings hugging both sides of the sidewalk. He was glad to see the street deserted.

  One block west was the blinking neon sign of El Lobo Club. Although Tomas Cruz’s show would not start for nearly an hour, a queue had already formed in front of the nightclub.

  “Let’s go over the deployment of your people, Nesto.”

  “Look, ese, I told you and Ramon where my vatos would be when we made the deal. This is bullshit, man.”

  “There’s something you have to understand,” Mano began, stepping next to Nesto and slowly putting his arm around the mero’s shoulders. “If you screw this up, innocent people could get hurt.” He squeezed Nesto against his side in a one-armed hug. “Do you want to see that happen?”

  Nesto struggled for breath against the pressure, pinned helplessly against Mano’s rock-hard torso. He didn’t want to find out if Mano could squeeze hard enough to break his ribs. “No, man… That… wouldn’t be cool,” he grunted.

  “All right, then,” Mano said, releasing his hold. “Let’s review the positions of your people.”

  “OK, man,” Nesto said, trying to regain his composure. “Like I told you,
my vatos are set up in four positions.” He pointed right. “I’ve got two guys near the east corner of this building ready to go with AK-47s. Across the street on the east corner, I’ve got two more dudes with AKs.” He pointed left. “On the west end of this building—and across the street—I’ve got our lights-out punch, baby. Two teams of vatos with RPGs.”

  Mano followed Nesto’s gestures, making out the shadowy figures at each position. As he watched the men huddled in the darkness, he was again amazed at the firepower in the hands of these ordinary street thugs. He was glad to have the men and their weapons tonight, but they had to be kept under tight control and discipline; his plan left little room for error.

  Mano heard the soft crunch of footsteps on the gravel behind him. A slim figure walked briskly toward them through the darkness. It was Jo, dressed in black fatigues, her golden hair braided and pinned close to her head.

  Nesto looked surprised, then his expression changed to anger. “What’s she doing here?”

  “I keep asking her the same question,” Mano said.

  “Look, Mano, I know it’s your job to protect me,” she said. “But this action overrides that directive. So what’s the situation?”

  Nesto sighed loudly.

  “I’ve checked our communications links twice,” Mano reported. “We’re ready.”

  Jo nodded. “Where are the lookouts?”

  “Our main lookout is two blocks east. That’s him in that pickup truck parked near the corner. We’ve got two other lookouts north and south of that position.”

  Mano and Jo were betting the house the vigilantes would approach from the east. Their research into previous vigilante raids had shown the attacks had always taken place in the direction of a freeway entrance to ensure a quick getaway. An entrance to I-710 lay two blocks west.

  “The trucks?” Jo asked.

  “They’re parked along the cross street to the west.”

  “Crowd control?”

  “DDP members are stationed along each corner with orders to keep people away from this street.”

  “It sounds like everything’s in place,” Jo said with a tight smile.

  “The only question left is when,” Mano said. “My guess is they’ll hit us when the show is over.”

  “That makes sense. Traffic will be lighter on the freeway—people will be caught off guard.”

  Mano looked at his watch. It was 8:16. “The show starts in less than fifteen minutes. We better get ready,” he said, nodding to Nesto.

  Nesto understood Mano’s gesture and walked behind a cooling unit nearby, returning with a gray duffel bag that he unzipped before them. In the glow of the streetlights, Mano could make out the dull sheen on the black barrels of three AK-47s. Slinging one assault rifle over his shoulder, Nesto handed Mano another, along with a belt of six curved ammo clips.

  Nesto pointed down at the remaining assault rifle. “Ramon said you wanted two extra AKs. Who’s this one for?”

  Jo reached for the weapon. “It’s for me.”

  Nesto jumped to his feet. “Que dices? Are you shitting me, man? Forget it. I’m not going to turn over one of our weapons to a woman.”

  Jo stepped close to the mero. “What’s the problem, Nesto? Que te pasa?” she asked, coolly staring into his eyes, which were several inches below her own.

  Nesto began to wilt. “You’re the problem. You don’t know what you’re doing,” he said, his voice losing its edge.

  With her eyes still locked on Nesto’s, Jo reached down, picking up the AK-47 and the ammo belt near her feet. With confident precision, she withdrew a clip from the belt, angled the rifle a quarter turn, slapped the clip home, and pulled back the action to place the first bullet in the chamber.

  “The Kalashnikov AK-47 fires a 7.62-millimeter round at a rate of six hundred rounds per minute and has an effective killing range of three hundred meters,” Jo said steadily. Then she raised the weapon skyward, released the safety, and took two steps backward, giving her room to level it. “Would you care for a personal demonstration of my marksmanship?”

  Nesto had not become the leader of a violent gang through bravado alone. He knew when to make a strategic retreat. “Oooh, so this chica knows something about guns,” Nesto said with a smirk. “OK, niña, you want to play with the boys, be my guest, but be careful you don’t get hurt.” He walked away, leaving Jo and Mano alone.

