by Sam Hawken
The question and answer session was short. Rubio asked for Flip’s home address, his telephone numbers and for the license plate number of his car, if he had one. After that he took Flip down the hall to a room where a big machine with a glass plate on the top squatted, humming, beside a computer monitor.
His fingerprints were taken by rolling his fingers across the glass plate so the machine could pick them up. They displayed on the computer monitor. The whole process happened without ink. Rubio had some trouble with Flip’s right ring finger, but they got through it and went back to Rubio’s office.
The man had photographs tacked to a cloth-covered cork board on the wall. None of them were of children, like Flip would expect, but all of dogs. Sometimes Rubio was in the picture with them, sometimes the dogs were alone. One dog was a pit bull, the other a German Shepherd.
Rubio noticed him looking. “My dogs,” he said. “They’re my babies. You like dogs?”
“They’re okay. I don’t have one.”
“You should get one. Pet ownership is a good way to practice responsibility.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Well, maybe not. It’s not for everyone.”
Rubio then asked questions about Flip’s work. He got his supervisor’s name, the address of the warehouse, the telephone number there. Flip didn’t tell him that his supervisor was his mother’s boyfriend. Maybe that would work against him. “I’ll be calling to check up on you,” Rubio told Flip. “So if you start missing work, I’ll know.”
“I understand.”
“Now for the rest. You’ll find I’m a pretty relaxed guy and I won’t come down on you for little things. You stay out a little late or you take a sick day… these things happen. But part of the terms of your parole is that you stay clear of bars and clubs and you don’t have any contact with felons. You’re not allowed to possess a firearm. You have to submit to random drug testing and home inspections. If you fail a test, or if you violate your terms, I will put you back where you came from. I’ll do it in a heartbeat. You get me?”
“I get you.”
“All right, then. Let’s get the drug test over with so you can go home.” Rubio got a plastic jar and a sealing bag out of the deepest drawer at his desk. He handed the jar over. “There’s a temperature strip on the side, so if it’s not warm piss, I’ll know. Bathrooms are down the hall.”
Flip left the office and took the jar with him.
THREE
MATÍAS WATCHED THE AZTECA NAMED Ramón Ayala through one-way glass.
Ayala was just a kid, twenty years old, but a longtime member of Los Aztecas. According to the records Matías requested and received, Ayala had first gotten into Aztecas-related trouble when he was twelve years old. He had already served time in jail.
There was no mistaking his affiliation: both of his arms were sleeved with tattoos that told the story. On one side, a profusion of images associated with the ancient Aztecs. On the other side, guns and women and the number 21. Matías hadn’t yet had a look at the ink Ayala wore on his chest and back, but he was sure it would be more of the same.
Of the ten men they’d taken from the Azteca house in the raid led by Muñoz, two names had floated to the top consistently. Ramón Ayala’s was one of them. At this point Ayala had been kept up for forty-eight hours, denied anything but water and then given no access to the bathroom. Both Sosa and Galvan had visited him at regular intervals.
Matías could see it in Ayala’s eyes, though Ayala did not know anyone was watching. Desperation had its own particular look, a tightness in the facial muscles, a pallor of the skin that artificial light only made more pronounced. And Ayala was sweating heavily, such that the material of his shirt clung to his body.
He closed the shade and cut off the view, collected his things from the interview table behind him and left the room. Out in the hall he could hear jailhouse noise filtering down: snatches of shouts, clanging metal and the general din of many conversations happening at once, reflected off concrete.
At the next door he paused and made sure he was presentable, then he let himself in.
Ayala was hunched over the table. Up close Matías could see that perspiration had made it into his hair, matted it together. There was a bucket in the corner of the room. Maybe it wasn’t sweat at all. Matías had not watched Sosa and Galvan at work.
It was all theater, what Matías did. As he had done with all the interviewees up to this point, he made a careful show of laying out his notepad, his pen, his folder of paperwork. He knew he looked like Ayala’s polar opposite: clean and well-tailored and most of all rested. The illusion was that this could go on forever in an endless cycle and no one in authority would be bothered enough to even show a hair out of place.
Matías could smell the despair coming off Ayala. The young man reeked of urine and stale body odor. When he looked at Matías, he trembled in anticipation of the blow. It occurred to Matías that maybe they’d been too hard on this one, or maybe he was just letting sentiment obstruct his better judgment.
“Hello,” Matías said when he sat down.
“H-hello,” Ayala said.
“I don’t know if you smoke. Would you like to smoke?”
“I smoke.”
The pack came from inside Matías’ jacket. He slipped one cigarette free and offered it to Ayala. The man took it with his free hand. His lower lip was split and distended and Matías feared the cigarette would fall. Ayala barely kept the tip steady for Matías to light it.
Matías let Ayala smoke for a minute or two uninterrupted. The trembling was less pronounced now, but the air of distress didn’t leave the man.
“I think you know why I’m here,” Matías said at last.
Ayala exhaled smoke. “Someone snitched on me.”
“Yes.”
“And now I have to confess.”
“Yes.”
“How much do you have?”
