Trashed: An Eastside Brewery Novel

by Mia Hopkins

  Desperate, I call and text everyone, over and over again, trying to get answers. Vanessa, Sal, Chinita. No one responds.

  A hard rain starts to fall. We’re on winding roads and I feel like I have a hangover even though I didn’t get drunk last night. Instead of alcohol, anxiety mixed with fear bubbles up in my stomach like a shaken bottle, ready to pop.

  At our first stop, I make myself throw up again, just to settle my stomach. Afterward, I see myself in the mirror of the truck-stop bathroom. I look like a dog turd smashed into the sidewalk. Bloodshot eyes, swollen face, stubble, bruises. I’m scaring people, even more than usual.

  Carmen buys me a Seahawks cap and a pair of cheap sunglasses to hide my fucked-up face. Somewhere in the jumble of thoughts about my brother, I realize it’s two more days until I have to check in with my parole officer. I pray to God the marks fade enough that he doesn’t ask too many questions about what I’ve been up to.

  We get back on the road. An hour passes. Finally—finally—Vanessa picks up her phone.

  “Eddie,” she says. “Thank God.”

  I stumble and skip over my words. “Where—what is happening? What happened?”

  In a low, slow voice, Vanessa tells me the story. Yesterday, she and Sal drove to the bakery to check it out. As they walked toward the door, a car slowed down in front of the bakery. Sal shoved Vanessa inside, but not before the driver popped off two shots.

  I want to cry, scream, break the windshield. Instead I force myself to sit still and say, “And then what happened?”

  “I couldn’t see.” Her voice cracks. “Sal pushed me to the ground. The car drove away. There was shattered glass and blood everywhere.”

  Red fills my vision. I’m overcome with anger. I want—I need—to hurt the person who caused this pain.

  “I panicked until I realized the bullet just grazed Sal’s arm.” Vanessa takes a deep, slow breath. “I swear to God, your brother bleeds like a bad horror movie. But it’s a superficial wound. He’s okay.”

  Carmen reaches over to rub my shoulders. The muscles in my back uncoil at last. I take control of my breathing. “Where is he now?”

  “Upstairs.”

  “Can I talk to him?”

  “He’s asleep.”

  “Can you wake him up?”

  “No.” Her voice is sharp. “Come home and talk to him in person.”

  She’s just survived a stressful experience, so her annoyance makes sense. I don’t bite back. “I’m on my way now. I’m with Carmen. We’ll be back tomorrow afternoon, okay?”

  “Fine,” she says, exactly the way women say it when things are the opposite of fine.

  During the endless ride home, I try to close my eyes and sleep, but the only thing I can think of is the anger swirling inside me, glowing and growing like a ball of fire.

  Lady Chef is a warrior. She drives ten hours straight and refuses my offers to take over. She doesn’t want me driving without a license and getting in trouble if we’re stopped. As we eat up the miles, her car develops strange rattles and squeals. When we stop for gas, I check all the fluids, fix the tire pressure, and replace her windshield wiper blades.

  “You’re useful,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “I might keep you around.”

  Again, I try to convince her to let me drive. I could drive us straight through without stopping. But she won’t budge. Halfway to Los Angeles, we buy burgers at a roach coach and Carmen pulls into the parking lot of a roadside motel.

  We eat and take hot showers. In bed, I hold her, trying to clear my mind. We try to get something started, but I’m preoccupied about my brother, and my body won’t do what I desperately want it to.

  She kisses me softly, again and again. “You need rest. We both do. We’ll leave first thing in the morning, okay?”

  This is fucking embarrassing. I look around the ugly motel room, the bright blue carpet, the orange striped curtains. “Do you know what I would’ve given in prison for a night in a room like this with a woman like you?”

  Under the rough sheets, she snuggles close. “There will be more nights. Lots more.”

  With each action, she reveals more of herself to me. I know she’s wild and tough and smart. And now I know this—she is kind.

