Zero Saints

by Gabino Iglesias

  “You don’t have to worry about that, Yoli. Those men won’t come back. I promise.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I’m going to have a talk with them tonight. I’ll tell them not to come by again. Sounds good?”

  “Yeah, sounds great.”

  There was something sharp in her voice, something only women possess. I have no idea what that thing is, but it can destroy a man if you give it the space to do it.

  “Listen, I have to make a few phone calls…”

  I brought my hand up to rub some of the sleepiness out of my face. Yoli’s hand shot out and she grabbed my forearm, twisted it a bit.

  “Nice! It’s San Lázaro, right? When did you get it?”

  I looked at the tatuaje. Elisa had done a fantastic job. Just like the picture I’d shown her, she’d drawn San Lázaro a little bent, with each hand reaching out to a dog. Now, each hand was reaching down to two dogs. The one to his left was Kahlúa. I recognized her despite that fact that the tattoo was in black and grey. The dog to his left was new to me. It was a female. One look at its short, stubby legs and I knew who it was.

  “Yeah,” I said, which was pretty stupid but also a lot better than nothing.

  “My abuelita used to have a statue of him in her little apartment in the Bronx. She prayed to him every night. I remember being young and coming home from the park with scraped knees and having her sit me down on the sofa and letting her dog come over and lick my wounds. She always said something that was good for a saint had to be good for a little devil.”

  Her smile had all the power of the sun but didn’t blind me. Instead, I wanted to look at it forever, to stay there and just look at her glorious face until everything around us turned to dust except our bodies.

  “Sounds like your abuelita was a smart woman.”

  Yoli let go of my arm. Whatever sharpness had been there before now long gone from both her eyes and her tone.

  “She was. I try to make her proud every day.”

  “I’m sure she is.”

  “Anyway, I’ll let you make those phone calls. And thanks for taking to those guys about not dropping by any more. They were…spooky. I know I sound goofy saying that, but they really were.”

  She had no idea how spooky they were, and I wasn’t about to tell her.

  “No problem, Yoli.”

  She said bye, turned around, and went back to her place. I closed the door and stood there, feeling like small electric worms were crawling under my skin. I looked down at the tatuaje again. It was only ink underneath my skin, but those two new dogs made me feel like I wasn’t alone any longer.

  16

  Broken novena

  Propietaria y Reina de las Tinieblas del Mas Allá

  Rum – Leftover Pizza – Apples

  Talking to Changó

  You’re supposed to pray your novena for nine consecutive days or it won’t work, but sometime you have to do something important before the nine days are over, so you put a little something extra in front of la Santísima Muerte and promise that you will light every candle you owe her.

  At least that was my plan.

  I grabbed the papers Consuelo had given me, lit up another candle, and read.

  Novena a la Santa Muerte

  Día 3

  Yo te imploro con todo el fervor de mi corazón que, así como Dios te hizo inmortal por ser la Muerte Poderosa, la eterna Propietaria y Reina de las Tinieblas del Mas Allá, que con este gran poder que tienes sobre todos y cada uno de los mortales, hagas que mis enemigos no puedan comer en ninguna mesa, que no puedan sentarse en silla alguna, que no tengan tranquilidad, que no logran conciliar el sueño, y que no se cumplan ninguno de sus nefastos deseos. Santa Muerte, mi adorada Niña Blanca, te pido que obligues a mis enemigos a verse derrotados ante ti, a volverse que humildes y rendidos para que lleguen hasta mis pies y pueda yo ser el brazo de tu eternal y divina justicia. Te ruego, Santa Muerte de mi corazón, que me concedas el favor que te pido en esta novena y que no es otro que me permitas, con tu fuerza y bendita protección, vencer a Indio y los suyos, mi enemigos mortals y alimañas que han dañado a gente buena. Que así sea.

  After praying, I lit an extra candle for San Lázaro and another one for Changó. Covering all my bases seemed like a good idea. I didn’t have any apples, so I went to the fridge and pulled out the bit of milk I had left, some cheese, and leftover pizza from a few days ago. Then I opened the cabinet under the sink and pulled out my best bottle of rum, the one I used for Santa Muerte, and poured some in a glass.

