Mutt eBook

by McKenzie, Shane

  face on his stomach smirking out from his torso. Three others were in the room too: a guy holding a video camera, and a man and woman fucking. The three of them were in the middle of the room, the couple on a small, bare mattress. The woman lay on her back, her legs spread wide, feet in the air. She moaned and hissed as she was penetrated. As Patrick and the others passed, she looked up at him, smiled, squeezed her tits together and licked the front of her teeth.

  Patrick still couldn’t keep his hands from quivering as he remembered the gun going off, the widening pool of blood beneath Julius’ head. The look on Harry’s beaten, bloody face. The car ride had been long, awkward, but the other men acted as if nothing out of the usual had happened. They bumped music, Jesús’ music from the sound of it, joked with each other and bobbed their heads to the beat.

  When they had finally pulled up to Jesús’ place, Patrick was just glad to get out of the car. But now, he wasn’t so sure.

  The big pit bull Patrick recognized from last night stood up from its laying position beside Jesús, lowered its head, and growled as Patrick and the others approached. It chewed on some kind of bone, gristly red bits clinging to it, and its muzzle was stained red. The dog had bald spots along its body, and both its ears looked chewed and leathery. One eye was completely white, but the other locked onto Patrick, and the rattling growl crackling from its throat stopped him in his place.

  Jesús bobbed and weaved, smashed his knuckles against the bag, droplets of sweat stippling the floor beneath him.

  “El Rey,” Chapa said. “Yo traje el pocho, güey.”

  Jesús stopped, leaned his forehead against the bag, panting, streaks of sweat running crooked wet lines down the black leather. The dog lunged forward, barked and growled, but didn’t attack. The woman’s orgasmic hollering filled the air, the man grunting as he ravaged her.

  “What up, homie?” Jesús wiped his forehead with his arm, and stepped toward Patrick. He put his hand on the dog’s head, scratched behind its ear. “You hurt my feelings today, you know that?”

  Chapa and the other men walked out of the room. The woman was on her knees in front of the man, pearly white splashes over her face and chest. The cameraman stood to the side of her, did a close-up of the sparkling semen.

  “Okay!” Jesús yelled. “Y’all motherfuckas get the fuck out. I got some shit I gotta discuss with mi hermano.”

  Without bothering to dress themselves or clean up, the glistening couple retreated, the cameraman right on their heels. When the door slammed behind them, the only sound was the pounding of Patrick’s heart and the low growling from the dog.

  “What’s the problem, Jesús?” Patrick wiped his hands on his pants and tried to force a smile, but his face wouldn’t allow it.

  “You’re one of us, homie. You don’t even know what that means yet. I came up to the room, even let you sleep in since I figured you were up all night fuckin,’ and you were gone.” He made a clicking noise with his tongue and the dog trotted away, went back to its meaty bone that Patrick thought was probably part of the other pit that had lost the fight.

  “I’m sorry… I, I didn’t know. It won’t happen again—”

  Jesús’ fist collided with the side of Patrick’s already tenderized face, and he yelped as he fell to the ground, massaging his swollen cheekbone.

  “Quit whinin’ like a little bitch, esé. Stand up like a man.”

  Patrick just stared up at him, hand quivering as it rested against his face.

  “I said stand the fuck up!”

  Patrick climbed to his feet and glared at Jesús, grinding his teeth.

  “That’s what I’m talkin’ about, homie. Intensity. You mad? You wanna whoop my ass, right?”

  Patrick answered with his eyes.

  “Good. You got work to do. This life,” he said as he thumped his chest with his fist, “this life is hard, homie. You think it’s a game? You’re dead wrong, you know what I’m sayin’? But you got a family now. And as long as you do what you’re told, and as long as you stay loyal? You’ll be good. You fuck with me?”

  Jesús swung again, but Patrick slapped it away, nearly hit him as a reflex, but stopped himself. The dog hopped back to its feet and lunged, snapped its jaws, but Jesús held out his hand, clicked his tongue again.

