Tequila Sunset

by Sam Hawken

  “You know you didn’t have to come.”

  “Naw, Penny’s fine with me staying out. You’re the one who has to pay a sitter.”

  Cristina shook her head. “She knows Fridays are late nights. I pay extra.”

  “You should spend more time with Freddie.”

  “We’ll go to the park tomorrow. He’ll like that.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Fine. Some rough days at school, but we get through it.”

  “He’s a good kid.”

  “Thanks.”

  Robinson fished on the floor between his legs and produced a digital camera in a case. He handed it over. “Your turn to take the snaps.”

  The curb in front of the party house was lined with cars. The angle wasn’t good for photographing license plates. They would have to crawl by, or approach on foot. Cristina didn’t like the latter option; there were people crowded on the patio drinking beer and talking loudly over the music. A barbecue grill was going.

  Cristina readied the camera and raised it up so it was just visible above the line of the open window. She used the zoom and watched the screen. When she had a clear face, she snapped a shot. Some she recognized, others she didn’t. A new car approached slowly from the far end of the street. She got its license plate. It parked and two more faces joined the party.

  “This is, what? His third party in a month?”

  “Fourth, I think. There was that one a couple weeks ago.”

  “Right. He must go through a fortune in beer.”

  “He can afford it.”

  The neighborhood was working class, the houses all old, but they had decent-sized front lawns, or in the case of José Martinez’s house, an extended patio. Cristina and Robinson had come to know the features of the neighborhood, who came and who went. Most of the people here were regular folks earning a wage. If they knew their neighbor, they didn’t let on.

  They sat. Robinson cracked a can of Full Throttle and sipped it slowly. Their main goal was to notice anything different – new people, new cars – and maybe catch a glimpse of the man himself. The photos they took were almost always of him at the grill. They had many, many pictures like that.

  “I wish we could get in the house right across the street,” Cristina said.

  “What, you don’t like parking with me?”

  Cristina caught another girl she didn’t know by sight. There were always girls at these things, sometimes more girls than men. Martinez brought them in to socialize, drink and eat with his boys. Sometimes they went home with them.

  “You know, we could just bust the whole lot of them for congregating,” Cristina said. “Book ’em and sort it out at the house.”

  “And then he’d never throw another party again.”

  Cristina sighed. She took more pictures.

  “I figure a dozen Aztecas up there tonight,” Robinson said after a while. “That sound right to you?”

  “Yeah. I see Acosta, Solis, Ochoa. A couple I don’t know. Might be new blood.”

  They watched as one of Martinez’s boys came down to the street with a girl hanging from his arm. The both of them were unsteady and it took two tries for the Azteca to get his key in the door of his car. When the car pulled away from the curb, its headlights washed over Cristina and Robinson. Cristina made a note of the license plate. “Call in a drunk driver,” she told Robinson. “We can put one of them in jail tonight.”

  She looked back to the party. A couple of the men were staring back.

  “Oh, shit,” Cristina said.

  “What?”

  “We’ve been made.”

  The pair came down to the street and advanced up the sidewalk, still carrying their beers. One of them called out, “What you doing? What you doing over there?”

  Cristina started the engine. The two of them were halfway across the street, blocking her way. One of the men threw his beer down in their path, casting up foam. “Get out of the car!” he yelled.

  She eased off the curb into the street, but the two didn’t move out of the way. The one who threw his beer slammed his hands down on the hood of the car. The other came around the driver’s side as Cristina put up the window. “Why don’t you get out of the car?” he said. “Huh? Get out of the car!”

  “Pendejo,” Cristina said under her breath. She put on some gas, and made to bump the man in front of the car. He skipped backward.

  His partner banged his open palm on the driver’s side window. Cristina ignored him. She goosed the gas pedal again and a second time the man in front gave way. There was just enough room to move. “Punch it,” Robinson said.

  Cristina accelerated and left the two men behind. They whipped past the party house, saw others watching, then made the far corner. Cristina made the turn without slowing and the tires squealed. Then they were gone.

  “That could have gone better,” Robinson said.

  “So much for using this car again.”

  “So much for using that spot again.”

  Cristina banged the heel of her palm on the steering wheel. “Fuck!”

  “Just breathe.”

  “I’m telling you, we just bust the whole lot of them.”

  “Another time.”

  A light turned red and Cristina slowed to a stop. “I’m so sick of this shit,” she said.

  “You and me both, but it’s one step at a time. You got some good shots?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then it wasn’t a total waste. Take us back to the house. We’ll pull the pictures, punch out and get home a little early tonight.”

  “We should bust ’em, Bob.”

  “I know.”

  The light turned green. They went.

  THIRTEEN

  FLIP SLEPT IN. IN COFFIELD IT WAS UP AT SIX o’clock after a lights out at ten the night before. No one was allowed to stay in their cell when it was time for chow. There was no snooze button. This morning when Flip stirred at the habitual hour he just turned over and put a pillow over his head.

  The heat from the sun hitting the sheets finally stirred him. He wandered to the bathroom, took a piss and had a shower. He brushed his teeth with the same toothbrush he used at Coffield; he’d brought it with him.

