Patrick’s mom muttered something, her ragged breathing flapping her lips. She tried to lift her head, but Simon swung another fist at her face and sent her crashing back to the floor. He tore her shirt into tatters that barely hung to her torso.
Patrick broke into a sprint, but before he made it three steps, Simon’s gun went off. Patrick’s left ear went deaf, and a high-pitched squeal filled his head, followed by a searing pain. Warmth spilled down the side of his neck and soaked into his shirt, and Patrick found himself on his knees. He didn’t know if he’d just been killed or not, could imagine reaching up and finding a hole in his head.
A scream rattled from his throat, and he reached up and touched his ear, screamed again at the hot agony that ignited there. The cartilage had been blasted away, leaving a half-moon of flesh there with a bloody lobe hanging down. Patrick’s hand came away covered with blood, and his mother’s groans caught his attention again.
Simon tugged on the waist of his pants with his free hand while Patrick’s mother writhed beneath him. Crooked red lines ran down the sides of her face, and her nose and mouth were covered with blood. Her hair stuck to her flesh in wavy patterns, and she muttered Korean at her attacker, which only made Simon laugh.
“That’s right, bitch. I want you to keep talkin’ just like that while I’m fuckin’ you, a’ight? I like that shit.”
Patrick’s knees shook as he rose back to standing. Simon looked up at him, smiled, pointed his gun again.
“Nnnnoooo!” His mother flopped her body, swatted the pistol out of Simon’s hand.
Simon hesitated for a second, and as he went for the fallen pistol, the woman wrapped her arms and legs around him, bit into the meat of his cheek.
“Ahhh!”
Patrick dashed for the gun, dove on top of it. He felt Simon’s fingertips rake his back, caught the back of his shirt collar and tore the fabric slightly, but Patrick pulled away, clutched the pistol, spun on his knees to face the gangster.
Simon’s cheek leaked blood from the chunk that had been torn away, and he raised his fist to hit Patrick’s mother again, but she kicked out with both feet, caught him in the chest.
As Simon stumbled back, Patrick pulled the trigger. Then again and again and again. The bullets slammed into Simon’s chest, soaking his shirt in blood at once. The last bullet tunneled through the left side of the man’s forehead, blew the back of his skull out and splattered it over the couch behind him.
Patrick dropped the gun at the same time Simon’s body went limp and crumbled on top of itself. The carpet around him soaked up the blood that leaked from his bullet wounds.
Patrick’s mother scrambled to her feet, screeching, raking her nails through her hair. Her eyes darted to Patrick, and she ran at him, and for a brief moment, Patrick thought she was attacking him, and he couldn’t blame her if she was. I brought this violence here, I did it.
“P-patrick? Are you… are you okay? Let me see… turn your head.” She held his face gently in her hands, ignoring her own brutalized face.
Tears exploded from his eyes now as he sobbed into his mother’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around her and leaning into her. He could barely catch his breath as he wept, but it never felt so good to be in his mother’s arms, and a deep shame set in then.
“Honey… look at me.” She raised his face by the cheeks, then inspected his wound. “It’s only your ear. Didn’t hit your head.”
Blood sparkled over the pale brown flesh of her face, welts and bruises already forming. The sight of it squeezed Patrick’s heart and another series of racking sobs took him over.
“Who was that m-man? What kind of trouble you in?”
“I messed up b-bad, mom. I don’t k-know… don’t know what to do… ”
They both turned and stared at Simon’s body together, didn’t say a word, only breathing, sniffling.
“We need to call the police. Tell them everything, okay?”
Patrick nodded. “Yeah… okay. C-call them.”
He knew it was probably a bad idea, but no other solution came to him, and at that moment, he was a child, a small, defenseless child that needed to listen to his mother.
The first thing Patrick noticed when he stepped outside was the brown Cadillac parked across the street. The windows were up, black with tint, but he knew more than one pair of eyes was watching as the coroner loaded up Simon’s body.