  “Yeah, we need mayates like you.” Jesús’ face slackened, and he smiled, patted Patrick on the back, wrapped his arm around his neck and led him across the room. “I like you, dawg. Think you could be real good for Los Locos, but you got a lot to learn. You—”

  The door flew open, crashed against the wall. It was Ramón, the boy’s face as blackened as Patrick’s was, his lips puffy. He panted, sweat coating his body, soaking into the collar of his shirt. “El Rey,” he said as he breathed. “Chuy esta aquí… para desafiarte.”

  Jesús tightened his grip on Patrick’s neck, then released him, faced Ramón with fire in his eyes. His balled his hands into fists, and every muscle on his bare torso tightened and twitched. “Donde?” He snapped his fingers and the dog trotted to his side.

  “Afuera,” Ramón said, a look of panic on his face.

  “Patrick,” Jesús said. “Come with me, homeboy. You’re gonna want to see this. I’ll show you what it takes to be in Los Reyes Locos.”

  Jesús trudged across the room, the dog keeping pace beside him, and Patrick followed, still without a clue as to what was going on.

  The man named Chuy stood in the backyard, and though there was a group of Los Locos around him, none of them stood beside him. But they all looked at him, some grinning, others scowling. The men and women whispered things to each other, and though Patrick still didn’t understand what was happening, he could tell this was some kind of confrontation.

  Jesús held his arms up, nodded at Chuy. “Que paso, hermano?”

  “You know why I’m here. No hard feelings, ay?”

  “Of course not, hermano. Never.”

  As Jesús walked toward Chuy, Patrick took the opportunity to join the other men. He was relieved to see Jaimé leaned up against the fence, shaking his head and sipping from a beer can. When he saw Patrick approaching, he nodded, waved him over.

  “What’s goin’ on?” Patrick said.

  “It’s a challenge. For the crown.”

  “The crown?”

  Jaimé nodded as he finished his beer, crushed it between his hands. “Si, for the crown. Chuy is challenging Jesús for the right to lead Los Locos.”

  Jesús stepped up to Chuy, who was at least a foot taller and much meatier. The men stared deep into each other’s eyes like two boxers before a bout.

  “What’s gonna happen?” Patrick whispered.

  “It’s a challenge, esé. They fight. The winner is El Rey, and the loser… the loser goes under the ground.” He chuckled. “It’s the only way, esé. You wanna be king? You have to challenge the king, risk your life to lead Los Locos.”

  The two men spoke to each other under their breath, but Patrick couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then Chuy bared his teeth, swung at Jesús with a huge fist. It wasn’t until the small gash opened up on Jesús’ cheek that Patrick noticed the blade gleaming in Chuy’s hand.

  Jesús grinned, wiped the blood from his face and looked at it. The massive pit bull snapped the air with its frothy jaws, but didn’t rush Chuy. The larger man didn’t bother concealing the knife now, and he bounced on his toes, the blade red with El Rey’s blood.

  “El desafío empieza, güey,” Jesús muttered through clenched teeth, then lunged at Chuy with nothing more than his bare hands.

  Chuy swung the knife again, but Jesús dodged it, caught the big man with a quick strike to the side of the face. Jesús laughed, fists in front, as he circled his opponent.

  The gathered gangsters whooped and shouted, swiping the air with their hands and elbowing each other.

  Chuy growled, th
rew a punch that Jesús easily avoided, but the big man’s knife-wielding hand struck, pinned the blade to Jesús’ right shoulder. It seemed to Patrick that Jesús allowed this to happen, as if he made no attempt to avoid it, and he hardly flinched when the metal entered his flesh and stuck there.

  Jesús didn’t allow Chuy the time to pull his knife back out as his lightning quick hands struck Chuy’s round face like rapid rattlesnake bites.

  Chuy stumbled backward, blood oozing from the corners of his mouth and nostrils. He blocked the next wave of punches, swung a few of his own, but Jesús was too quick.

  Jesús weaved around the big fists as they came, bobbed down and came up with an uppercut, then followed with a sharp elbow to Chuy’s left temple. As the big man moaned, squinted his eyes in pain, Jesús yanked the blade from his shoulder and jammed it into the side of Chuy’s neck.

  The men and women grew quiet as they watched Chuy fall to his knees and gurgle his own blood.

