by Ryan Gattis
Rooster says, “How was the quince?”
That catches me a little off guard. With everything going on, I’d forgotten to talk about it. “Was good. A good night.”
“The DJ was okay?” Rooster was the DJ padrino.
I shrug. “He was a DJ, you know. There was a lot of yelling.”
There’s not much more to say than that. I don’t remember the names of everybody that came up to me, but nobody disrespected. Rooster knows I’d tell him if that had happened.
From his side of the couch Rooster gives me a good long look, like prolly he knows there’s something I’m not telling him before he nods towards the TV. “Game started a while back. You need a beer?”
“I’m good.”
Since it’s a game where players can get hit in the head or face with a hundred-mile-per-hour fastball, baseball don’t agree with me. Just seeing stuff like that gives me sympathy pains. But I have learned to always ask about the Dodgers’ pitching.
True-blue Dodger fans always want to talk about it. I’m thinking it must be good tonight too, since it’s the top of the sixth and the Dodgers are up 5–0 on the Pirates.
I say, “Who’s pitching?”
“Kuroda. He’s doing okay tonight. He’s getting help.”
I say, “From Manny?” He’s the only Dodger I really know of, Manny Ramírez.
“Manny’s earning that check, doubled and scored. He’s making up for doing nothing last night against Colorado.”
Jennifer saves me by coming back in with a plate. What it has on it, is six ribs, some mashed potatoes, and grilled carrots. She sets it up on a TV tray in front of me.
I sign, Thank you!
She’s about to sit down next to me on the couch when Rooster signs, No. Biology homework. Do it.
Dad, she signs with some whiny hands, lab logs are easy. Busywork. Writing down experiments we already did. Simple.
Rooster’s face makes it clear that he don’t care what it is, she’s not coming back downstairs until she’s done with it.
Fine, she signs, can I tell Uncle Rudy before going?
He holds up an index finger for one.
She squeals and signs, Archery! I’m doing it.
I sign, Archery? Wow! I want to watch!
This kid’s the coolest. Spending time with her made me want to have kids of my own. If Felix can grow up half as good a kid as her, I’ll feel like I did something right for the world and I can go out with no regrets.
Maybe, she signs, then smiles. She’s teasing me.
We sign goodbye just in case I don’t see her before I go and she pops down onto the couch to give me a quick side-hug before jumping back up and speeding upstairs. The smile on that little woman, man, it could melt a whole city block.
And I should know, since that’s how I feel right now, knowing I’m gonna break her heart, and that someday somebody’s gonna tell her it’s me that did it. So that’s how I’m really feeling on this couch right now. Ground zero.
If it wasn’t for her, I would’ve been out so much sooner. Always I worry about what it’d do to her, me ratting. I been scared of ruining her life. But now there’s Felix and I had to choose blood.
“All right,” Rooster says. That means, report.
“I know it sounds crazy, but I think something’s going down. A guy like Mendoza, he don’t take once and quit.”
Rooster gives me a look that says I should explain why.
“His whole apartment was packed up before he even took that safe, and I mean, bed gone, stuff in boxes for other people close to him to take.”
Rooster nods. “So he’s ready to die or what?”
On the screen the umpire calls a strike.
“He’s already dying,” I say.
For the first time, Rooster looks away from the game. He looks right at me when he says, “Dying how?”
“Cancer. Also, prolly just since it fits, he goes by Ghost.”
“Ghost?” Rooster’s looking thoughtful, but not sharing what he’s thinking.
“Yup. I think he means to keep going. I don’t know how he quits now. I can’t see it at all. Over eight hundred gees might not be enough when you’re acting like your life’s already done.”
I don’t say nothing about Frank. I keep that in my pocket for later, like if we need some bargaining with this Ghost. If I’m wrong about this whole thing, I look paranoid, but this isn’t exactly a bad thing with somebody like Rooster.
