Authors: Don Winslow
“Take it—”
“
You
take it easy,” Ben says, jabbing Alex in the chest. “I thought you were the fucking Baja Cartel. I thought you offered protection. Well, it looks like you may be pretty good at snatching girls off the street, but when it comes to—”
“Enough.” This from Lado.
Ben shuts his mouth but shakes his head and walks ahead of him.
Nice day on Town Beach.
People in the water.
Sleek, tall, cut women playing volleyball. The muscles of their bare abs tight as drums.
The boys are out on the b-ball court. Middle-age gay men watch from the benches.
Sun shining on it all.
Another day in paradise.
Alex catches up with him. “You’re saying you had nothing to do with this.”
“I’m saying,” Ben, well, says, “that I’m going to have nothing to do with
you
if this keeps up. Deal or no deal, I’m not putting my people in harm’s way. You want my product, you guarantee our safety or I’m
shutting it down. And you can call the Queen and tell her that. Better yet, put me on the phone, I’ll tell her that.”
“I don’t think you want to do that, Ben,” Alex says. “Remember who—”
“Yeah, I remember,” Ben says, making a point to look at Lado. “And as for your fucking aspersions, your asinine accusations that we’re somehow in on this shit, fuck you and the goat you rode in on. I’m not putting up with any more of that, either.”
“You’ll put up with what we tell you to put up with,” Lado says.
“Just handle your own problems, okay?” Ben says. “Don’t worry about me. I’m taking care of business.”
He walks away.
Crosses the PCH and leaves them standing there.
Sal comes to Jesus.
Yeah, it’s a cheap joke, but what do you want, it’s his name.
They find Jesus where you always find him, in the parking lot behind the liquor store, next to the car wash, hanging with five other 94s, drinking beer and smoking a little
yerba
.
Eleven
AM
and they’re just out.
Three years now, Sal and Jumpy been trying to join the 94, but been shut out. Jesus told them it wasn’t like the old days—you lived in the barrio, you could get jumped in—now you have to bring something to the table,
m’ijo, ese.
You have to bring—what did Jesus call it? Assets.
“Hola, Jesus.”
Hola, hola, m’ijo
, all that.
Jesus is no kid anymore.
He’s twenty-three, and he’s spent eight of those twenty-three behind bars. Lucky not to have spent more, all the gangbanging he did. Him and the other 94s, defending their turf against the other Mexican gangs.
Cliché, stereotyped you’ve-seen-it-all-in-the-movies drive-by, eye-for-an-eye bullshit. By age twelve Jesus already had a sheet. Beat the fuck out of another kid, the judge looked at those unrepentant eyes (remorse? for
what
?) and sent him to the CYA in Vista, where the bigger boys made him jack them off and suck their dicks until he got more angry than scared and grabbed one of them by the hair and slammed his head into the concrete wall until it looked like a sloppy tagging.
Came out, got beat into the 94s (again, cliché, stereotyped you’ve-seen-it-all-in-the-movies), thirteen years old selling dope on the corner, fucking fourteen-year-old
chucha
on bare mattresses in crack houses, gets caught with the crack in his hand, don’t give up nobody and he’s back in CYA, but this time he
is
one of the bigger boys (got thick forearms, big hands, some weight on him) and it’s him who makes the smaller boys jerk him off, suck his cock, and he looks at them with those dead eyes and they do it, do what he says.
Out again, the gang wars are on, they just shoot the shit out of each other for drug turf, for revenge, for fucking nothing, he takes a bullet in a drive-by. Just hanging out on the front lawn, smoking
yerba
, drinking cerveza, getting ready to tip his
piton
into this sweet little piece when
bam
he feels this pain in his thigh and the piece is screaming but not like he likes her to and there’s blood running down his leg. He finishes his beer before he goes to the hospital.
When he goes out two weeks later, still with a cane, to get a little of his own back, he has his boys drive him past a house in the Los Treintes barrio, sticks his AK out the window, and lets loose. Gets a Treinte
but also gets a four-year-old
niña
on the rebound, but Jesus don’t care about that.