“Son?” The officer’s voice snapped him out of his trance, and Patrick looked away from the Cadillac. The man had obviously seen the Cadillac too, and his face slackened a bit as he swallowed. “We… uh… we’ve got all we need for now. We’ll have someone come by the hospital, get some more info from you and your mom, all right?” His eyes darted back to the Cadillac, and he shifted his weight, wiped the sweat from his brow.
“That’s it? I know where these people are. I can show you!” Patrick leaned in and whispered. “They’re watching me right now.”
The officer looked like he wanted to say something, but his face tightened and he flashed an obvious forced smile. “There’s procedures to follow, son. Everything will be investigated, looked into. Just be happy you and your mother escaped this incident with your lives.”
And then he got into his patrol car and left Patrick standing there, dumbfounded and lost, with nothing but a case number scribbled on a slip of stationary. The driver’s window of the Cadillac cracked just slightly and a plume of smoke drifted out, and then the car peeled off and disappeared around the corner.
The paramedics had his mother on a stretcher, and just as they lifted her into the vehicle, she sat up. “Patrick?”
“Ma’am, I need you to lie back now,” the paramedic said.
“Patrick, let’s go.”
Patrick had his attention on the spot where the Cadillac had just turned, and he stared off into the distance, unable to move, unable to think. He was dead, and he knew it. Probably his mother too.
“We need to leave, mom. We need to get out of here right now.” He turned to her. “I’m serious, like right now.”
She ignored the paramedic that continued to bark orders at her. “Where we going to go, honey? And how?”
Patrick shook his head. “Anywhere. Anywhere but here.”
From behind him came the pitter patter of running feet. His heart dropped, and he turned quickly, but it was only a child. The little boy darted across the sidewalk toward him, waving something in his hand.
He turned back to his mother who was now on her back. The paramedic waved Patrick over. “Come on, let’s get you guys to the hospital. We don’t have time to waste, kid.”
A tap on the arm.
“De El Rey.”
Patrick gasped, turned to face the squeaky-voiced child. The boy held what appeared to be a DVD case, with something wrapped around it, something glinting in the dying sunlight.
Patrick took the case, and the boy ran off, back the way he came. It only took Patrick a moment to realize it was Krystal’s gold necklace wrapped around the case, and he ran back toward the apartment, despite the shouts from the medic.
“You’re on your own, kid!”
“Patrick! What you doing?”
But he took the stairs two at a time, sprinted toward the door. What officers had actually shown up were already gone, simple yellow tape crisscrossed over the door. Patrick burst through, ran by the blood stained carpet, and went stra’ight for his room.
He opened the case, stared at the fingerprints on the disc for a moment. The television came to life as he hit the power button, followed by the DVD player, and he slid the disc in, bounced from foot to foot as he awaited the images to appear on screen. He shuddered to think of what he was about to see, and he prayed they didn’t do anything to Krystal, that she was still okay.
She’s one of them… they wouldn’t hurt one of their own to prove a point to me.
; Jesús’ face appeared on the screen, smiling, his gold teeth reflecting the red light from the camera recording him. “Hola, Patrick. If you’re watching this right now, esé, that means Simon didn’t kill you. And if Simon didn’t kill you, that probably means you killed him, right?” He laughed. “I knew you had that shit in you, hermano. Chino or Mejicano, heart is heart. I know that.” His almost friendly expression hardened, and he lowered his eyes, glared from the television screen. “But Los Reyes Locos is brown and proud, motherfucka. Your yellow-skinned, slanty-eyed kind don’t have no place with Los Locos. And you fuckin’ lied to me, Patrick.”
Patrick’s mouth dried up and he gasped when Jesús stepped aside to show Krystal lying naked on the bare mattress in his office, strapped down, gagged and spread wide. She shook her head, stared up at Jesús with tears filling her eyes.
Jesús looked down at her, then back at the camera. “She really liked you, esé. You know that shit? My favorite Latina, and she falls for a fucking chink. You had us both fooled, homeboy. You the brownest Asian I ever seen.”
“Fuck you!” Patrick screamed at the television, nearly put his fist through it.