  It was windy outside. He could hear the gusts buffeting the walls of the house. His mother wasn’t home and he remembered she had a Saturday morning coffee klatch with some friends of hers. That hadn’t changed. Breakfast was cold cereal with milk and a glass of orange juice.

  He put on a sweatshirt, found his basketball in his closet and brought it out onto the driveway. First he dribbled a bit, just warming up, but then he took to shooting. He made standing shots at first, then lay-ups. He wasn’t tall enough or strong enough to spring for a dunk. The wind made long shots difficult.

  When he checked his watch it was about eleven. He thought about going inside, watching some TV, when he saw the blue car creeping up the street. The driver leaned over the steering wheel, peering at each house number. The car coasted to a stop in front of the house and the driver put it in park. The man put down the passenger side window and leaned over. “Hey,” he said, “are you Flip?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “My name’s Emilio. Come on over here.”

  Flip came down to the curb with his ball. If he had to, he could throw it in the guy’s face and run the other way. He measured things that way because that was how it was done inside: what can he do to me, what can I do to him?

  “You’re Flip? Flip Morales?”

  “Yeah, I’m Flip.”

  “There’s somebody who wants to meet you. Why don’t you come on with me?”

  “Who am I supposed to meet?”

  “Come on, don’t be dumb. I come from José. You know José?”

  “All right, give me a minute.”

  Flip brought the basketball inside and then locked up the house. He thought about leaving his mother a note, but he didn’t. When he came back to the car, Emilio unlocked the door for him. “Get
in,” he said.

  Emilio put the window back up. For some reason, he had the heater going, so it was hot and stuffy in the car. They pulled away from the curb and cruised to the end of the block before making a left-hand turn. Emilio seemed to know his way a little better now. “So you were inside?” he asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “How long?”

  “Four years.”

  Emilio looked sidelong at Flip and Flip tried to guess his age. He was younger than Flip and he had a wispy mustache that reminded Flip of a teenager. Emilio was tattooed on his arm, just below the cuff of his short-sleeved shirt, with the pattern of a beaded armband, Indian-style.

  “How was it? Inside, I mean.”

  “It was inside,” Flip replied. “It’s the same everywhere.”

  “I only got county jail time,” Emilio said. “That’s got to be different.”

  “I guess you’re right. Where are we going?”

  “You hungry?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Good.”

  They drove out of Flip’s neighborhood north until they were nearly out of Segundo Barrio, then made a sharp turn onto a street lined with businesses. Just past a used car lot was a taquería called El Cihualteco. Emilio pulled into the parking lot.

  The taquería had a big, open patio with wooden picnic tables lined up underneath a long awning. There were a few people eating already, men in work shirts and uniforms. Another man sat apart from them, his white-collared sky-blue shirt standing out. He looked up from his basket as they arrived, lifted a hand in greeting.

  Emilio pointed. “José,” he said.

  “I get out here?”

  “You get out here.”

  “How do I get back home?”

  “I’ll wait for you. Just see José.”

  Flip got out and crossed the gravel parking lot. The wind whipped at the fringe of the taquería’s awning and Flip saw a man in a green uniform grab his basket of food before it blew away.

  José Martinez smiled. “Flip! Come over and sit down!”

  José sat alone. Flip took the other side of the picnic table. Up close he could see that José was a young-looking thirties with just the merest touches of smile lines at the corners of his eyes. His goatee was closely barbered and his shirt pressed. He had chicken tacos in his basket.

  “It’s nice to meet you finally,” José said and he offered his hand. Flip shook it. “I heard good things. Do you want something to eat? Lunch is on me.”

  Flip took the offered ten-dollar bill and got up from the table. When he came back he had a basket of barbacoa tacos that oozed grease onto the wax paper. The man behind the counter drowned the tacos in cheese, diced tomatoes and shredded lettuce. The wind whipped the smell of them away, but the taste remained.

  José nodded his head as Flip ate. “Good? I love this place.”

  “It’s good,” Flip said around a mouthful.

  “Better than prison food for sure.”

  The two of them ate quietly. José licked his fingers when he was done and took a drink from a cup of soda. He waited for Flip to finish. “Get more if you want,” he said at last. “I don’t mind.”

  “That’s okay.”

  José nodded again. “All right, then. We can talk now.”

  Flip looked at José and waited. The wind gusted again and disturbed José’s hair. The man wore it a little long. Flip’s head was almost shaved.

  “I got the call on you,” José said. “They say you’re down for the cause. Is that so?”

  “I earned my huaraches.”

  “That’s what I heard. Stabbed a white boy?”

  Flip shrugged a little. “No one could say I did.”

  “I like that,” José said and showed his teeth. They were white and even. “You know how to keep your mouth shut. I know some guys, they’d be all about talking it up. ‘Yeah, I stuck him.’ You know what I’m saying?”

  “That’s a good way to go into the hole,” Flip said.

  “It’s fucking stupid is what it is,” José returned. “But you’re not stupid. You seen your PO yet?”

  “Not yet. I got a week before I have to report in.”