If I’m right, I look like I’m smart and careful, but I can definitely say I’m scared to be right on this, especially if it has a thing to do with those addresses I gave Collins. If that goes down, tonight, tomorrow, whenever, Rooster’s gonna know something’s not right and he’ll ask me about it first.
“If something does go down,” Rooster says, and leans forward as the count’s full for the batter on the screen, “I got some things up my sleeve.”
I don’t know what that means exactly and I know he’s not gonna tell me, but it don’t sound good.
“I should leave you to it,” I say.
His eyes are back on the screen. “You’re not even done eating. Stay. Finish watching the game with me.”
It’s not a suggestion. So I fork some jalapeño cheddar mash into my mouth and have to remind myself how this nice house, this giant-screen TV, this good food, is all connected to burnt-up bones sitting in unmarked graves in Mexico.
Somebody’s little kids and grandmas got disappeared somewhere on the other end of this transaction. Thinking that is the only way I can keep going with the plan, the only way I can keep doing any of it.
Ghost
Monday, September 15, 2008
Evening
41
When I grab the nearest dude that came through the door and kick the back of one of his knees out, the beer he was bringing back spills all over the floor and turns the ratty old carpet into a soggy sponge.
The rest’s just easy.
Blanco’s on them with the ties, and it’s just zip, zip, zip, zip—done—none of this’s going down how things do in movies, with people screaming at each other while the soundtrack’s banging, getting your blood up, and everybody’s shouting about how You don’t know who you’re fucking with, or this or that.
Here’s the real: the only soundtrack here tonight is the muffled beat next door. It’s gone slow jam on us. Bwump, tump-tump. Like everybody just collectively decided to calm down. This shit isn’t personal.
It’s business. And when it’s like that, you do what you can to fight another day. You grit teeth. Keep it tight and take it. You keep your fucking dignity. Because Lynwood’s still Lynwood. No use pushing anybody to shoot you. But if you’re dying, you might as well die well. No tears. No begging. And if retribution’s coming for those that did this to you, it’ll be down the road, when your boys got the drop, when the numbers are better, and even then, only if they’re big enough to take it.
That’s never changed.
So this is all going down calm, in a way. So quiet you can hear people trying not to be too loud when they’re breathing. They know what time it is. Not even champs win all the time. And these two that just came in obviously feel like living so they’re not making any fusses. Not claiming anything. Just keeping mouths shut. Professional. And they’re inspiring the other two to keep it together too.
And the forced calm of it all, I got to be honest, it’s scaring me.
I look to Blanco, but he doesn’t seem bothered as he’s lining all four of them up in front of the couch, facing the wall behind it.
And I’m looking at the one that was on the couch with the girl before. He’s got all the makings of a little knucklehead trying too hard to fit in. But these other two to his right? They’re on another level. They’re slicker, smarter. Like I said, scarier, but only if you know what you’re looking at.
They’re the kind that when something’s going down, they put on blank faces and start memorizing everything they can about us, and about the situation a
round them. Which is why they were the first two facing the couch now.
They are the new gang members. Unrecognizable because there’s no uniform anymore. No clean-shaved head. No tattoos, and I mean none. No Pendleton flannel buttoned only at the top button over a white wife-beater. No khakis with a perfect crease. They’re new breed, these two. Built from a totally different mold to the one that spit out me and Blanco.
I mean, one of these fuckers even looks like he’s college cut, got a black polo on and his hair combed with a part in the middle and everything. Hemmed fucking denim and black Cons with black laces.
Welcome to the new L.A. gangster. They blend in on purpose. They look just like everybody else. You’d never pick them out of crowds. That shit’s by design.
The phones they got on them go in the mag bag. One, two. Neither has a gun. Or a knife. Which isn’t crazy. We probably missed the stash spot in the house where everything is. But that puts an extra dash of worry in my mind too. Like, maybe they’re not guarding much of anything if they’re fucking up this bad.
