Magali took pleasure in having even the meager source of hot water, and had hand washed her T-shirts, hanging them on the outside clothes line to dry in the sunshine. She wore the same shirt as the day before, but the filth of it only made her blend in all the more.
Gongo was still shirtless, in the same khakis from the previous day, but there was a smile on his face that resonated with her. The hair-net on his head made her think he was on his way to work in some fast food restaurant, but she knew he didn’t work, at least not the kind that hurt the back and lined one’s pockets with scant wages. Magali stepped onto the concrete. Joker ran to her side to greet her, the spring in his step raising her hackles.
"What’s up?" she muttered, raising an eyebrow at the impromptu glee radiating from the neighborhood and especially from Joker’s squad of comrades.
"I got a plan for you, I think it’ll make you happy…Well, at least you won’t have to pawn off whatever it was you were gonna give away."
"Yeah?" she said noncommittally, eyeing the relaxed and contented posture of Gongo leaning on one of the numerous telephone poles that lined the street.
Joker’s voice lowered as he threw an arm around her shoulders as best he could, considering her height, but catching the grimace on her face, retrieved his arm. "It’s the first…you know what that means?"
First of the month held a special meaning. Welfare checks and food stamps came in the mail, and people lined up from the early hours of the day in front of check cashing places to get their bi-weekly hand out. It meant there would be extra food and extra weed for a few days--party day.
Magali nodded, crossing the street and taking a forty-ounce bottle of beer out of the hands of Blue; he didn’t protest.
Joker was ecstatic; if luck would see fit to bless him with a few extra dollars he would be high all day, and he intended to share the wealth with his new found friend. "My camaradas and me, well…we were talking, and since you have a cuete, we thought you might like coming along for a ride."
"A ride?" she asked, taking a long swallow. It tasted bitter, and it was her first drink of the day. She hoped Martina would call her for the promised cup of coffee.
"A hit, you know? People got money, we need some; it’s the perfect day. But we got to do it early before they spend it all."
Magali nodded in understanding. Someone would be a victim that day, more than just one, since she was almost positive that other groups had the same idea. "What they sell around here?"
"Huh?" Joker scratched his head, then understood once his mind wrapped around the question; he had already drunk too much. "Crack, weed, some smack here and there. Why?"
"Anyone wit’ your family?" she asked casually.
"All of them, camarada. Except one. He does the smack"
"Then we take him, tonight, after everyone spends their money."
"You can’t take him, homie. He’s got, like, two guys watching all the time."
"Just two?" she smiled. "That’s easy, bro’, you let me worry about that."
Gongo gave her a nod of respect. He was realizing, despite his machismo that the woman who stood before him was not a force to be taken lightly. Just then Martina shouted out her name, and Magali gave back the bottle, nodding a thank you, and strolled back to the house. The kitchen smelled of cooking bacon and grease. Miguelito sat in his highchair, smashing bits of cereal onto the tray that trapped him in his seat. Martina placed the mug before her as she sat at the table; it was the first time she had entered the house. The look and feel of it brought flashes of her former home, way back when her life was simple and dictated by sibling arguments and the care taking of an alcoholic mother. Martina went about her duties in the kitchen, apparently preparing what would become dinner later in the day. She took a sip of the cinnamon flavored coffee and milk. It warmed her insides and gave her a bit of life, though the mix with the beer threatened to make her unhappy afterward.
"So, where were you supposed to go this morning?" Martina threw out as she put her hands under streaming hot water and began washing dishes.
"A job. Under the highway. I thought I could get on a truck and get a daily wage somewhere."
Martina shook her head, sucking her teeth and slamming one of the dishes harder than she should have. "That work is hard, and it doesn’t pay much. You looking to stay off the books?"
"Something like that, yeah."
"Then you better put some meat on those bones. You look like you took a trip through hell and sweated half your weight away…You clean?"
Nosy, aren’t you? "Yeah, why?" Magali spoke into the mug, taking another sip, her hands cradling the warm ceramic.
"Your arm, ruca. Looks like you’ve been riding the horse."
Magali glanced at her forearm, the marks were still there: a badge of what she had done, or in her case, what had been done for her. "Long story…but that’s in the past." Magali inhaled deeply, clamping down on her jaw and then relaxing. "I don’t do that shit."
"Good. ‘Cause if you bring it around my family, I’ll kill you."