  Jesús pulled the knife back out slowly, pressed his forehead against Chuy’s, stared into his eyes and breathed through his nostrils. The big man gasped for breath, his eyelids starting to droop, his mouth working up and down.

  “Te amo, mi hermano,” Jesús said, then rammed the knife into Chuy’s chest.

  Chuy flinched, gasped, reached up and grabbed Jesús’ arm. His legs kicked, sending plumes of dust into the air. Arms went limp, the movement of his mouth slowed.

  Jesús laid the man on his back, pulled the knife out again, stood over his challenger. Blood dripped from the blade and stained dots onto Chuy’s shirt. Jesús eyed the crowd, one at a time, his chest heaving, sweat trickling down his bare torso. When he caught Patrick’s stare, he smiled, eyes widened. Patrick wanted to look away, but felt trapped there in the glare of El Rey. Chuy still gurgled beneath him, clinging to a shred of life.

  Jesús gave a slight whistle as he stepped away from the challenger’s body, and the dog pounced. Chuy’s legs got to kicking again, the gurgles turning to wet screams as the dog tore into his throat, shook its head and growled low and terrible. Blood splashed the dirt, and with a final hard yank, the dog tore away a large chunk of flesh that silenced Chuy forever. Blood bubbles frothed at the gaping wound of his throat, but slowed, and finally ceased. The dog shook the fleshy hunk of meat like tire rubber.

  Jesús, knife still in hand, held his arms out, circled in place and let his people get a good look at him. I am the fucking king, his stance said. Challenge me and die.

  “Los Reyes Locos!” A string of drool oozed from his lip as he screamed it again. “Los Reyes Locos!”

  “Los Reyes Locos!” the others chanted back, fists raised in the air.

  There was a slight tickling at his lower back, and Patrick flinched, then realized it was Krystal standing by his side, her arm around his waist. There was so much he wanted to say to her, wanted to explain, but all he could do was drape his arm around her neck and hold her tight.

  When the next wave of chanting ensued, she joined, but Patrick couldn’t make himself say it.

  I’m not one of these people. What the fuck was I thinking? This isn’t me… I have to get out of here.

  He wanted to tell Krystal the truth, hoped she would understand, hoped she knew of some way to get out of the gang without ending up like Chuy.

  Jesús looked toward Jaimé, who still stood beside Patrick. “You know what to do, homie. And take Patrick with you. It’s time our boy got his hands bloody.”

  Jaimé nodded. “Si, bueno.”

  Krystal grabbed Patrick by the collar, pulled him down, and kissed him. She held the kiss for a few moments, then lightly shoved him toward the body.

  “Ándale, esé,” Jaimé said, grabbing Chuy’s arms and motioning toward the feet with his head.

  All eyes were on Patrick now, and he felt ready to piss himself. It felt like he floated toward the body, his legs numb from the knees down, and his hands visibly shook as he took hold of the big dead man’s ankles. Some of the others laughed, made comments in Spanish, but Patrick sucked it up, helped Jaimé lift the body, then walk it toward his Lincoln which was parked on the side of the house. He did his best to ignore the gaping, ragged hole in Chuy’s throat, the blood splashing out of it as they walked the body across the yard.

  Both Jaimé and Patrick grunted, muscles and veins bulging, as they hefted Chuy into the trunk, and when they finally got him in and slammed the trunk door, they both panted and wiped sweat away from their faces. Patrick looked toward Krystal, and his posture stra’ightened as he saw Simon standing with her, now his arm around her neck where Patrick’s had been only moments ago. He bent down to kiss her, and Patrick saw a bit of hesitation, but she kissed him back.

  And then Simon’s eyes darted right at Patrick’s, and a slight smile pulled the corner of Simon’s mouth.

  Patrick didn’t realize he was squeezing his hands into fists until he felt the bite of his nails in his palm, but before he could do anything, Jaimé slapped him on the back.

  “Let’s go. Get this shit over with.” Jaimé climbed into the driver’s door.

  Patrick gave one more quick glance toward Krystal, and she had her eyes on him now, and he could see her apologizing through her stare, but Simon leaned over and whispered something into her ear, and then they both entered the house.

  “What the fuck you waitin’ for, esé? Come on.”

