Once Upon A Wish : Book One

by Richard Poche

  In time, he took the dream as an omen. An omen that told him that he would never find whatever it was he was looking for and life would laugh at him.

  He woke up to the smell of chorizo and the sound of eggs sizzling on a grill.

  “That smells good, amigo.”

  “Gracias,” Hernan scooped a helping on a paper plate and handed it to Nestor.

  “Where are you going?” Nestor asked. Hernan had his shoes on and his restaurant nametag on his shoulder.

  “To work.” Hernan walked over to the couch and slipped on his tennis shoes. “I’m late!”

  “Cisneros is not going to want you back.”

  “He said he forgave me.”

  “He didn’t say come back to work tomorrow. Jesus. Do you think you can rob a guy blind and come back to work at his place?” Nestor started laughing as he chewed on the chorizo and eggs.

  Hernan looked down at the floor. His right big toe peeked out from a hole on top of his shoe. The one on the left didn’t look much better.

  “What am I going to do?”

  “Wait.”

  “Wait?”

  “Cisneros said he would be in touch. To pay him back. I can’t even guess what that means.”

  “Can you go talk to him?”

  Nestor looked at Hernan with an ‘are you serious look’ on his face.

  “We could go together,” Hernan said. “Or I could go alone.”

  “Fine,” Nestor relented after a moment. “I’ll talk to him. You stay here.”

  Nestor turned down Bridge Avenue and headed toward Foothill Boulevard. Even during the daylight hours, you could smell and hear the poverty in East Oakland. He heard the boom beat coming from a car stereo in the distance. The sound of sirens.

  He turned around and saw a vehicle following him. Nestor ignored the car at first then turned around to get a second look.

  The SUV inched along. Dark tinted windows hid the identities of the drivers.

  Nestor hurried to the next street and turned right at the corner. He would have to double-back to get back to the restaurant for a sit down with Cisneros but at least he was forcing these fools following him to make their move.

  Nestor looked back casually and saw the SUV stop at the corner of the street.

  In front of him, popped out three men from a Trans Am. They all looked familiar.

  They were the same men who attempted to rob him at the horse races.

  The lead punk, the young Mexican with “RIP Antonio” written across his bicep, stepped forward.

  “Where's your punk ass friend now?” he snarled. He had a cast on his hand and a swollen left eye. His friend, the big-armed Samoan had a bandage across his nose.

  Nestor never did get a look at the third person back at the racetracks but a girl emerged out of the Trans Am with a sassy look on her face. She smacked her gum and threw her head back to get the hair out of her face. She could be cute if she ditched the black lipstick and pulled the two piercings out of her nose.

  The Mexican punk kicked Nestor's legs out from under him. The two men then began to stomp on Nestor.

  Old and sore from life in general, Nestor curled up in a little ball and offered no resistance. He closed his eyes and accepted the beating.

  “Where's my mon—” the punk said, kicking him.

  The man's question fell short. Hernan slammed an ice pick into the side of the punk’s neck. Their girl screamed and ran off.

  The Samoan looked to run off himself. Fighting off his fear, he reached into his back holster, pulling out a zip gun.

  Hernan kicked him in the nuts before he could point the weapon. The Samoan bent over in pain and dropped the zip gun to the ground. Hernan slammed the icepick into his throat.

  A police siren wailed. They were close.

  “Hernan!” Nestor screamed. “Get the hell out of here!”

  Rubber squealed against the asphalt. The SUV with the tinted windows pulled up next to them on the street. The back door opened.

  “Get in!” Cisneros said from the backseat.

  Nestor stood frozen. Hernan picked him up and threw him into the SUV before diving in himself. The vehicle drove off leaving the two dead men on the ground, their blood pooling on the concrete.

  “I had to see your skills myself,” Cisneros said.

  Nestor looked back at the scene. They turned the corner and got out of sight as two squad cars arrived.

  “Every one of these dumb ass gang-bangers is under my thumb,” Cisneros said. “Even the ones who don't know me.”

  Hernan wiped the blood from the ice pick on his pants.

  “The skinny one with the tattoos. His name was Nino. A real dumb ass. Supposed to do a job for me but tried to lift you two instead. One of you showed them what a mistake that was.”

  Cisneros looked at Hernan, appraising him.

  “You have talent,” he said. “It pays a lot more than washing dishes.”

  Cisneros rolled down the window and looked into the Oakland streets. He reached into his coat pocket and took out a Cuban cigar and a matchbook. He fired up the cigar, twirling it around until it lit. He blew the smoke through the window.

  Traveling down East 14th street, the car stopped at the red light. A dozen Mexican men dressed in blue jeans and work shirts loitered around the street corner. They looked at Cisneros with question marks in their eyes. They were looking for work.

  “You know the problem with Mexicans today?” Cisneros said as the light turned green and they drove away. “They have low self-esteem. It is a national epidemic.”