  I placed everything in front of my two statues and told Changó I would get him two bags of apples if he helped me out.

  17

  El Príncipe

  Hold your horses

  Hurry up and wait

  Pinches asesinos

  What I’d told Yoli wasn’t a lie. I needed to make a very important phone call. I was going to call El Príncipe.

  We talked to each other briefly every time he visited Austin with Raúl. He always asked me about the latest narcocorridos and talked about the latest guys he’d killed. The first time, he gave me his cell phone number and told me to call him if I ever needed anything. “Papi, esto yo lo hago porque gusta, viste, no por porque me haga falta,” he had said with a wink.

  I hated El Príncipe’s approach. Too messy. Demasiado arriesgado. Now, however, he was my only option.

  He picked up on the second ring.

  “Dímelo.”

  “Príncipe, es Nando, el que trabaja con Guillermo.”

  “Nando, ¿qué está pasando, mi pana?”

  “Es cuento largo pero la versión corta es que mataron a Guillermo y a Consuelo. Los pinches cabrones que lo hicieron van a venir a por mi si no los pillo yo a ellos primero.”

  “Wait, wait, wait, párame los caballitos un momento, papi, hold your horses. ¿Mataron a Guillermo? ¿Quién carajo? ¿Raúl lo sabe?”

  “No sé si lo sabe, pero quiero resolver esto hoy, ahora. Es mi problema. No le digas nada a Raúl rodavía. Me siento responsable. Si bajas de Dallas y me hechas una mano, te pago cuatro mil dólares que es lo que tengo.”

  “Papi, yo no quiero tu dinero. Tu sabes que yo jalo gatillo por gusto, cabrón. Además, cuando Raúl se entere, seguro me va a pedir que haga lo mismo que tu estás pensando hacer. Si te sientes culpable es por algo. Yo te ayudo a resolverlo. Dame tu dirección. Maybe I even get some brownie points with the boss for taking care of shit before I’m told to, you know?”

  I gave him my address. He said he’d be knocking on my door in less than three hours. He was far from being my favorite person in the world, but knowing that I’d have someone with me who didn’t give a fuck about killing those pinches asesinos and was willing to pull the trigger for me for free suddenly made me feel a bit better. I even started thinking that this was something I could pull off. As a bonus, I now knew Raúl wouldn’t think for a second I had anything to do with his brother’s death. He’d think I was just an angry young man who had decided to dish out justice. He might even like that. Si, eso le iba a gustar bastante. I had one less problem to worry about.

  18

  Popping oxies

  Chilaquilitos – Torta de jamón y pollo – Agua fresca de melón

  Bathing bullets

  Pslam 83

  The trip from Dallas to Austin can take anywhere from two and a half hours to five hours, depending on your luck and the kind of crap you run into on I-35. I prayed El Príncipe didn’t run into any trouble. I decided to get some breakfast and then fix up a little something special I’d had in mind since visiting Isaac.

  I got dressed, popped two oxies, and grabbed my gun. Then I drove to Arandas, one of my favorite nearby Mexican restaurants, and feasted like it was my last meal. Me pedí unos chilaquilitos, una torta de jamón y pollo, y un agua fresca de melón. Si este resultaba ser el ultimo jalón, por lo menos me iba a agarrar con la panza llena.

  After the meal I went home and prepared something special.

 
I placed my Santa Muerte statue on a big plate and poured water over it. Then I collected that holy water, took the quince balas out of the mag, and dropped them into the water. I went to my room and got my bible, which I rarely used. Psalm 83 was what my abuela told me to pray the first time I came home with a bloody nose. I’d read it a few times since then, and now that I was asking Santa Muerte, San Lázaro, and Changó to protect me, I figured praying to my abuela’s god one more time couldn’t hurt. In front of the soaking balas, I read the last part of el salmo, which was the portion that really interested me:

  Oh Dios mío, ponlos como polvo en remolino;

  como paja ante el viento.