Ire, it rose easily, and Magali had to remind herself that here she was an unknown, and Martina was only giving her fair warning. Unnecessary, but fair. How would the young woman act if she knew a killer stalked outside her home, invited? Not only one that was cajoled or obligated into an occasional drive-by, but one that strode the streets of New York City taking death by the throat, striking terror in all by her mere presence, lashing out at will. She thought it best to keep quiet, and continued to drink her coffee.
Joker stomped in and slammed himself into one of the wooden chairs around the kitchen table. "Fucking cops are coming down the street."
"Watch your mouth in front of the baby, Joker." Martina barked.
"Sorry," he offered.
"So. You weren’t doin’ nothing, were you?" Magali asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Naw, it’s the injunction."
"Injunction?" she asked, taking another sip from her coffee.
"Court says we can’t hang out in groups of more than two."
Magali nodded, finishing her coffee and wishing for more, but knowing better than to ask. Such was the way when resources were limited. "What ever happened to the right to free assembly?"
"The what?" Joker queried.
"Never mind." Magali slid the mug away from her and, closing her eyes, leaned back into the chair. Federal law, federal rights didn’t reach far enough down into the pits she lived in. She could still feel the need for sleep, and was trying desperately to shrug it off when a bit of a Cheerio hit her squarely on the forehead. She opened one eye and turned it on the toddler, happy with his aim. "Good shot."
"Aye, sorry, Macha. He hasn’t learned any manners yet," Martina spat through her teeth.
"It’s alright. Maybe he’ll be a pitcher, or something."
That last statement got a laugh from the woman, and she cleaned up the scattered pieces of cereal from the highchair tray with a dishrag and wiped Miguelito’s mouth. Joker looked out the window, checking for the presence of any police officers, and smiled. With a wave of his hand, he invited Magali to join him, and they left the kitchen to sit in the shade of the porch. Some of the boys came over with a radio. It was loud, and they placed it on a high point so that the music pulsated into the street. They watched some cars drive by, wary as to whom the drivers were, always watching for the wrong car, the wrong color, and the open passenger side window with a gun protruding from it. Gongo shared a joint he had nearly crushed in his pocket, and they took modest pulls from it so as not to be greedy. Eventually, Martina set Miguelito loose on the lawn, and he abused the toys, using them for imaginary wars and chase scenes as he pumped his little finger on a toy gun, killing fancied enemies and mumbling words that could have been expletives.
Martina brought out a few bottles of beer, a plate filled with home cut and fried tortilla chips, and a mix of chopped tomatoes and cilantro to dip them in, with some cut jalapeños for good measure. Magali munched on the fried delicacies and listened to their conversation. It revolved around who was pregnant by whom, who was due for release, and the impact it would have on the community. Martina sat close to her, ruffling the short spikes of Magali’s hair now and then. "I could braid this for you, if you want." she would say, then continued with her version of the latest gossip. Magali considered it; she had thrown out the clippers with the rest of her dirty clothing, and was hard pressed to pay for her hair to be cut at a salon. Martina brought out a comb and a small bag of rubber bands and sat behind Magali on a higher step. She took her time, weaving and pulling the strands together, making lines of bleached blond and black roots into a twisted design across her scalp.
"This is gonna scar if you don’t take care of it," Martina said of her eyebrow piercing, and without notice, brought out a bottle of alcohol and a swab to clean the hoop with.
The boys joked about the custom paint job on an acquaintance’s truck, and the fucked up job someone had done on one letter in Gongo’s back tattoo. It grew warm, and Joker decided to spray the whole crowd with a hose; they all went running for cups and buckets to pay him back with. Martina hid, after she’d been soaked to the point that her bra showed through her T-shirt, then produced towels for everyone, while complaining about the amount of laundry she would have to take care of afterward. Miguelito ran around the yard, his sodden diaper sagging behind him and finally falling from his waist. They laughed, cooled by the water, quenched by the beer, mellowed by the joint, which was slowly wearing off. Whenever someone yelled "po-po," they would scatter, only to come together again when the coast was clear. Not once did they voice their annoyance at the procedure; it was simply the way it was. Magali, on the other hand, was reminded of the overseer in Uncle Tom’s Cabin.