  The driver, a hulkish Latino, scowled at the two men from his rear view mirror. He had a wind-blasted face with deep creases, like a leather raisin.

  Nestor sat silent like a timid child next to Cisneros.

  “You guys don’t think much of yourselves do you?”

  “We’ll pay you what we owe you.” Nestor said softly.

  Cisneros nodded his head. “You just killed two of my associates. Those guys were my hatchet men. Incompetent, but useful. You, on the other hand.” Cisneros pointed his cigar at Hernan. “Are a lethal weapon.”

  Hernan looked out the window. He gripped his ice pick tightly.

  “You work for low wages because, like most Mexicans, think that is all your worth. With your skill, you should be making more. Would you agree with that assessment?”

  Hernan remained silent for a few moments. Then he nodded his head as expected.

  “There are certain elements here in the Bay Area that are in the way of achieving my financial goals. I cannot deal with these elements in a gentlemanly manner. I need certain people…certain obstacles, eliminated. That’s where you two will come in.”

  Cisneros reached over to the passenger seat and picked up a small, black briefcase. He handed it to Hernan.

  “Where did you learn to kill?” Cisneros asked.

  Hernan shrugged his shoulders.

  “A couple of months ago a group of Zetas were found the San Diego border. They said it looked like a professional hit. You read about this stuff on-line and then you do a little research. Ask a few questions and it becomes easy to connect the dots.”

  Cisneros now eyed Nestor. “A pair of killers. My lucky day.”

  Nestor’s heart began to pound. He knew men like Cisneros could smell fear. They doled out pain so often that it became old hat to spot the signs of a frightened man. He knew there would be money with Cisneros. Until you were no longer useful. Then you would be discarded just like the two men that Hernan ice-picked.

  “There is a drug war going on,” Cisneros said. “There always is. I want the market a bit more Mexican-friendly, if you catch my drift. I eliminate the competition and make more money. You make more money. Open the case. I provide all of my employees with the necessary tools to get things done.”

  “Can I have my job back?”

  Hernan opened the briefcase. Inside sat a gun and silencer in the foam casing.

  “Yes. Washing the streets instead of
the dishes.” Cisneros laughed so loud that it hurt Nestor’s ears.

  CHAPTER 6

  Nestor invited Hernan to the duck pond on his own that Sunday morning. Usually, they would only go there at Hernan's request.

  Upon arrival, Hernan waved the bag of breadcrumbs at the ducks. He squeezed the bag, making a crunching noise.

  The ducks quacked in unison.

  “You see that?” Hernan said as the ducks flew and waddled over to him. He proceeded to feed them from the palm of his hand. “They’re so tame!”

  Nestor looked off to the side, unable to hide his disinterest. He studied the homes across the pond. Homes he could never afford.

  A flock of geese flew in and the ducks scattered. Hernan tried to hand the geese the scraps of bread but they hissed at him.

  “Damn!” Hernan laughed. He looked over at Nestor and could see that his friend looked to be in a world of his own.

  “What's wrong, amigo?”

  “What?” Nestor asked.

  “You look sad.”

  “I have a lot on my mind.” Nestor blinked his eyes like a man living his life half-asleep. “We have a lot to think about.”

  “I never thought life could be like this.” Hernan walked over to three ducks that flew over from the other side of the pond. “A life where I could just sit at a pond and feed the ducks. When I grew up, there was only dust and dirt. I don't know, man. People don't really care about you when you are poor. But animals? Ducks? They love you if you give them just a little bit.”

  An older duck came up to Hernan. One of his wings jutted out to the side, broken. He wobbled forward and accepted the young man's offering.

  “Look at that one,” Hernan said, pointing at the duck's fading colors. “All of the others have shiny green heads. But his is dull.”

  “Been out in the sun too long. He's old.”

  A group of baby ducks waded in from the pond and hopped onto the grass.

  “Baby ducks!” Hernan tore the breadcrumbs into smaller bits and spread them out on the grass. The ducklings came and ate the goodies. The large brown mother duck stood between Hernan and the ducklings.

  Hernan and Nestor sat in their truck in the parking lot of Giant Burgers. Hernan took huge bites out of his cheeseburger, eating as if someone were about to snatch the sandwich out of his hands at any moment.

  “Slow down, amigo,” Nestor said.

  “I can't help it,” Hernan bit into his hamburger again like a werewolf.

  “Better than the chili burgers at Merritt?”

  “Almost. Maybe.”

  Nestor didn't argue. He dropped a few of the chunky French fries down his throat.

  Hernan looked across the way at San Pablo Avenue. He noticed the numerous hookers walking down the street peddling their wares. None of them caught his eye.

  Except one.

  She had long blonde hair and wore a skintight leather skirt with black nylons. She walked toward the counter at the Giant Burgers and placed her order.

  Hernan shook his head in amazement as the beautiful woman stood thirty feet away from him. He marveled at how indifferent the cashier was to her appearance. Running her finger through her hair, she looked over at Hernan and noticed him admiring her.