The
prole
don’t get him for that, but they’re laying for him because now he’s a
jefe
and they’re looking to put him away. He fucks up and gives them their shot, too. This
lambioso
takes a long look at his girl and Jesus just goes off and smashes the guy’s face and they put him away for six in the Q.
Except for the food and the lack of
chucha
, Jesus liked prison.
Pumping iron, hanging with the same boys he’d hang with on the corner, fighting the Aryans and the Zulus, blowing
yerba
, skin-popping, fucking punks, getting tatts. He killed two more men in the Q and they never got near him for it. No one was going to talk on Jesus. Ran the 94s, or what was left of them, from his cell. Ordered three more killings on the street and they got done, too.
Out again, back again to the 94s and found there wasn’t much left of them. A lot of them were dead, more in the joint, some were
craquedos
and junkies. The gangbanging thing was over,
finito.
And he ain’t that young anymore.
The years, they slide.
The people, they don’t.
The people, they grind and scrape and it shows.
Anyway, he did his time and now he’s out and now he’s back and they say the days of the gangs are over, we all killed each other off and there’s some truth in that but there’s some false in it, too. The gangs are coming back—like they say, good taste never goes out of style—but in a different way.
A serious way.
A business way.
Making money.
The prison counselors used to yap about “making good choices.” Make good choices when you get out so you don’t come back in.
Good choices.
So you can choose to kill for pride, for some silly-ass gang colors, for territory, for drug turf, or you can choose to kill for money.
Jesus chooses to kill for money.
Like the saying goes, “Do something that you love for a living, and you’ll never work a day in your life.”
“What can I do for you boys?” Jesus asks.
Jesus is the
jefe
of the 94s, got them a little
plaza
in DP, looking to move into the big Mexican hood in the SJC.
But the SJC is Treinte country, so Jesus looks elsewhere for support. Has made him the big hookup with a rep of El Azul himself, because everyone knows that he’s going to come out on top, and then Jesus looks to move up with the winner. Perform for El Azul, and when he takes over, he’ll give SJC to the 94.
Sal tries to play it strong. “It’s what we can do for each other.”
Jesus laughs. “
Bueno, m’ijo
, what can we do for each other?”
Sal turns and waves to Jumpy, who pulls the van up.
“I don’t do cars,” Jesus says.
Not worth the risk, not worth the aggra. You steal a car, you drive all the way down to Mexico, and then they rob you on the price.
“Look inside.”
Sal opens the passenger door and beckons.
“What you
niños
got in there,” Jesus smirks. “TV sets?”
Nooooo, not TV sets.
Assets.
Jesus whistles. “Where did you get this?”
Sal is pleased with the reaction. Not easy to impress Jesus. “Let’s just say we got it,” he says, pointing his first and index fingers like a
pistola
.
“I hope you dumped the hardware,” Jesus says.
Which is very good, because now they’re talking between men.
“Can you help us sell it?” Jumpy asks.
“For a taste,” Sal quickly adds.
Sure, Jesus answers. He can do that.
There has to be a good 200K in that van. Kick some of that up to El Azul and he gets his attention. He turns to one of his boys and says, “Get my cousins here some beers.”
Sal is happy.
Stands and drinks beer in the VIP Room.
Jesus goes to see a man he knows.
Who will be very happy to buy this merchandise at a good price.
Antonio Machado owns five taco stands in South Orange County, a good cash business to own, because he moves a lot more dope than chimichangas.
Jesus chose Señor Machado because the man has ties with El Azul. The
jefe
will get his kick-up, Jesus will make Machado look good and get favors in return, and they’ll all make a lot of money. Even better, Machado is happy to lowball his offer to Sal and Jumpy, then pay Jesus the real amount, which will cover his kick to both Machado and El Azul.
It’s good, smart business.
Would be, anyway, except—
Jesus lacks a vital piece of information.
Señor Machado has seen certain video clips. He’s had visits from Lado, who explained to him that he should know which side his tortilla is buttered on, and this El Azul business? Don’t lose your head over that.
The Queen lives,
Tio.
Long live the Queen.