  “They’re gonna try to bust your balls.”

  “I can deal with it.”

  “You got a job lined up?”

  “Yeah. A guy my mother knows, he offered me work at a warehouse.”

  “What kind of warehouse?”

  “Place that ships groceries, I guess. I don’t know much about it.”

  José considered. “Good job?”

  “Part time. Pays something. That’s all my PO wants.”

  “Can’t live on your own on what a part-time job pays,” José said.

  “I got my mother’s place. My old room.”

  “That’ll do for now, but you got to have some spending money,” José said. “You come in under me, you’ll get some. Maybe enough to move you out of there, into your own apartment. I can’t make any guarantees, but you’ll do all right.”

  “What do I have to do for it?”

  José spread his hands just as another gust of wind hit the patio. The wax paper in his basket was whisked away, but he caught the basket before it could slip off the table. “Mierda,” he said. “I don’t like littering. Why don’t you take this back up to the guy, okay? And throw your stuff out. We don’t need paper flying all over the place.”

  Flip collected José’s basket and took both to the counter. He emptied his basket into the trash, then passed them to the man at the register. His tacos made him thirsty. He bought a Coke with the leftover money from the ten.

  When he sat down again, José was staring off at traffic going by. The man came back to him slowly, as if he were caught thinking. “That’s better,” he said. “Got to keep our city clean.”

  “I was asking you what I got to do for you,” Flip said.

  “Huh? Whatever needs doing, mi hermano. You’re down, right?”

  “I’m down.”

  “Then you got nothing to worry about. I got little pots all over the place and I got to keep my fingers in them. Whatever I can’t take care of myself, I get other people to do. Like Emilio. I need you picked up, he makes sure you’re picked up. He don’t ask no questions and when it comes time to spread the wealth around he gets something for his trouble.”

  Flip didn’t look at his watch, but he knew it was coming around to noon. New people were coming up to the counter to order and a small line formed. Cars started to slip into the parking lot. He glanced over and saw Emilio waiting behind the wheel, going nowhere. “I don’t got a driver’s license,” he said.

  “That’s okay. I can find something you can do.”

  “When do you want me to get started?”

  “Not so fast, okay. Let’s take our time. I want you to get to know my crew, introduce you around. I had a party at my place last night, we’re going clubbing tonight. You want to come?”

  “To a club?”

  “Sure. Do some dancing, have some drinks, meet some people. How’s that sound?”

  “Parole says I can’t.”

  “You always do what you’re told?”

  “All right.”

  José smiled and offered his knuckles for a bump. “Yeah, now we’re talking. It’s your welcome back party! Everybody will know you after tonight.”

  “Okay.”

  “Listen, it’s getting crowded here now. Why don’t you have Emilio take you back to your place? He’ll come back to get you around nine. You got clothes to dress up?”

  “Yeah, I got some.”

  “Look sharp. There’ll be ladies.”

  José stood up and Flip knew the interview was over. They shook hands again and José turned away without saying good-bye. He walked to a Lexus parked at the edge of the lot. Flip went back to Emilio.

  “Good?” Emilio asked when Flip got in.

  “Good.”

  “All right.”

  FOURTEEN

  CRISTINA MAD
E FREDDIE WEAR A HAT BECAUSE of the wind, but he took it off before they got to the park. The day was a little cool, and at least he didn’t take off his jacket, she reasoned, and that was a win. Freddie liked to run around in the dead of winter without gloves or even zipping up his coat. He would be frozen by the time he came inside and no matter how many times Cristina told him otherwise, he would do it again.

  They parked near the playground. Freddie got out before Cristina set the brake and dashed off toward the monkey bars. He had a strange, stiff-armed way of running, like a high-speed waddle, that set him apart from other kids even at a distance. There were a few already playing and she saw him approach them right away.

  It was good that he wasn’t afraid, but Cristina knew the way it would go. He would ask them to play and then he would insist they play the only game he knew: tag. The first time someone told him he was It, he would give up in frustration. If he was well-behaved, he would just retreat into himself. If not, he would lash out.

  Sometimes he would pretend to be inside an elevator and insist the other children stand with him, motionless, inside the invisible car as it went from floor to floor. That never lasted long. He did all the noises, the pings and chimes, and it was clear that the image was crystalline in his mind, but what he saw he could not communicate and even the most tolerant children got bored of it easily.

  Cristina found a bench and sat down. There were other mothers here with their kids, some making idle chatter with each other, but Cristina could not be one of them; she had to watch Freddie every minute in case he had a fit of rage, or if he fell and hurt himself. She couldn’t do that and hold a conversation at the same time.

  She first knew there was something wrong when Freddie was three years old. He could not speak, or at least he could only say a few words. Evaluation cost a lot of money, but she had a temporary diagnosis of Pervasive Developmental Disorder. That was good enough to get him into a county-provided early-childhood intervention program that expanded his vocabulary, though he was still slow at other things.

  They said he was smart and he played imaginatively. He communicated better after two years of intensive work and transitioned into special kindergarten. No one said he had autism, but the older he got, the more Cristina knew.