  I raise myself up on my arms and press our bodies together so that she can feel my weight on her. She moans very softly as I kiss her lips, her jaw, and her neck. I kiss the tops of her breasts and hold each one gently in my hands as I suck on her nipples, back and forth. Taking my time, I lower my body until my lips hover between her legs. I spread her legs and slowly stroke my hands up and down her inner thighs, again and again, until goosebumps rise on her skin and I can smell her pussy, wet and sweet.

  I go down on her.

  I take that first orgasm right off the top, nice and easy. She’s amped up. She’s been thinking about me for more than a thousand miles. That kind of dedication deserves to be rewarded.

  I pull her onto my face. I close my eyes, losing myself in her softness, her smell. She balances on the headboard, arching her back, and when she comes a second time, I feel her thighs turn to iron on either side of my head. My face, my beard, and my neck are soaked. She rides my lips like the fucking goddess she is.

  With a satisfied grunt, she collapses on the bed and stretches out. She’s panting.

  “Oh, my God,” she murmurs.

  “I’m not done yet,” I say.

  “What?”

  Just to show her I can, I take one more orgasm from her with my fingers and tongue. She’s holding her long legs wide open, watching what I’m doing to her. Her pussy is puffy and swollen from all my attention, and I can see inside her. She’s dark pink. My chest fills with a painful sort of joy that I know this secret.

  Carmen’s mouth is open. Tears glitter in her eyes. “I’m coming,” she whispers.

  I hold her down while the climax rocks her body. She stares at me, and I tumble into her dark eyes, proud that I can make her happy like this. In a quiet part of my brain, I promise myself: I’ll make her happy in other ways. As many ways as I can.

  Afterward, I hold her. I rest my cheek against her head. Her cool hair is soothing on my skin. Her breathing becomes deep and even. So does mine. She’s sound asleep in my arms.

  “Sleep well, mi reina,” I whisper.

  Early the next morning, we hit the road. At our last stop before home, I toss the cap and sunglasses, wipe my prints off the stolen IDs and credit cards, and throw them into a Dumpster behind a gas station. We arrive in Los Angeles in the early afternoon. Carmen drops me off at Vanessa’s house.

  “Will you be okay?” I ask. “With your mom? With everything?”

  “I’ve had four days to think about what to say to her.” She shrugs. “She’ll flip out. But everything will be fine.”

  I must have a doubtful look on my face because Carmen adds, “It’ll be fine. I promise.” She rubs my back. “Do you want me to come inside?”

  “I think I should talk to Sal alone.” I lean over and give her a slow kiss. She tastes like the red Gatorade she got at the gas station, sweet and a little salty. “I’ll call you as soon as I know more, okay?” I kiss her again, for good luck. “Take care of yourself. Get some rest, if you can.”

  She looks at me carefully. “You too.”

  “Say hi to your mom for me.”

  Carmen rolls her eyes at me, and I watch as she drives away.

  Taking a deep breath, I turn and walk up the steps to the house. Vanessa is at work, so her grandmother opens the door and lets me inside.

  “He is so pissed at you,” she says, shaking her head. She makes me a ham sandwich with pickles. There’s pity in her voice. “Eat your lunch before you talk to him. You’ll need your strength.” I follow her advice and eat the sandwich.

  Upstairs, Sal is in the bedroom. My anal-retentive brother is dressed in a crisp white T-shirt and basketball shorts. He’s sitting on top of a neatly made bed—I’m talking neat, with military precision—his arms crossed
, watching Jerry Springer on TV. One arm is in a bandage and there are a few scratches on his face, but other than that, he looks fine. The bedroom is spotless, everything in order. I’m guessing my brother doesn’t like sitting in bed all day and burned off some nervous energy cleaning the room one or a hundred times.

  “I’d beat your ass but it looks like somebody already did for me,” he says instead of hello.

  He turns off the TV while I sit down in the armchair next to the bed.

  “Tell me everything,” I say.

  Sal tells the same story Vanessa told me, but there’s anger in his voice, as if he blames himself for letting the shooting happen. He tells me cops arrived at the hospital to take a report since no one saw anything except for him.

  True to gangster code, he didn’t share what he saw with the police. Sal has been out of the game for a long time, but he knows the score. We both know this is something the streets have to take care of on their own.