  Como fuego que consume el bosque,

  y como llama que incendia las montañas,

  así persíguelos con tu tempestad,

  y aterrorízalos con tu torbellino.

  Cubre sus rostros de ignominia,

  para que busquen tu nombre, oh Señor.

  Sean avergonzados y turbados para siempre;

  sean humillados y perezcan,

  para que sepan que sólo tú, que te llamas el Señor,

  eres el Altísimo sobre toda la tierra.

  The essence of Santa Muerte would make those balas reach their target, and if that failed, maybe God would be there to pick up the slack. It was time to dry the balas and stick them back in the mag. The next time they left that place, it would be with deadly purpose. All I had to do was sit down, enjoy the softness the two oxies were giving everything around me, and wait for El Príncipe. Then I remembered something else. I went to the room, took my shirt off, and put on Niño Fidencio’s shirt.

  19

  Gold cannon

  La Barbie – CPS – Leyva

  Five pounds of death

  Killing a demon

  El Príncipe arrived when the sun was starting to cast sombras.

  White shirt. Designer jeans that probably were worth at least half my rent. Gorra plana. A thick gold chain around his neck. A throne pendant that must have weighed at least two pounds. White sneakers that looked like he’d pulled them out of the box before getting in his car. I wondered what he thought of my abuelo shirt. He didn’t say anything about it.

  He looked happy, free of worries. He hugged me and told me he was really sorry about Consuelo. He didn’t say shit about Guillermo. For a man so obsessed with putting bullets in people and buying expensive clothes and jewelry, this motherfucker was mucho más observador than what I thought.

  He came into the house with a lot of energy, talking about the drive down to Austin. Anyone who talked to him then would have guessed he was going to a picnic by the river and not to try to kill men I wasn’t entirely sure could be killed by regular means.

  Between Dallas and Austin, he’d lost the all-Spanish thing and switched to the weird Spanglish he used when he was around his boss. Normally I would have interpreted something like that as being induced by nerves, but his face pushed that thought away from me.

  “I’m here, man,” he said from my sofa, his eyes dancing between mine and the altar. What he thought of the strange offerings in front of it was beyond me. “Tell me how you want to do this shit, papi, que vine ready pa’ jalar gatillo. Chequea.”

  Without letting me reply to his question first, he pulled his oversized white shirt up and pulled out a blocky gun that should have been peeking out of a hole in a war boat instead of his hands. It was plated in gold.

  “Eso no es una pistol, güey, eso es un pinche cañon.”

  He held it up, looking proud.

  “Papi, tu sabes cómo nosotros lo hacemos. This baby right here is a gold-plated Desert Eagle. Shoots fifty caliber bullets. First day I shot this thing, I used one hand and this thing casi me arranca el brazo. Haven’t seen what it can do to a body yet, but my guess is it won’t be nice.”

  “Where did you get a fucking gold-plated gun?”

  “La Barbie gave it to me. Raúl sent me down to Morelos a couple of weeks ago. The CPS needed some fresh faces to help them deal with a few folks that still don’t have things clear in their heads because they went nuts after the Mexican Marines killed Leyva. She’s fucking hot, man! We kinda had a thing for a day or two. She showed me a few guns she has that are all pink and shit. Then, on our last day there, she gave me this,” he said, moving the gun up and down.

  My world at the club was so far removed from the nasty stuff going down in Mexico that I didn’t even know Los Zetas were helping out the CPS or that La Barbie had acquired enough power to get folks like Raúl to send her some extra muscle now and then. In more than one way, I was glad I didn’t know any of that. My world was here, and I liked it that way. Good money, tacos sabrosos, todas las pastillas que quiero, Consuelo, and few deaths. I knew it would never be the same, but hoped that what I was about to do would help me keep the unbroken parts of what I once had.

  I walked over to the sofa and signaled for the cañón. El Príncipe turned it around and placed it on my outstretched hand. The damn thing must have weighed at least five pounds.

  “No me digas que esta cosa lleva quince balas…”

  “No, tipo, siete,” he said.