“Five signed statements attesting to your role in the shooting of a half-dozen Salvadorans outside a social club. I could get more, but we’ve left the girls out of it for now. I’m sure you bragged to at least one of them.”
The tremor was back as Ayala took another drag. Matías let the smoke curlicue up between them, catch in the beam of the overhead light and dissipate at the ceiling. The smell of tobacco made Matías want a cigarette, too, but he had quit three years before and would not risk starting again.
“How much will I get?”
“Most likely? Life. If you’re willing to give me the names of the other shooters, then maybe concessions can be made. A better prison. Privileges. At the very least, you won’t have to go to prison alone.”
Ayala’s face screwed up and he rubbed at one black eye. “I was just doing what they told me to do.”
“You can give me the names of those who gave the orders. Then they can pay, too.”
A tear fell down Ayala’s cheek and Matías had to steel himself from wrinkling his nose in disgust. Men like Ayala did not deserve the luxury of tears. He wondered if there would be any tears at all if Sosa and Galvan had not made their case so strenuously.
“I’ll tell you whatever you want,” Ayala said.
Matías took up his pen. “You know, you’re very lucky this didn’t happen on the other side of the border. In the States they have the death penalty.”
“You still get my life.”
“But not fast enough, mi amigo. Not fast enough.”
FOUR
FLIP WORKED ALL WEEK AND ON FRIDAY HE was exhausted. Even working in the carpentry shop at Coffield had not been so demanding. All of his muscles hurt. He took a handful of ibuprofen and soaked himself in a hot shower for thirty minutes before collapsing on the bed for a nap.
His sleep was dreamless. A chiming sound intruded and when he opened his eyes it was after dark. On his bed-stand his phone was vibrating and ringing. He’d already missed two calls.
He answered. “Hello?”
“Flip?” A man’s voice.
>
Flip sat up in the dark. “Yes?”
“It’s José.”
“José, yeah. How did you get my number?”
“Everything’s easy to get.”
He rubbed his eyes and stifled a deep yawn that came up from his diaphragm. His mouth didn’t taste right. “What’s up? Is something happening?”
“Yeah, something’s happening: I’m having a get-together at my place. You want in?”
“What? Sure.”
“You don’t sound so sure.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I just woke up, is all.”
“Well get dressed and get over here.”
Flip turned on his bedside lamp. He checked the clock. He’d been asleep two hours. “I don’t know where you live. And I can’t drive.”
“I’ll send Emilio around to pick you up. Can you be ready in twenty minutes?”
“Yeah, I can be ready.”
“All right. See you soon.”
Flip put the phone down and went to the closet. He rummaged around for something to wear. They were not going clubbing, but he did not want to be disrespectful and just put on a t-shirt. He found a button-up shirt with narrow stripes that he hadn’t worn in a while, matched them with some jeans. Again he thought he needed to buy new sneakers. Maybe he would when his first paycheck came.
His mother was in the living room watching television with the light off. Flip leaned in and gave her a kiss on the head. “I’m going out,” he said.
“Where are you going this time?”
“A friend’s house.”
“Does your friend have a name?”
“José.”
“Is he good people?”
“Good enough.”
“I don’t want you hanging around with no hoodlums, Felipe!”
“Mamá, he’s not a hoodlum.”
“Don’t stay out all night.”
“I didn’t stay out all night before, did I? And turn on a light, Mamá; you’re going to ruin your eyes.”
“My eyes are fine. You stay out of trouble.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He waited out front of the house until he saw Emilio’s headlights make the corner at the end of the block. Overhead the sky was painted by city lights, with barely a star able to break through. In Coffield Enrique once told him that it was so dark on the yard at night that you could see every star in the sky all at once, but he didn’t tell Flip how he knew that.
Emilio wasn’t dressed up and Flip felt better. He got in and they drove off.
“What kind of party is this?” Flip asked.
“Just José and a few other people. Barbecue. Beer. Relax.”
They drove less than ten minutes before they reached a street of houses. Flip spotted José’s right away. It wasn’t bigger or grander than the houses around it, but it had orange party lights strung around a large patio that extended out into the space where a lawn would be. There were cars lining the street on both sides and when they drew close, Flip saw a crowd of people outside with red plastic cups in their hands, talking. Loud music drifted on the night air.
“I’m going to drop you off here and go park,” Emilio said. “See you later.”
Flip got out in front of the house and went up the driveway. The patio was surrounded by a little fence. Flip found the gate and came inside.
He thought he might recognize some of the faces here from his time at the club, but he couldn’t be sure. Adrift at the edge of the crowd, he cast around for José and finally spotted him through a gap in the press of bodies, working a large brick grill.
It took a minute to navigate the patio until Flip was close enough to tap José on the arm. Intense heat radiated from a mesquite fire. Meat spat on the grill. Jose wore a funny-looking white apron and brandished a pair of spring-loaded tongs in his hand. “Hey, Flip,” he said. “Glad you could make it!”
“It smells good,” Flip said.
“Thanks, man. I use my father’s recipe for the rub. You want chicken or beef?”