The sun took its last bow and began to settle behind the distant rolling hills dotted with houses and low, square buildings. Martina went inside to finish the evening meal, dragging a sleepy Miguelito behind her. Concha and her cousin would be back soon, and it was her task to provide for them at night. Quietly, the boys dispersed. Gongo gave Magali a nod, and she stretched-- it would come soon, their foray into the dark, and then she would unleash Bajo Zero.
Back in her room, Magali held the gun in her hand, inspecting its chamber and cartridge, looking for flaws and flicking the safety on and off. She glared at the bruises on her arm and ran her fingers down the tight lines left by the braids Martina had patiently woven with her hair. The run was simple: go in, hit, and run with as much cash as was on hand; but as always, there was a myriad of things that could go wrong. Those who would run with her through the night were of limited experience, killers for subsistence not business. A robbery, out of all she had done, was new to her; but they were the cards dealt to her at the time, and she never shied away from a game. With the summoning knock on the door, the time to think was over. Now it came down to instinct and guts. She grabbed the ski mask Joker had given her from the bed and stood, heading to the door while tucking the gun into her waist. It was on.
They rode crowded into the backseat of an old Chevy, Magali’s knees pressed into the back of the front seat, and she pushed for shoulder room that just wasn’t available. Gongo drove, and she hated it, used to being the one behind the wheel, and the scene of the median rising before her flashed in her mind. The streets were dark, and the heat of the day lingered on them like smoke from a smoldering fire. When the car stopped, Magali searched the street for their target. He wore flashy clothing that made him stick out on the dreary street, a foolish move if ever Magali saw one. Gongo turned to face her, his face stone and eyes hard.
"So, what now, Chingona?"
Somehow she knew the insult was meant as a compliment. "That the guy?" she asked, tilting her head towards the strutting peacock she had spotted. Gongo nodded. "That the first look out?" Her questions were only to obtain confirmation. She knew from long experience who was who. Again, Gongo nodded. "Then, watch and learn, boys. I’ll take the lookouts. At my signal, you guys take the dealer and break."
"How do we know the signal?" Joker asked innocently, a shakiness in his voice that hadn’t been there before.
"Oh, you’ll know it," she said, smirking as she exited the car.
Magali held her knife behind her, strolling casually and mimicking the stride of a junkie. She’d seen it enough. The first lookout was young, and she would be uncomfortably close to him when it all went down. She was glad it wouldn’t be him she would kill when it was all over, as long as it all went as planned. He had the same dark hair, cut into the same Cesar that seemed to be protocol in the neighborhood. He took a small step back at her approach, but she caught him with one long arm and drew him into an embrace. Anyone looking would have thought they knew each other; but the embrace hid one critical detail-- the blade Magali was pressing upward against the young man’s crotch. She smiled, her face near his as if she were greeting a long lost friend.
"Call your second look, and do it nice. I could kick your voice up a few notches if this goes wrong. Understand?" she whispered to him, with a wild, happy leer.
He nodded and smiled back at her. It was a nervous grin, but it sufficed.
"Rene, look who’s out here!" he shouted over his shoulder and towards the house directly behind him. The dealer was paying attention to his recently arrived client--Joker; Magali grinned at the impromptu planning, thinking perhaps they would all get away alive.
Her gun was in her hand just as the top of the lookout’s head came into view through the window. The young man she held, cringed from the blast; but she shot true, and the lookout fell before he could get a full view of the street. Things moved quickly after that. Suddenly the dealer looked worried, not calm and collected as he had been when talking to Joker. He made a grab for his waist, and Magali didn’t need to know what it was he was going for. It could have been a comb, and it wouldn’t have changed her decision. The blade was quick and smooth as it slid into the young man’s thigh. Immobilizing him, she aimed her gun at the dealer, ready to pull the trigger in less than a breath’s span-- breathing took too long. Joker was on him wrestling him to the ground. The others materialized out of thin air and were holding the man down. They all wore their masks, except for her and Joker. It had been the last thing on her mind, and she was accustomed to showing her face for effect when she attacked. The dealer’s pockets were emptied, his watch and chain snatched as a last ditch effort to garner every dollar of possible wealth, and then they were running back into the car, speeding off with the screech of tires echoing behind them.