  Seven bullets. That meant he had enough firepower to put down seven rhinos.

  “Is this the only thing you’re bringing? You might need more than seven balas, güey.”

  “Tengo una Uzi en el carro, papi,” he said, his smile like that of a kid talking about his new bike.

  “Una Uzi rosita?”

  “Nah, that one’s black.”

  For some reason, he looked at the Santa Muerte statue after he said that. I did the same. I returned the gun and sat down next to him.

  The light was coming through the window slanted. It got broken by the blinds and seemed to be cutting into my kitchen, making the fridge look like a zebra from another dimension. The sun drops fast in Texas. It was almost, as the gringos say, show time.

  “What are you packing?”

  I pulled out my gun and showed it to him.

  “Una Beretta,” he said. “Nueve milímetros. Classic.”

  “It’s full of hollow points.”

  “Balas huecas. Nice. That means this shit is serious, papi.”

  “It is.”

  “Good. I didn’t come here to see your ugly face and your weird fucking shrine over there,” he said.

  “We should be on the road soon. These guys like to hit the streets and operate at night, so my guess is they will be home when the sun goes down, getting ready. If we get there too late, they’ll probably be gone, but if we get there soon after nightfall, I think we’re gonna catch them. We’ll take your car because they know mine. The pinches mareros are in a house on Webberville, right behind T.B.’s Lounge. He’s not in on it. I had Manny check for me. The old bastard is clean. Anyway, we’ll drive by a few times. I hope they’re there. If they are, we get down. If not, we’ll hide somewhere and wait.”

  “How many dudes are we talking about?”

  “Creo que cuatro.”

  “Four? You made me drive all the way here for four dudes? Nando, you could just walk up to their window and spray them yourself with…”

  “No, te necesito.”

  “Why? Are they all packing AKs or something?”

  “If there are four, then there are three of them I more or less don’t care about, pero el jefe es un tipo raro. I don’t know how shit’s going to go down and I feel much better with some backup. ¿Me entiendes?”

  “Suenas asustado, tipo.”

  His voice occupied a strange space between a joke and a very judgmental comment. And he was right. I was scared. Very scared. Más asustado que nunca. Being cuates with a man is one thing, but the relationship you have with someone who’s not your friend but seems to be willing to put his culo en la línea de fuego for you is a very different animal. Maybe it was time to come clean and tell El Príncipe a bit more, even though I knew my words could make him leave. Maybe telling him that we were going to kill some men and then maybe try to kill a demon
was the honest thing to do.

  Maybe not.

  La omisión es un pecado liviano.

  20

  Driving to oblivion

  Un pase de perico – Chaos – Red mists

  The plan that wasn’t really a plan

  Into the arms of Santa Muerte

  El Príncipe’s ride was a huge white Escalade. Against all odds, he didn’t have that monster sitting on 22s or shooting lights from underneath like he had run over an entire club.

  He hit the alarm and then looked around. Instead of opening the driver’s door, he walked to the back of the car and opened the trunk. He looked around the parking lot again and then took off his shirt. He wore a white camisilla underneath. He reached into the trunk and pulled out a back bulletproof vest.

  “Got this off a cop who owes me a few favors. You got one?”

  “No.”

  “Puñeta, brother, tu eres el tipo más bravo que conozco o el más pendejo.”

  I was sure it was the latter.

  He strapped the vest on and then put his shirt back on.

  We climbed into the massive vehicle and the radio exploded to life the second he turned the key in the ignition. Reggaetón. The bass was so loud it made my chest shake. He turned it off. I looked at him.

  “They’d hear us coming from a mile away, papi.”

  I was so worried about what we were going to do that I wasn’t thinking straight. Suddenly having El Príncipe conmigo made me feel like that ángel guardián had finally come down from heaven to watch over me. The white shirt and clean face were helping.

  El Príncipe knew Webberville. He left my apartment and got on North Loop. We drove straight to Airport and got on it. The moment we passed underneath I-35, my heart skipped a beat. The last time I’d been there, I’d been riding in a trunk. The Escalade’s passenger seat was much more comfortable.