  “So who was it?” I ask.

  “I didn’t see the driver.” Sal looks at the door to make sure it’s closed. “But the shooter—I’ve seen him before. A dealer with the Hillside Locos, I think. Kid named Ochoa.”

  My heart stops beating.

  Ochoa. The dealer Lalo and I jacked. The stupid kid who bragged about having an arsenal of guns that didn’t exist. The one Lalo pistol-whipped again and again. The one who pissed himself, the one whose heroin we stole.

  But why? Why would he take a shot at Sal?

  I study my brother’s face.

  We’re the same height. When I got home last year, I encouraged him to grow a beard just like mine. We both lift. He’s only a year older than me. People have confused us for each other before.

  Fuck.

  What have I done?

  Ochoa was retaliating. He thought Sal was me.

  My brother frowns. “Are you okay? You look like you’re going to throw up.”

  A drug dealer almost killed my brother. Because of me. Because of something I chose to do.

  I have to fix this.

  But how?

  “I have to go,” I say.

  I stand up, like a robot. Numb, overcome with shame and anger.

  “But you just got here,” Sal says. “You haven’t even told me where you went. Or why you were gone for four fucking days.”

  I can’t even look at him. “I’ll tell you everything. Soon. I promise,” I say. “Right now I need…I need some fresh air.”

  Downstairs, I pick up my backpack by the front door and head out without saying goodbye.

  Outside, teenagers are playing in the street, riding bikes or sitting on the front porches of their houses, talking and listening to music.

  In the park, a couple lounges under a tree, kissing and whispering to each other while a homeless man picks through a nearby trashcan for cans and bottles.

  Cars fill the avenues. The drivers are heading home from work.

  A paletero pushes his cart down the sidewalk, jingling bells to catch the attention of school kids walking home with their mothers. He sells ice cream bars and plastic bags of rueditas, wheel-shaped chips flavored with chile and lime juice.

  I absorb the neighborhood, every part of it. To calm myself down, I notice all the details. I let them fill me so that I don’t overflow with the bad feelings gathering inside me. Anger. Regret. Self-hatred. All of the usual suspects.

  I walk without thinking. I let the steady rhythm of my steps calm me down.

  So much has changed in the last few days that I can’t seem to get my balance in this new world.

  I grip the straps of my backpack.

  One step forward, then another. The pavement seems to pound me back, letting me know I’m still alive, that I still have the ability to do something about this fucking mess.

  Twenty-Nine

  My mind drops down into its darkest, quietest place. There, I collect the threads of the things I know to be true. I try to tie up the loose ends, the half truths, the lies. I see my father’s thin face in the darkness of that old Bronco, telling me the story of how he cheated death, how he backed away from the edge, alone and unarmed.

  But he wasn’t unarmed. He had a weapon—a big one. A weapon I can use too.

  I stop. When I look up, I realize I’ve reached my destination.

  Ruben’s house.

  Without giving myself time to change my mind, I walk up the steps, look straight into the security camera above the door, and press the button on the intercom.

  “Look what the cat dragged in. How are you, mi’jo?”

  Ruben’s voice is scratchy and distorted by the speaker. Still, I can hear his deep annoyance. The East Side Hollenbeck shot-caller doesn’t like unexpected guests, even longtime homeboys like me.

  “I’m good, Ruben,” I say, “but I need your ear.”

  The speaker is quiet for a second. I stand still, trying not to lose my nerve. I’ve faced down rival gang members, inmates who wanted to pound my face or worse. I’ve even looked down barrels of loaded guns without blinking. But to take a stand against Ruben, the closest thing to a kingpin that ESHB has, I need to pretend I have nerves of steel.

  Okay. Balls of brass wouldn’t hurt either.

  I’m unarmed. Alone.

  This is stupid.

  My specialty.

  The intercom buzzes. The security cage that encloses Ruben’s front porch clicks open.

  Unlike my father, Ruben is healthy and strong. Like a true OG, he’s dressed in khakis, a warm flannel, and a pair of new Nike Cortez. His bigote is thick but streaked with gray, reminding me this old dog has survived at the head of the pack for a long, long time.