They were quiet--looking over their shoulders, scanning the streets they passed for a flash of light, the headlights of a following car, the beam of a helicopter. Nothing. All was still except for the speeding car and their breathing. Joker divided the money, two hundred dollars for each, and handed it out. Magali pocketed her share, patting her pocket and releasing what was left of her rage into the air in one deep exhaled breath. She had next week’s rent money and some change to live off of, but it wasn’t bringing her closer to Casey. On the contrary, she felt the distance between them growing. The clean world her Saint was living in was high above the sewer she trampled through. Magali made up her mind, that the next morning she would make her way to the highway, and there, for the first time ever, volunteer her body for another type of sacrifice-- what decent folk called work.
Concha was in the kitchen, drinking water from an orange, plastic cup; her cousin sat next to her, his hands dirty but eagerly holding onto a roll of food. Magali’s stomach grumbled, but she deemed herself not worthy enough to enter the house and be in the presence of those who sweated for their money in a way that could not be judged against them, no matter how insubstantial it was. Tired, she treaded to her room, dark and plain, a far cry from what she had labored for through years of selling off her humanity. She pulled the cord for the light and shielded her eyes from the momentary glare of the bulb before they became accustomed to the gleam. From her pocket, she retrieved the small bundle of money and threw it on the bed, staring at it as if it could somehow disappear and erase the night’s events. One man was dead, another wounded-- all for the stash of five and ten dollar bills lying on her bed. It helped no one but herself, not like the machine she had working back home where whole families survived from her efforts. This was self-preservation alone. Magali shrugged and lit a cigarette, hiding the money under the mattress as a knock and a "hello" in Martina’s voice intruded on her silence.
Her dark head poked in through the half open door, and she gave Magali a wide, bright smile. "I thought you could use something to eat."
"You don’t have to, Martina. Bring me food, that is."
"Don’t be stupid, Macha. There’s enough…" Her voice trailed off when she noticed the gun projecting from her waist, and she settled the plate of tortillas and refried beans on the bed. "You and the boys have fun tonight?" Her attitude was changing; Magali could sense it in her tone.
"It’s nothing. Thanks for the food." Magali responded, hiding the gun under her shirt.
Martina pursed her lips and turned to leave. "Sure."
"Hey, would you do me favor?" Magali called after her.
"What?"
"Would you wake me before your mom leaves? I need to get to that highway tomorrow."
Martina grinned and nodded, then wished her a "good-night," and left.
Light hadn’t yet shown itself when Martina came knocking, holding a long sleeved flannel shirt and a bandana folded over her arm, and an old wide-brimmed hat in her hand. Magali was awake before she entered the room, dressed and showered, waiting for the sun.
"Buenos dias, I thought you could use these. The shirt should fit you, my husband’s about your height, and the hat used to belong to my father. It’ll hide the marks on your arm. They won’t pick up a tecata, and with the hat they’ll think you’re a guy. Not much of a chance for a woman other than in fieldwork, and I doubt that’s what you want. Those places are hell-holes." She placed the shirt and hat on the bed and grinned. "Good luck."
"Thanks, for the shirt and the hat." But Martina was gone before the words left her lips.
A crowd of men vied for space on the narrow walk under the highway. Trucks were pulling up by the time Magali found the place, and workers were piling haphazardly into the beds, shoving and pulling at each other. She half expected a fight to break out at any time; the bus ride had annoyed her enough to join in one if it did. Shouldering her way in, she made it to the front of the curb. She didn’t want to be pushed onto just any truck, there was a particular one she had in mind; and she could see it at the end of the line. Concha’s cousin was up on a truck and giving a hand to a friend. He saw her and tilted his hat. She nodded back. He didn’t speak very much. Magali shoved back when the crowd pushed her forward, waiting for the right moment to hop up onto the black Ford that crept closer with every passing minute. The sun was still hiding, and in the dark it was hard to see who she was hurting with her strength, but they hurt back, and her sore ribs weren’t helping.
They do this every fuckin’ day?
With the wheels crunching broken glass under its treads, the truck she was waiting for finally pulled up. She thought she would have to kick her way to it, so many bodies were desperate to take a place and earn a wage for the day. The crowd had dissipated somewhat, and with one hand she hauled herself into the confines of the truck, a dozen men following suit. She pulled down the brim of her hat, hiding her face from the foreman who suddenly appeared to close them in. Everything went pitch black, and for the first time she noticed that there were no windows in the camper shell. She panicked, biting her lip and clawing at the smooth sides of the bed coated with dirt, her heart rising into her throat. She couldn’t breathe. The heat was stifling, and the desire to choke the men who were stealing her air shook her. Sweat beaded on her forehead and dripped down her neck. The truck was moving, but she couldn’t tell how long it had been. Magali hugged herself, grateful that the lightlessness kept the other men from seeing her weakness. Whenever the truck stopped she prayed for the doors to open, and when they finally did, she was on the brink of losing hope that they ever would.