Jesús dropped to his knees beside the bed, eyes still on the camera, still on Patrick. He bent down, put his face against Krystal’s breast, opened wide and sucked it. His teeth clamped down on her nipple, his hand moved toward the patch of hair between her legs. Krystal thrashed, but couldn’t escape his touch.
“If you’re alive, Patrick, you better come and save her. If you’re dead, then this recording don’t mean shit, and we gonna fuck her either way.” Jesús chuckled, got to his feet, and then the camera panned out and the other men came into view. At least six of them, all smiling, all licking their lips, rubbing their palms together as they stared down at Krystal.
“Ándale, homie.”
And then the screen went black. Patrick kicked the television to the floor, ripped the DVD player off his shelf and smashed it against the wall.
“You motherfuckers! I’ll fuckin’ kill all of you!”
He looked down at the tattoo inked over his hand, scratched at it with his nails. It made him sick to see that crown on his flesh, and he took his anger out on his bedroom, throwing things, overturning his mattress, breaking everything in his vicinity.
He crumbled to the floor, put his face into his palms and wept. What the fuck am I gonna do. he thought. If I go over there, they’ll kill me. Simple as that.
Then Krystal’s terror-stricken face exploded into his mind, her breast filling Jesús’ mouth, and he jumped to his feet, headed for his bedroom door. Who knows what they’re doing to her already, who knows if she’s still alive. Simon must have told Jesús that she knew, that she had promised Patrick she would help him get out, and for that, she’s just as guilty as him.
An idea hit him midway down the stairwell, and he stopped in his tracks, looked back at the tattoo and clenched his teeth. He didn’t know if it would work, and he didn’t know if he’d survive one way or another, but he knew he had to try. Knew he didn’t have a choice.
His sneakers slapped concrete as he sprinted toward Jesús’ house, and the sick feeling in his gut grew stronger as he went.
As Patrick approached the house, he had expected the loud thump of bass, but all was quiet. A group of Los Locos stood in front of the front door, and when they saw Patrick coming, they stuck their chests out, stepped toward him.
“I’m here for Jesús,” he said.
The men only glared at him, sized him up, but didn’t say a word, didn’t attack like he expected them to. They looked at one another, said things in Spanish, and where Patrick had heard “pocho” before, that was now replaced with “chino.”
The men parted, sucked on their teeth, and smiled.
“Go ahead, puto. He’s waiting.”
Patrick reluctantly walked between them, holding his breath, expecting a mouthful of knuckles at any moment, but it never came, and the men stayed tame as he reached the door.
Patrick didn’t think he would escape this night with his life, expected to be a corpse either full of bullets or sliced open before the day ended. But at that very moment, he needed to find Krystal, needed to help her the best he could.
He turned his head and gave the men one last look before he wrapped his shaking fingers around the knob and pushed the door in.
The living room and kitchen were full of thugs—men and women—and they glared at him as he passed, but not one of them said a word. The silence smothered Patrick with dread as he marched through the house, his body shaking all over. As he grew closer to the stairs, he could hear the noises coming from the second floor.
And Krystal’s voice. Her screaming could have almost been mistaken for cries of pleasure had Patrick not seen the video and known what was taking place.
They’re killing her!
“Jesús! I’m here, motherfucker!”
The pounding stopped, the screaming momentarily ceased. Murmurs and whispers ghosted through the air, and Patrick ran up the staircase. His body spewed sweat as he ascended, the salty fluid stinging his ruined ear. The battered flesh of his body from his beat-in only last night—which seemed like a lifetime ago now—still thrummed with ache.
When he reached the second floor, he stopped in his tracks and stared at the horde of gangsters there. They all faced him, all muttered to each other, their eyes tunneling through him.
Patrick knew it was now or never. These men were the barrier between him and Jesús, between him and Krystal, and he had a feeling he wasn’t meant to get passed them. They began to stomp toward him, and Patrick caught a few glimpses of metal in their grasps. He couldn’t understand what they were saying to each other, what they were shouting at him, but the tone of their voice told him everything he needed to know.