  In the living room of his house, he gives me a hug.

  “It’s good to see you, Trouble,” he says. His voice is flat.

  I lift my arms and he pats me down like a pro. He checks me for wires, then searches my backpack. There’s nothing in there but dirty clothes. He gives my wallet a lazy search but doesn’t make a comment about all the cash. Every homeboy has his side hustle—that’s usually his own business, no one else’s.

  When he’s satisfied, Ruben says, “Let’s take a walk.”

  I follow him out of the house and down the street to the park. We start a slow loop around the lake. This is Ruben’s office. He conducts all his meetings here. It helps him control the situation and avoid any bugs or surveillance.

  “So I heard your brother had a little trouble the other day,” he says. “How’s he doing?”

  We both know this is bullshit. Ruben has his finger on the pulse of the neighborhood. He knows what happened, and he knows exactly how my brother is doing. But I still say what’s expected of me. “He’s doing good. At home, recovering. He’ll be back at work and school soon.”

  “Good. That’s good.” Ruben glances sideways at me. “And you? Are you looking for work? Because I’ve been waiting for you.”

  I know he’d put me on the street. I’d deal for him just like I did when I was a kid, maybe even steal cars again. I’m all grown up now—maybe I’d graduate to muscle, a combat soldier. Beat the shit out of people. Put bullets in bodies and walk away. Ruben would know how to use me. He knows how to use all of us.

  “I’m not looking for work,” I say. “But I need your help.”

  “What do you need?”

  We stop by the edge of the water. It’s dark as tar. I swear, if this lake were ever drained, they’d find nightmares at the bottom.

  I make my blood cold, cold as the icy river behind Lisa Jo’s house.

  “I know my father is alive,” I say. “I know what he has on you.”

  Ruben doesn’t react.

  “My brother is starting a new business with his girl. Eastside Brewery. They’re putting everything they’ve got into it. I know Las Palmas have been shaking down the businesses on the avenue, including the old bakery. I know they gave Slim Centeno a beat-down last year. I know you were aware of it and let it happen even though Slim’s family has been paying protect
ion money to ESHB since Jesus walked the earth.”

  “You know a lot of things, don’t you?” Ruben’s voice gets low and dangerous. “What are you planning to do with all this knowledge?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “Nothing at all. If.”

  “If?”

  “If you fix a broken promise and put ESHB back to work protecting the businesses on the avenue.”

  Ruben says nothing.

  “Put homeboys on the corners,” I say. “Have them watch the bakery, but also the dry cleaners and the liquor store. Keep Las Palmas away along with any other knucklehead who wants to take a shot.”

  “Even, say, a little shit from Hillside Locos?” Ruben says with a sly smile.

  I swallow down my anger. He knows about Ochoa. “Everyone.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  This is not a game I can lose. “If you don’t, a recording gets sent to Pelican Bay of you dealing double with Las Palmas to get to the Cartel. The Organization will know that an OG shot-caller from ESHB is trying to cut them out.” I pause. “They won’t be happy.”

  We’re both silent for a minute. Ruben isn’t angry. He doesn’t get angry. He’s a calculator.

  “You know,” he says quietly, “if you keep this information to yourself and the Organization finds out you had knowledge of my dealings, you’re complicit, mi’jo. You betrayed your loyalty to the gang. You’ll be a dead man walking, just like me.”

  I nod. “It’s a risk I’ll take if it means my family will be safe.”

  We stare out at the water. After a long time, Ruben says, “All right. You have my word. Anything else, Eduardo?” He uses my real name, as if he knows what I’m about to ask.

  I look him in the eyes.

  As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster.

  I followed in my father’s footsteps, then my brother’s.

  Every time a homeboy got in my face, demanding to know where I was from, I told him. Proudly. Defiantly.

  In prison, “Where you from?” became a question to welcome, not to fear. I answered loud and clear. ESHB. East Side Hollenbeck.

  But now I know—there’s more to me than my barrio. More to me than the most obvious path. More to me than the terrible things I’ve done.