  She smiled.

  He wanted to smile back but he had a mouthful of cheeseburger.

  “You know he wants us to kill people,” Nestor said; following the young man's eye line to the Latina prostitute putting an order in.

  “I know.”

  “You're okay with that?”

  “They're bad people. Bad men. If he asked us to kill women? Children? That’d be different.”

  Nestor nodded his head. He took a bite of his own burger.

  “It isn't hard,” Hernan continued. “Once you do it, it gets easy. I can teach you.”

  “I think it better if you did the killing and I did the driving.”

  “A team.”

  “But we cannot trust Cisneros. It is only a matter of time. When we become a burden to him, he will let us go.”

  “I owe him. And he can be a nice man.”

  “He's a bad man. A fake.”

  “Hey,” the woman said softly as she approached the truck. Her long eyelashes, sparkling green eyes and country Mexican accent made Hernan's heart thump.

  “Oh Jesus,” Nestor rolled his eyes in disgust.

  The girl laid her arms catlike on Hernan’s window.

  “I'm Ana,” she said. “Habla espanol?”

  Hernan nodded his head yes and the girl began speaking in Spanish. “Are you guys looking for a date?”

  “No,” Nestor said lifting his sandwich for emphasis. “Eating burgers.”

  Ana smiled at Hernan, a dimple flickered across her cheek and disappeared. Her teeth were small with the bottom row slightly askew.

  “You're cute,” she said, squeezing Hernan’s arms. “And strong too. Look at that.”

  “What part of Mexico are you from?” Hernan asked.

  “I'm from everywhere and nowhere.” Her perfume offset the stale hamburger smell from inside their truck. “Where are you from?”

  “Durango,” Hernan said.

  “Cool,” she said. “But where you’re from doesn’t really matter. We speak the same language, right?”

  Ana cocked one of her eyebrows up and smirked at Hernan. She put the straw to her mouth and sucked up some of her Vanilla milk shake. She let some of it drip on her lip. Taking her finger, she wiped it off and held it in front of Hernan. “Would you like a taste?”

  Hernan sat transfixed. He didn't know how to respond.

  Ana pulled her finger back and slowly licked the cream off with a practiced intensity in her eyes.

  “Well, if you do want a taste sometime.” She reached into her purse and handed Hernan her card. “Give me a call.”

  Hernan could only stare as the girl walked away.

  “My God,” Nestor said. “Bad news. But that is an ass to die for.”

  Hernan looked at her card.

  “Can we call her?”

  “She's a prostitute, amigo. You have to pay her.”

  “I know. I don't care. I'll have money real soon.”

  Hernan watched as Ana turned back and waved good-bye.

  “Did you hear what I said? You’re looking at her as if she has a halo on her head. She’s a puta. Didn’t your abuelita tell you about the wages of sin? That little puta will be dead in five years if she doesn’t get off the streets. Maybe less. And if she doesn’t die, she will look like hammered shit. Trust me. Drugged out, washed up, you won’t even recognize her. It won’t be pretty.”

  “I don’t care,” Hernan said as he watched his angel disappear around the corner. “I want to see her again.”

  Hernan paced back and forth on the apartment floor. He looked like a restless tiger trapped in a small cage. Holding up the card of Ana as he walked, he didn’t take his eyes off the picture she had on the front. It showed her kneeling on a hotel bed with her hands behind her head. A tight black bra revealed ample cleavage. She had tattoos on both arms.

  “Do you like girls with tattoos?” Hernan asked.

  “When you look like me,” Nestor said. “You don’t discriminate.”

  “Have you ever been in love?”

  “What?”

  “Have you ever been in love?”

  “That’s a stupid question.”

  “Have you?”

  Nestor paused for a long moment. “I was young and stupid once. A rich girl. Her father did not think I was good enough for her. He was right.”

  “How soon should I call her?”

  Nestor looked out the window and just shook his head. He wanted to give the young man a lecture on the dangers of women like Ana but he stopped himself short. Let the boy have his fantasy.

  His face cringed as the window shook from the rumble of a pair of concrete hauling trucks passing by. Then two car alarms went off. A couple argued a half block down. He could see them in the distance, w
alking toward a car with blinking lights. The woman pointed her finger in the face of the man and poked him in the cheek. He didn’t fight back, just kept walking.

  “Whores are a vice,” Nestor said. “Just like gambling. We have to save our money. As much as we can. We have to set a goal. Say we'll do five jobs for Cisneros. Save up twenty-five grand or so. Then we'll move somewhere else. Somewhere cheap like North or South Dakota. Houses there are cheap. Cost of living is low.”

  “South Dakota?”

  “Yeah,” Nestor nodded. “It isn't as bad as you think. They have snowstorms and it’s cold but peaceful. With twenty-five grand, we can start fresh. A new and clean life from scratch.”

  “Do they have ducks?”

  “Of course.”