Bright beams of light struck her eyes. The verdant green of the lawns outside blinded and confused her, but she forced her body to move and jump out of the truck. The foreman didn’t take a second look at her, and she followed the rest of the workers toward a white painted shed that could have fit three of her current living quarters inside of it. Air was different here, clean almost, despite the L.A smog that hovered overhead. Everywhere she looked, white walls gleamed against green. The house towered at the center of the property, overlooking it all with a majestic air. It was hot, but she didn’t dare roll up the sleeves of her shirt. She would have to endure it; it didn’t seem to bother anyone else. A worker tapped her on the shoulder and pointed to a row of hand pushed power mowers.
"Coje uno," he commanded, and she nodded, taking one of the machines and rolling it out of the shed. Outside, the foreman was yelling in Spanish, ordering and commanding, directing the workers to where they should spend the next few hours laboring. He pointed towards the back of the house and cursed in English. Magali pretended not to understand his speech, but headed to the area he had appointed her to. Ruthlessly the sun beat down on her as she moved, and once she pulled back on the cord and started the motor, she could have sworn she heard classical music playing somewhere. After awhile, the grass all looked the same to her, only lighter lines marked where she had passed over; and the smell was making her sneeze. A V-shaped stain of sweat darkened her shirt, front and back, and she was ready to kill for a drink, when a call went out to stop work for lunch. She hadn’t brought any with her, and instead chose a tree to sit under and smoke a cigarette. Half the day was gone, and with the work and the heat, she hadn’t had time to worry about seeing Casey. She wasn’t prepared to be caught wandering around the grounds.
Sure that no one was looking, she pulled off the hat and wiped her brow. Her hand came away wet with perspiration, and she fanned herself with the hat. The strain of pushing the mower for hours, non-stop, was making itself known between her shoulder blades, and she leaned her head against the trunk of the tree and breathed in what was presently the coolest air of the day. Hunger, it seemed was her constant companion lately. Eventually it would slink away, only to come back and taunt her at the most quiet of times. She gazed up at the leaves of the tree shading her; they were still, picturesque, as if she were looking at a photo shot by Ansel Adams. Something strange in them caught her attention, blue specks of glittering light, the reflection of water like what she had seen as a youngster swimming at the ‘Y’. Behind her, hidden by rows of tall, thick bushes and surrounded by Romanesque statues was a beautifully tiled pool. Magali could see through the narrow spaces between the branches of the foliage, its surface shimmering with light, its depths alluring, and could hear the faint melodic tones of a violin solo.
Crawling on her hands and knees she crept towards the greenery, gently pushing aside some of the leaves to get a better view. Paradise on earth, a fantastical mirage haunting a dehydrated traveler in the desert flooded her sight. A plastic bottle of tanning oil bounced with a dull thud just on the other side of where Magali knelt, and she drew back a fragment of an inch until what she swore was a celestial voice halted her retreat.
"Damn it."
Magali recognized the hand reaching for the oil as surely as if it were a part of her own body. She shuffled closer, taking a quick glance over her shoulder, and pushed more leaves out of her way. Only an arm’s length away lay her Saint, draped with the luminescence of the sun, shining with oil, tiny beads of sweat glistening on her skin. Sharp branches pricked her arm as she reached in through the bushes, her fingertips inches away from Casey’s shoulder, her heart hammering in her chest. She could speak if her voice hadn’t suddenly disappeared, or if her brain would function and form some coherent phrase. Casey moved, accommodating herself on the lounge chair and reaching for a tall glass of water sitting on a small table by her side. Magali felt the heat of her skin, and it only worsened her abrupt muteness. If only she could reach her, let her know she was near and that she wanted nothing more than to be with her. She reached out as far as she could without falling through the bush.
"Looking for something?" a gruff male voice proclaimed harshly.
Magali pulled her arm back, cursing to herself and pulling the hat back on before turning around.
"You come here to work or ogle at what’s way above you to have?"
She stood, sticking her hands in her pockets and lowering her head; it kept her from seeing who was speaking.