  Patrick ran his hand through his hair, then noticed that all of the others were still watching him. Jesús was crouched now, petting the blood-soaked dog and glaring at Patrick, and that got him into the car.

  Jaimé reached over and patted Patrick on the chest. “Let it go, muchacho. Don’t let that shit cloud your brain. Trust me.”

  “What? Nah… I’m, I’m good. Let’s go.” The anger seething in his bloodstream felt like battery acid.

  Jaimé shook his head and chuckled as they pulled off. He kissed his fist, pounded the car’s ceiling three times. “Chuy was a good man. But he could never have been El Rey.”

  Patrick stared out the window as they drove on, images of Chuy’s bleeding body in the trunk and Simon leading Krystal into the house flipping through his mind like flash cards.

  The sun beat down on them as they leaned against the car, shirts off, and passed a faded red thermos back and forth full of water. Two shovels lay on the ground beside them, and Chuy’s body lay six feet below the surface. The desert was so vast and empty, Patrick was sure nobody would ever find it, and though he almost asked Jaimé how many other bodies had been buried out there, he decided against it.

  “You all right, esé?” Jaimé said as he squinted toward Patrick.

  “I guess so… I’m okay.”

  Jaimé stood stra’ighter, wiped moisture from his goatee. “Cuz you look like shit. I don’t know what you thought this was, but this,” he said as he pointed to the shovels, the blood on his hands, the grave, “this is the life. And it don’t get no easier.”

  Patrick nodded. He wanted to plead for his life, wanted to beg Jaimé to help him escape, just drive him somewhere far away and tell Jesús and the rest that he didn’t know where he went. But he couldn’t make his mouth form the words.

  “Krystal brought you, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  He snickered, took a long drink of water, shook his head.

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Like I said, esé. Don’t let that girl cloud your brain.” He wiped the sheen of sweat away from his forehead with the back of his arm. “That girl’s brought more recruits than anybody, you know that?”

  Patrick’s chest tightened, nostrils widened, and he faced Jaimé. “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said, homeboy. It is what it is.”

  Patrick shook his head, directed his gaze back to the dirt and shovels. “No, it’s not like that. She brought me because she likes me. And I think I’m�
� shit, I don’t know.”

  “What, you in love?” He laughed hard this time, stared up at the sun. “Dios mío… ”

  “What the fuck do you know about it? You don’t know shit—”

  Jaimé grabbed him by the throat, nearly lifted him off the ground. “Keep it cool, esé. I can play nice, but I can bite too, you understand?”

  Patrick nodded, tried to swallow a mouthful of saliva, but couldn’t get it past Jaimé’s grip. The older man released him, leaned back up against the car. “Look. I know what it’s like when you got it bad for a bitch, but it’s easier if you don’t let your mind get caught up on pussy. Especially if you gonna run with Los Locos.”

  Patrick didn’t want to hear any more about it, was sure Krystal liked him. Jaimé might think he knows, Patrick thought, but he don’t know a damn thing. Me and Krystal, we have something special.

  Patrick pointed to the loose dirt. “So anybody can challenge Jesús for the crown?”

  “Mmm-hmm. But you gotta have balls like this, esé.” Jaimé held his palms under his groin. “That’s a ruthless motherfucker, man. You see the tattoo on his stomach?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That was El Rey before him. Nobody thought anybody could fuck with Octavio, shit nobody wanted to, loved him too much, but Jesús came along and carved him up good. In front of everybody.” Jaimé looked off into the distance. “Octavio was good for Los Locos… Jesús, he… he’s different. But that shit don’t matter none. El Rey’s word is final.” He hopped up onto the back of the Lincoln, poured water over his head and let it drop over the rest of him. “After that, all the OGs tried to challenge Jesús, but none of them succeeded. I’m the last one left, esé. And I plan on stayin’ alive, you know what I’m sayin.’ “

  Patrick nodded, squinted up at Jaimé. “Was Octavio as… crazy as Jesús?”

  “Crazy? Nah. He did what had to be done, but that’s El Rey’s job. But he didn’t like it the way Jesús likes it. The violence. And he’s turning these younger boys the same way.”