And he’s also received, just this morning, an Amber Alert on a certain shipment of marijuana that suffered a misfortune: in no uncertain terms, our good friend Antonio, anyone who moves that
yerba
puts his own
cabeza
on the block. Anyone who sees or even hears about that
yerba
and doesn’t pick up a phone …
Machado picks up the phone.
Goes out in back of one of his stores, where the counter is busy with schoolchildren coming to visit the Mission, and he makes the call.
“You’re a good friend,” Lado says. “We knew we could count on you.”
Set up the sale.
Jesus squirms in the fishing net suspended from the beam.
“I’m going to ask you again,” Lado says. “Where did you get this
yerba
?”
“From those two,” Jesus says, pointing down to Sal and Jumpy, who sit propped against the wall.
“From those two
perritos
?” Hernan asks, jutting his chin toward the two boys, who sit in a pool of their own piss. “I don’t think so. Try
again.”
“I did!” It comes out as a whine.
Lado shakes his head and swings the bat. Big baseball fan, Lado. Thought at one point he might have a crack at the pros. A cup of coffee in Double A, maybe. Now he loves to go to Padres games. Gets there early to watch batting practice.
Jesus screams.
“That was a single,” Lado says. “This is going to be a double off the left field wall.”
He swings again.
Jumpy hears a bone break and starts to cry.
Again.
“You want a triple?” Lado says. “Tell me the truth. Tell me
enough
truth I might let you live.”
Jesus breaks down. “It was me, I did it.”
Lado, a little winded, leans on the bat. “Not alone, you didn’t. Who are you with?”
“The Nine-Four.”
“Never heard of them. What’s that?”
“My gang.”
“Your ‘gang,’” Lado says. “You little balls of shit couldn’t pull off a
tombe
like this. Who do you answer to?”
“The Baja Cartel.”
“
Pendejo, I’m
the Baja Cartel.”
“The other one.”
“What one?”
“El Azul.”
Lado nods. “And who with El Azul told you where to be and when?”
Jesus doesn’t have an answer.
He really doesn’t.
Not even when Lado hits a triple.
Not even when he hits a grand slam.
Jesus just spits out a lot of incoherent shit. This guy came to see him, he doesn’t know the guy’s name, the mystery man gave him the info about the dope run, suggested he should hit it, they’d split the profits …
“Do you know a man named Ben?” Lado asks. “Was it him?”
Jesus is happy for any suggestions. “Yes, that was it, Ben.”
“What did Ben look like?”
Wrong answers, wrong answers. Jesus can’t describe Ben, he can’t describe Chon.
Fregado
—useless.
“Would these know?” Lado asks, pointing to Sal and Jumpy.
Yes, Jesus tells him, they’d know.
Sal whimpers.
He can smell his own fear, his own filth.
Can’t stop his legs from shaking or the tears pouring out his eyes or the snot running out his nose.
Jesus’s moans have stopped.
He lies like a pile of dirty clothes.
Lado puts his pistol to Jumpy’s forehead and shoots, splattering pieces of Sal’s friend all over him. Then he turns to Sal and asks, “Do you really expect me to believe that you just found a van full of
yerba
parked in your barrio and you took it? Is that what you expect me to believe?”
“I don’t know.”
Lado puts the gun to his head.
The photo comes across Ben’s screen.
Three dead kids
With the legend—
“taking care of business.”
O sits on her bed and watches an episode of
The Bachelorette
on Hulu.
“I’m telling you,” Esteban says, “she’s going for the wrong guy. That boy there is a
player.
”
O disagrees. “I think he’s sweet, and vulnerable.”
Esteban don’t know what “vulnerable” means but he knows what a player is, and that boy in the hot tub there is a
player.
Maybe maybe, O thinks.
Men know men.
She and Esteban have formed a nice little relationship. He’s her new BFF. Sure, probably a case of Stockholm syndrome (O saw this thing on TV once about Patty Hearst), and he’s no Ashley, but he seems like a nice kid. So in
love
with his fiancée, OMG is the boy whipped. He tells O all about Lourdes and the baby, and she gives him sage, sisterly advice on how to treat a woman.