"No, speakie English? Cocina, trabajo, comprende? Come on."
It was possibly the worst imitation of Spanish she had ever heard, straight out of a bad movie featuring a bigot idiot. Magali nodded and followed him towards the house and the servant’s entrance that led to the kitchen. Concha was busy over a pot of boiling water, hastily throwing in sliced vegetables and condiments. Her apron, stained and partially covering the red dress she wore, looked ridiculous with its frilly shoulder straps, and Magali stifled a chuckle. Off in a corner a half dozen black garbage bags slumped, heavy with whatever the household servants had packed in them. The idiot pointed at them and mumbled a command Magali understood as "throw those out into the bin out back" as he left. She hadn’t taken a step when a painful twist to her ear bent her over. Concha was much shorter, and to hold on to Magali’s ear meant she would have to pull her down as well. Magali squeezed her hands closed, bridling her instinct to lash out; it was comical.
"Hijole, are you crazy?" Concha barked under her breath. "If the mistress catches you reaching for her young friend like that, you’ll be picking your nose with you elbow. Sagrada madre."
It was serious; the small plump woman was invoking the help of the virgin, and Magali had to bite her lip to keep herself from laughing in spite.
"I just dropped something, Concha. I swear," Magali managed to get out without snickering.
Concha released her ear and slapped the back of her head hard enough to make her hat drop to the floor. Bajo Zero was a killer, a drug dealer, and cruel to anything that crossed her path, but it was just plain bad karma to strike out at a mother. Magali stooped and picked up the hat.
"Well," Concha grinned with a shrug, "at least you’re working. But," she said pointing a finger at Magali’s chest as the tall woman stood, "you can’t mow lawns forever. You know anything about building?"
Magali raised her eyebrows in question, slapping the hat against her thigh and plunking it down on her head. "Building?"
"Yeah, you know, construcion? You did time, no?"
For the first time Magali felt shame in the admonishment, and lowering her eyes, nodded.
"Then you take up some job in there, no? I know they teach women strange things in la carcel. Building is one, right?"
Magali nodded once more. She had never had a grandmother, but she sure felt as though she were in her presence.
"Good. Then I have a better job for you than cutting grass. You have to pay my rent, you know?" Concha nodded, wiping her hands on her apron and returning to her pot. "You throw those bags out, like mister say. Then I send you to Adalverto."
Adalverto, it turned out, preferred others to call him Delbert. Stocky and wearing an immaculate white shirt, he walked as if he had spent his life riding horses. His thick hands, built for hard labor, were rough and scarred, his dark hair shone under the sunlight, and the thick mustache he obviously combed daily hid his upper lip. Delbert’s first words to her, after she introduced herself and gave him Concha’s message, were: "God damn those prisons teaching women a man’s job! I’m gonna end up with a pussy crew!" He was a fraction away from having to get dentures, when he put his hand on her shoulder and passed her a pick-ax. She scowled but he didn’t notice, his attention on one of the male workers who was taking a smoke break. From what Magali could surmise they were breaking ground for the foundation of a house-- a small one in comparison to the residence proper, most likely a guesthouse of some kind. It didn’t surprise her that they were doing it all by hand; the costs of machinery were high, and the noise would probably disturb the tranquility of the community. Better to have a few poor workers straining their backs while they ripped through the earth.
No longer needing to keep up pretenses, she stripped herself of the flannel shirt Martina had provided her and tied it around her waist. Wearing an old A-shirt she had found in a corner of her room, she let the sun hit her full force; by any measure, it was much cooler than wearing the shirt. Dirt would cover the marks on her arm. There were ten men working the hole in the ground that was slowly becoming a perfect square, and one other woman. Magali rolled her eyes. Some pussy crew. She joined them in the pit; squaring her shoulders and planting her feet, she swung the pick ax above her head and brought it down. Soil crumbled at her feet, her hands rang with the force of the strike, and her lower back screamed. She would regret it all in the morning. Something cold tapped against her arm. It was Delbert grinning at her as he offered her a bottle of water. She swallowed it all down without breathing, and handed it back empty. He wouldn’t return until the workday was over, and judging from the light, that was far from arriving.