And they are too, being bent over the couch like this. Faces in cushions. Knees in spilt beer. Having some time to think about failing. About maybe dying too.
Right now I’m glad Blanco doesn’t have us wearing hairnets or something. Shows he’s not worrying about that DNA, which is good. Means Blanco’s at least not planning on killing anybody. No law enforcement wastes time on collecting, much less testing, tissue samples unless there’s a body.
Blanco cuts my thoughts off with “So, you gonna see to it then?”
The safe, he means.
We have a moment right then, a silent conversation. Me looking at Blanco, shooting invisible thoughts his way about how he better not kill anybody while I’m in the next room. And he smiles at that. He dips his head, like, C’mon, man! I nod up. Like, All right then. Like, You got a wife and kids and no threats in front of you, so don’t be doing anything over some bullshit. At this, he just cocks his head to tell me I’m stupid, to tell me he’s more than got this situation under control, and the only thing keeping us here is my being slow.
He’s not wrong.
I’m back in the closet, working the drill, feeling its vibrations all the way up into my shoulder.
The rattle, Frank calls it.
When the mechanism finally gives way below me, I lurch forward with it, right through the door. After that, I get going on widening the hole enough to put the rebar in. That takes a minute, if that. I punch with the metal rod and get nothing. So I turn the light on above me and close the door. I scope the hole. I can see the mechanism. I just have to get it off its line, and I need a little more room, so I drill once more. I rattle. Then I put the rebar in and I shove.
Once. Twice. Three times.
It gives on eight and I feel the handle.
It’s completely loose in my hand. No resistance at all.
Yes. That’s the feeling I’ve been looking for since the moment I stepped foot inside Blanco’s house. It’s a release for the lock, but it’s a release for me too. It means I’m not tied to this place anymore.
And I got to take a huge breath before I pull the door wide-open. I shake my shoulders. I arch my neck. The door maybe weighs twenty pounds, but I prep like I’m about to do half my weight in a dead lift.
Then I just pull it open and look in.
42
There’s watches in there. Lots of metal watches with fat faces. And chains too thick for their own good. It’s all mostly silver. Some gold. And loose poker chips. And two packs of playing cards without boxes to put them in. There’s a gold baby’s rattle crammed in the top shelf on its own. Which makes no sense till I figure maybe someone won it gambling and didn’t take it away with them for whatever reason.
There’s black tar in there too, packed up in rolled tinfoil like tiny burritos in one-gallon Ziploc freezer bags. There’s three of those. How much that is, I don’t know. Five pounds each maybe, but that counts packaging. How much that’s worth? No clue.
I pull them out, though. For Blanco. Because a deal’s a deal.
But when they’re coming out of there, I see something else, something underneath them, and just seeing it makes my heart skip and do happy things like it’s supposed to. Like, fill me with adrenaline. With relief. With thinking that maybe this was worth it.
Cash. Three fat green rolls of it, done up with different colors of rubber bands. Red and yellow, mostly. One black. One long and brown and tied back together in a knot where it must’ve snapped.
I grab the nearest roll and undo it so I can flick a rubber-tipped finger over the bills and watch them flip at the air, doing a quick mental count. There’s, I don’t know, $16,000 or so here, which means, times three, about $48,000.
It’s so good I almost shout something.
Like, Hell ya, that’s the more I’m talking about right there!
But I don’t. I keep it inside.
I knew it’d never have been $887,000 again. But forty-plus is something. A legit something. And I pack it away in the hollowed-out parts of my drill cases as I’m wrapping up cords and putting bits back in their little holder sockets. Doing my last check to make sure I have everything. And then checking again.
I tuck two tar bags into my armpits, loosen my belt and put another in my front waistband before grabbing up my cases. This’s economical hauling right here. But before I turn to go, I think about the last safe. About being in that evidence lockup with Collins and getting lectured about how I could’ve blown up half the neighborhood.
And I lean over the safe far enough to see the top side of the door, the part of it that was hidden when it was closed.