“Chicken’s fine.”
“Grab a plate there.” José put a dripping leg quarter of chicken on a paper plate for Flip and gestured with the tongs toward the house. “The door’s open. Get some beer inside.”
“Okay,” Flip said. “I’ll see you.”
“No, I’ll see you. Have fun. Meet some people.”
Flip made his way to the house. The front door stood open. There were more people in the living room talking, eating and drinking. A big flatscreen television was turned to a music channel with the volume down. A stereo pumped out the music everyone was listening to.
The house was not what Flip expected. The TV and the stereo looked expensive, but the furniture was simple and there were photographs of family on the wall along with a few pieces of art. Flip expected bigger, fancier, but the house looked as old as his mother’s house and had the same wrought iron bars on the windows.
He found the kitchen. The sink was filled with ice and bottles of beer stuck out of it, sweating condensation. A broad-mouthed punchbowl on the kitchen table served up a bright red mixture into plastic cups. Two bottles of tequila, almost empty, stood nearby. Flip chose beer.
It was hard to find a place to sit and eventually Flip went out the side door under the car park and put his plate on the roof of the parked Lexus. His chicken was hot and greasy and he licked his fingers to keep them clean. After that, the beer was the perfect complement.
A woman’s voice brought him around: “Flip?”
Graciela was dressed differently than she had been at the club. Gone were the form-fitting clothes, replaced with jeans and an off-the-shoulder top that exposed a bra strap. Her hair was let down.
“Hey,” Flip said. “Graciela. How are you?”
“I’ve been waiting all week for you to call me. Did you lose my number?”
Flip felt color in his face and took a swig of beer to cover. “No, I didn’t. I just started a job and I’ve been real busy. I’m sorry.”
Graciela raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you too busy to talk now?”
“No. It’s fine.”
“I was hoping you would call so we could go out,” Graciela said. “But if your job keeps you so busy…”
“It’s not that,” Flip said. “I start work real early and by the time I get home I’m done. They’ve been working me hard, you know? And my mother, she wants me to stay in. But I promise I’ll call you next week. Maybe we can get something to eat.”
“That would be nice. Where are you working?”
Flip told her and then he told her other things, like how Alfredo had given him the job and what he had to do all day. It was not exciting stuff, but she listened and Flip was grateful. He caught himself almost mentioning that he’d been in prison. He decided to shut up for a while. “How is school?” he asked.
“It’s good. At the school we get people who come in for manicures and we get to practice on them, but only when we’re good enough. The people don’t pay that much, but they want to have a professional nail job done, you know?”
“I’ve never had my nails done.”
“Maybe I can do yours sometime. Men get it done, too.”
“They do?”
“Sure. Men don’t like to get all painted up, but the rest is nice.”
“Okay, I’ll try it.”
“After you take me out,” Graciela said. “I don’t want you to think you can get a manicure for nothing.”
A silence started to fall between them and Flip thought quickly for some way to keep going. He did not want her walking away. “Listen,” he said, “José told me to meet some people. You know a lot of people here?”
“I know some. You want me to introduce you around?”
“Yeah. Just let me get another beer.”
“Get one for me.”
She led him through the crowd from kitchen to living room to patio, stopping here and there to introduce Flip to the people she found there. As he had at the club he tried hard to remember name
s and put them to faces, but he only had a moment or two to talk before Graciela whisked him away to the next group. From time to time Flip caught sight of José at the grill, cooking and talking and sometimes having a beer. They passed through his orbit once and then again and finally they were there.
José smiled when he saw them. “Flip! You met Graciela. She’s a good girl to know because she knows everybody.”
“I just found out,” Flip said.
“Graciela, are you making sure Flip has a good time?”
“What do you think?” Graciela said.
“I think you’re going to get Flip in trouble,” José said. He laughed and touched her on the back familiarly. Flip felt a pang of something, but he wouldn’t call it jealousy; he didn’t know what it was.
“I’m going to take Flip away now,” Graciela said.
“Good. You don’t want to stand here all night talking to me.”
Graciela took Flip by the hand and pulled him away from José, back toward the house. They entered through the front door, but she angled away from the kitchen and down an unlit hallway.
“Where are we going?” Flip asked.
Graciela put her finger to her lips.
They reached the end of the hall and turned left. Graciela found a door in the dark and opened it, tugged Flip to bring him along behind her. When he was inside, she pushed the door closed.
She stood on her toes and kissed him on the lips softly, then harder. He put his hands on her body, felt her slender waist and then her hips. He tasted her tongue.
There was a bed in the room and Graciela pushed Flip toward it until the mattress hit the back of his legs and he sat down. They kissed again. Her fingers were on the buttons of his shirt.
Flip helped her get his shirt off. She put her hands on his chest and eased him onto his back. They struggled together to climb farther onto the bed and then she was straddling him. Her top went up over her head. Flip’s eyes were growing used to the darkness and he saw her slender body hovering above him as she unhooked her bra. He touched her little breasts, the erect nipples. She leaned over him so he could take one into his mouth.