  Mano opened his backpack and began methodically arranging its contents. On the right, he placed his walkie-talkie, a pair of binoculars, and a battery-powered spotlight. He then loaded the AK-47 and laid the rifle to his left.

  “Now we wait,” he said.

  Mano crawled to the edge of the roof and looked west. Most of the people who had lined the sidewalk outside El Lobo an hour earlier were now inside, but a sizable overflow remained around the front door, reveling in the music drifting outside.

  “Paloma, this is Oso. Anything?” Mano said into his walkie-talkie.

  “Nada,” the voice of his lookout squawked back.

  Mano retreated from the edge and joined Jo, who was sitting with her back against a ventilation unit, the AK-47 positioned casually across her lap. Mano seldom made small talk. But tonight, like his days under fire in Afghanistan, he felt a need to.

  “It seems like you’ve done this kind of thing before, Jo.”

  “I was born in Uruguay, Mano. My father was a Tupamaro.”

  Mano shrugged. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “The Tupamaro party has a long history of resisting the government in Uruguay—and it hasn’t always been peaceful,” Jo said, absently rubbing the barrel of the rifle. “Although my father is a doctor, he made sure his children learned how to defend themselves.”

  “How did you wind up in a Los Angeles barrio?”

  Jo hesitated, clearly uncertain how much she could trust him. “My mother wanted to be an actress. Then she met my father. They were married while he was still in medical school, and I was born two years later. Around that time, my father became active with the Tupamaros and started taking on clandestine missions. My mother got scared and divorced him. She came to Los Angeles, hoping to make it in the movies. I used to spend the summers here with her… until she died of a drug overdose. I was seventeen.”

  Sensing her lingering grief, Mano changed the subject. “So that’s how you learned to speak English so well.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “What brought you back to Los Angeles?”

  Jo leaned back, staring into the sky. “My father sent me to pre-med at Stanford. While I was in Palo Alto, I met Mark Johnson. He was a seminary student back then. Mark introduced me to the work of José Antonio Marcha and it changed my life. I realized who I really am—and the destiny of our people. Before I read Marcha, my world revolved around the Tupamaro struggle in Uruguay. But Marcha showed me that I’m a Hispanic and I share a legacy much bigger than Uruguayan politics. After Mark was ordained and started his mission in Los Angeles, I decided this was a good place to join the struggle of all Latinos—for justicia.”

  “Sometimes it’s hard for me to understand why you’re doing this, Jo. You don’t even look like a Latina.”

  Jo shook her head, suddenly animated. “That’s where you’re wrong, Mano. There are plenty of people who look like me all over Latin America.”

  “I’ve never seen them.”

  “Like most people in the States, your image of Hispanics comes from television and movies, and they invariably typecast us as bronze, swarthy types. What’s ironic is white Hispanic actors are often given Anglo roles because most producers just don’t think a U.S. audience will recognize characters as Latinos unless they fit the brown-skinned stereotype. The same holds true for black Hispanics.”

  “I see what you mean. When I first met Jesús, I had no idea he was Latino.”

  “Few Norteamericanos understand the racial diversity of Latin America. For example, there are more blacks living in Latin America today than in the United States
. Most people in this country believe the U.S. was responsible for importing the vast majority of African slaves in the Americas. The truth is that only five percent of the slaves brought to the New World came to the United States. The rest went to the Caribbean and South America. But when was the last time you saw a black Latino in a movie or a TV show?”

  Mano stared back in surprise. “Why don’t more people know about this?”

  Before she could answer, the walkie-talkie crackled to life.

  “Oso, this is Paloma. I think we’ve got something. Three vehicles coming down Agnes, a Suburban in the lead.”

  From the front passenger’s seat of the Chevy Suburban, Gary Putnam selected the “voice only” mode on his vu-phone and dialed. “C’mon, goddammit. Pick up,” he muttered as the line rang. He tapped impatiently on the barrel of the M16 nestled between his knees.

  After the fourth ring, Putnam heard a voice on the line.

  “This is Wally.”

  “Wally, this is Gary. I think we got us a problem over here.”

  “What? You’re calling me on an unsecured line, you idiot!”

  “I know—I know. But this is important. Darren said he thought he saw somebody leaning over a roof as he was casing the street. What if they’re ready for us?”

  “You’re worse than an old woman, Gary. You know that? Now stop and think about it. How in the hell would a bunch of dumb-ass taco benders be smart enough to figure out when and where we’re coming from?”

  “I don’t know. But isn’t it Darren’s job to drive ahead of us and let us know if there’s gonna be any trouble?”

  “Darren’s job is to look for cops and let us know if any god-damn media types are crawling around. As much as I’d like to see their worthless guts smeared on the sidewalk, killing reporters would be bad for our side,” Wally said. “Buck up, Gary. Most real Americans would give us medals for what we’re doing.”

  “But just suppose they’re ready for us. What do we do then, Wally?”