“I want to challenge El Rey. Right now.”
The men halted, their faces twisting into masks of hate.
“Fuck this chino, esé. He ain’t Los Locos!” Chapa stood at the front of the crowd, his face a mask of hatred. “This motherfucka killed Simon!” The men agreed with growls and sneers, and others shouted similar declarations.
Patrick held up his hand, turned it so the black crown was facing the men. “Whether you like it or not, I’m inked. I’m Los Locos, even if I am fuckin’ chino. So get the fuck outta the way.”
The men still didn’t seem satisfied, and Patrick thought it was over, thought they would descend on him and tear him to pieces.
“Ya basta!” Jesús’ voice cut through the air like a razor. The men immediately went silent, but still glared at Patrick, squeezed fists and clenched teeth. “Let him in. You heard him, he wants a challenge. I accept.”
The sound of Krystal’s whimpering sprinkled the air, and Patrick shoved his way through the men. Harsh words were spat into his ears, but not one of them touched him as he entered Jesús’ office.
The air smelled of sweaty flesh and sex, and Patrick’s eyes went right to the mattress where Krystal still lay, tied down, her arms and legs spread out. The men from the video, now unclothed, stood in a circle around her, and the fluorescent light made the sweat and semen on her skin sparkle.
Her eyes locked onto Patrick’s and quivered, and then her lids slid down and her head tilted back. She looked exhausted, broken. As Patrick stepped into the room, one of the men crawled onto the bed on his knees, hovered over Krystal, then grabbed her by the thighs and rammed himself into her.
She gasped, eyes bursting open, wrists pulling against restraints. Her body bucked as the man began furiously fucking her, the other men laughing.
“Get the fuck off her!” Patrick dashed toward them, fists raised, ready to kill them all with his bare knuckles. He never wanted to stop hitting them, wanted to feel the life seep out of their bodies.
“I wouldn’t do that, homie.” Jesús sat on the edge of his wooden desk, wearing only
white boxer shorts, his pitbull sitting beside him. “You start fightin’ motherfuckers, your challenge don’t mean shit. Nothin’ I can do to keep those hungry Los Locos behind you from tearin’ you up.”
Patrick stopped, clenched his teeth so hard, he thought he’d break his jaw. The man continued to fuck Krystal, harder as he stared up into Patrick’s face. Krystal whimpered, her eyes squeezed shut, her body rocking.
“What’s the matter, homeboy? You jealous?” Jesús separated from the desk, the dog lowering its head and growling as its master approached Patrick. “I had her first, fucked her real good. When I was done, I made her swallow my cum, made her open her mouth for the camera and show it was all gone. Then I let the homies have at her. Been at it for a couple hours now.”
Patrick pulled his shirt off, put his fists up. “Come on, asshole. Let’s do this.”
Jesús smiled, rolled his neck and popped it. He slapped his chest with both hands, then stepped toward Patrick and grinned. “You may be a lying fucking chino, esé, but your face is gonna look good inked on my skin.”
With Krystal’s cries as background music, Patrick launched an attack. He sprang forward, swinging a wide right, but Jesús easily stepped aside, twisted his torso to escape the fists.
The anger and frustration bubbling in Patrick’s gut took over, and his punches were wild, a scream erupting from his throat as he swung. His wounded body burned with pain and soreness, but Patrick paid it no mind.
Jesús sidestepped him, shot a left jab into the right side of Patrick’s jaw, then hit him with a right hook that nearly took Patrick off his feet.
Patrick stumbled, bared his teeth and tried to shake the stars away. The man moaned from behind him, followed by a muffled scream from Krystal, and that stra’ightened Patrick’s stance up, got his adrenaline flowing again.
Jesús only chuckled, bouncing on his toes, hands out in front of him. The dog’s growl crackled in the air. “When I’m done with you, homie, you’ll be nothing but meat for my dog. Y’all think chino meat is spicy?”
The other men laughed, whistled, shouted out things Patrick couldn’t understand.
Mutt eBook Page 9