Swing by agonizing swing the soil gave way, releasing as it fell its rich, musk fragrance that whispered to her of missionaries, farms, wars, and the distant cries of prospectors searching for their fortune in the dirt. Magali’s mental wanderings were an enigma to her, she wasn’t sure where the thoughts were coming from: perhaps something she had learned in elementary school or read in prison. Either way, they prevented her from thinking about Casey and the scent of her sun-warmed skin, and the burning soreness growing in her own back. She swung each strike with a purpose, bending to the task single-mindedly. When the others stopped she continued blindly, until Concha’s laughter broke her rhythm.
Magali glanced up to find a ring of workers looking down at her with bewilderment, and casually she threw the pick-ax up to lean on her shoulder.
"What?" she asked pointedly.
"You," Concha replied, directing one plump finger at her. "I sent you out here to build, not play in the dirt." She put her hands on her wide hips; her round belly shook with laughter. "I have to ride on the bus with you like that? You sit far away from me, okay, Macha? Ha! I’m a cook, not a pig farmer!"
Her laughter was infectious, and soon all the workers were joining in the guffaw, their faces wrinkled with mirth. Magali took a good look at herself; her clothes were stained brown and flecks of soil filled the pores of her skin, darkening the creases of her hands and arms; and the A-shirt she wore had changed color. A tender warmth filled her chest and she smiled, shrugging sheepishly. One of the men reached down to give her a hand up, and Magali had to force away her suspicious nature before grabbing onto it. Refusing would have been an insult to an expression of camaraderie.
Concha patted her on the back and swatted away some of the dirt. Magali almost expected the older woman to spit in her hand and wipe the grime away from her face. Thankfully she didn’t. Delbert ushered the workers away, but instead of leading them all back to the truck Magali had crowded into earlier, he led them to a less menacing Ford Explorer. Some of the men piled into an old Chevy, waving their good-byes and cheering the end of the day. Magali followed Concha into the Explorer, curling herself up to as small a length as she could. Everything was covered in plastic, and Magali had no doubt as to why that was. Except for Concha, they were all filthy.
Through the rear window she watched the residency grow distant, and stared at the pavement of the road as they moved out. Her hands felt rough, and sitting still brought home the full force of her exhaustion. She was asleep before they left the grounds. Concha woke her when they reached the bus stop where she had first seen the woman and her immigrant cousin, and where she had first met Joker. He didn’t show up, and Concha made a comment as they waited that he probably thought she was safe enough with his new ‘partner in crime.’ When her cousin, Avelino, didn’t appear, Magali learned the man had taken a job on a farm and wouldn’t be back for weeks. She filtered it all through her grogginess, directing most of her energy into surveillance of the area; the last thing she wanted was a fight. The bus was the same old vehicle she remembered. She took the three steps up, wary of anyone who might come running in after her, and sat at the end of the bus over Concha’s protests. The feisty older woman made it clear that only troublemakers sat there, with their backs to the wall, but to Magali it was the only way she knew to avoid trouble--and that meant being able to see it coming.
By the time they arrived at the house, it was late. After the bus trip they had to walk a ways, and Magali wanted only to take a shower and go to bed despite the gnawing hunger in her belly. She left a trail of soil stiffened clothing across the floor and squeezed into the small room that served as a bathroom. The ceiling was low, and she had to be careful not to knock herself unconscious as she showered. A hard stream of water came out, more like a hose than any gentle sprinkle, but she didn’t care as long as it washed away the filth of the day’s work; a puddle of weak mud formed around her feet. Magali tilted her head back and let the water run through her braids. Her back stung, but fatigue hampered her caring for it. She dried off with a towel she didn’t recall being there before, and trudged to the bed, falling on it and sprawling under the covers face down. Pushing her hand under the pillow she sought the familiar feel of her weapon, placed there out of habit and the vigilance she knew she would have to keep anywhere she found herself at. The cold metal warmed quickly under her hand, and she closed her eyes, calling from memory the feel of her Saint’s naked form near her, made more real by the sight of her by the pool earlier that day.
Magali was on her back with her arms stretched out and the gun aimed before the squeal of the opening door ended. Martina smiled at her, half her torso visible from behind the door, a small round jar in her hand.
"Don’t you ever knock?" Magali exasperated.
Martina shrugged and, closing the door behind her, ambled to the side of the bed, and sat on a corner. "I saw you come in. Hijole, I could see you glowing in the dark!"