There’s nothing there.
No drilled and gummed-up giant Dracula holes. No dynamite powder, or whatever it was, hiding underneath.
Good, I think. Normal. A safe just being a safe.
I head out the door, and even though I’m carrying more weight now than when I came in this house, I’m feeling twenty pounds lighter.
Blanco must hear my case handles squeaking, because he meets me in the hall. I don’t need to ask if we’re leaving the kids in the living room like that. You know we are. I angle my body towards him to show him I got the Ziplocs tucked under arms and one in my waist. He grabs the ones from my arms. His eyes light up and stay lit up.
“Yup” is all he says, but it says a lot.
It says we did it. It was worth it.
Then we’re out the back door, letting it bang as it shuts.
As I’m loading up the Jeep, looking every which direction for phantom fools that I’m expecting to run up on us, Blanco says, “Hold up.”
And then he runs back into the house.
Back in the driver seat and starting it up, I got half a mind to leave him.
I look to the house. Nothing. No movement.
I check my mirrors. Nobody in the alley.
I’m thinking, It’s best if I drive off right now. I’m thinking how that’d be smarter. Less risk. It’s not like I’ll ever see him again if I—
The shotgun door pops and Blanco comes in shaking that damn gold baby rattle with a wrist that’s wearing four new watches loose, not even done up, and saying, “How were you about to leave these?”
The look on his face tells me I’m stupid, but it melts to a smile that he breaks with a laugh, like he’s celebrating. Like he doesn’t want it to end.
Like he won’t let it.
The crazy light’s still in Blanco’s eyes when he says, “We still rolling, dick? I know you didn’t drag me out to make me go one-and-done.”
“I got another address.”
We roll down the alley and out.
High on success.
High on getting over.
“Yup,” he says, like he knew it the whole time. Like, he never would have come out tonight if he thought any different.
43
We’re back out on Imperial, hospital in the rearview, heading towards Atlantic when Blanco gets it
into his head to push Rose’s tape back in. When it doesn’t start playing immediately, I hope he’ll give up. But that’s not Blanco. He figures out that the side is done and pushes fast-forward. It hits the end and flips. My stomach turns with it because I know what the next track is. And I never wanted to share it, but now there’s no stopping it.
Blanco says, “Hey, brochacho, fuck dying, right?”
I know he’s feeling good. Feeling like we just pulled some crazy shit and it’s good we’re alive and all, but—
On the tape, there’s this little “Yo,” or “Yup,” I’m not sure which. I’ve listened to it thousands of times. Sometimes I think it’s one, convince myself, and then I’m certain it’s the other. This time it’s “Yo” before guitars ambush us through the speakers, like bah-bah, bah-bah. It’s “Los Angeles” by X. And Blanco’s all over it, shaking the baby rattle like it’s maracas. Getting into it like a little kid.
How I feel is confusing. I mean, it’s good to hear this song now. To feel Rose nearby with my heart still beating fast, but her side of the tape is personal. Between her and me. Not meant for other ears.
Sonic autobiography, she called it. She said I’d listen to it after she was gone and understand things better later. She wasn’t wrong.
Rose started her side with X because of the first line, because Rose had to leave L.A. too, just for different reasons than the racist idiot girl the song’s about. I mean, that wasn’t Rose. She loved Los Angeles more than anybody. Even the bad parts, Rose loved. The bad people too. I’m proof of that. And she didn’t want to leave. And she never would have left if cancer didn’t make her.
There’s other lines in the song like days changing to night in an instant. And that shit makes so much sense when you’re chemoing. You get tired. You pass out. You wake up odd hours. Stay up odd hours. Time doesn’t work the same when you’re sick. And now I’m thinking of Rose with the tubes in her. Her grandmother’s afghan over her. And I move to eject the tape, half leaning over to do it.
Blanco grabs my hand, looks straight at me, and says, “Remember when you made me stab you that one time?”