"What are you talking about now?" Magali asked, turning over and pushing the gun back under the pillow. She jumped when Martina poked her back. "Yo!" she scolded slapping away Martina’s hand.
"Sunburn. Didn’t you wear the shirt I gave you? Or did you just throw it around?" Martina shook her head as she spotted the clothes lying on the floor.
"I got too hot. Did you want something, or did you just come to torture me?"
"Funny. No, I have some pieces of aloe, I thought I could get some of this goo on your back and shit. It’ll feel better…if you let me."
"Why?" Magali mumbled into her pillow.
"Just because. Shit, I gotta have a reason? You know what? You all are so damn suspicious, you know that? Cabrone, thugs…always thinking some shit or another—"
"Alright already…Fuck, you can put it on if you’ll just shut up and let me sleep."
"Then sleep, nobody’s stopping you," Martina snapped, opening the jar and squeezing on a small green spike.
Magali shook her head; her skin did feel too warm now that she thought about it. Then there were the stitches still in her side. They would have to be cut, and she would have to do it—in the morning. The slick sap Martina was gently applying to her back and shoulders soothed away the heat. There was no malice to the touch, no arousal, simply a helping hand—a faint childhood memory of what had been, cradling her. She tried to keep from slipping into the arms of Morpheus, but the comforting touch and the weariness of the day worked on her.
******************************************************************
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Casey watched a breeze rustle the curtains draped around the open glass door leading out to the veranda; it was warm and scented with the ripening fruit of a nearby orange tree. Julia hadn’t returned the previous night, and it was the first morning in as many weeks that she had awoken alone. As if she were a young child waking to stumble into the living room to watch Saturday morning cartoons, the end of her sleep began with a sense of purpose. There would be no servants shuffling through the corridors; no workers tending the landscape, no banging and scraping from the small construction site abruptly conceived and erected on the grounds; best of all there was no Julia, at least not for the time being. She bent to buckle the straps of her sandals, sucking her teeth in complaint. The soft linen of the blue trousers she wore rubbed against the skin of her thighs when she moved; she had grown unaccustomed to clothing.
Dressed, she felt suckered, without a place to go but wanting more than anything to be away from the house. The longer she sat within the confines of the stately residence, the more time she had to dwell in her thoughts and memories of brief moments spent in arms that comforted and secured her. Images of blue eyes surrendering a soul bound in rusted chains, its links forged out of the steel of pain and self-loathing, held suspended in time for her to gaze on in tormented longing. She checked her hair in the oblong mirror hanging above the bed, adjusted the straps of her white cotton tank top and frowned. Lying back onto the mattress, she curled onto her side. Tears came easily.
"Why so sad?"
Deep and soft, the voice surprised her, and she wiped at her face before sitting up. She hadn’t heard him come in, and although she didn’t recognize the voice, she couldn’t forget the eyes. The black dress pants and tight black silk T-shirt he wore threw her off. He was a fixture she was used to seeing wandering the house, working on small chores in the buff save for a choker around his neck. He never spoke to her, he wasn’t allowed to, and when he briefly caught her looking and turned his eyes on her, he frequently blushed.
"How’d you get in here? No one buzzed at the gate."
He shrugged. "I never left. But…I was about to, then I heard you moving around in here as I passed, I didn’t know anyone was home."
"Home’s a funny word," she replied, half under her breath.
"I don’t get it," he said stepping further into the room, his step cautious as if he were a misbehaving child.
"Get what?"
"I’ve seen you around, and whenever I do…you’ve got this look on your face like someone killed your dog or something. If you’re not happy here, why stay?"
"Good question. I’m not sure…Maybe, because I have nowhere else to go." She wished it was as simple as she made it, but facing the city that had brought her Black Velvet down wasn’t something she was up to, and leaving meant rebuilding everything Julia had effortlessly dismantled. Her job was gone, her matriculation transferred, and she had nowhere but her mother’s trailer to return to. There wasn’t a place she could hide where she wouldn’t eventually search for Magali’s face in the crowd, or listen for the pounding music that preceded her.
"So you don’t want to be here? It’s not your choice?"
"No, it is…My choice, that is; I just don’t want to be here."
He smiled and pushed back the short strands of black hair that fell across his forehead, and pointed at the space on the bed next to her. When she nodded he sat, crossing his legs with an ankle at a knee. "Daniel…name’s Daniel," he grinned.
"Casey," she smiled back.
"So…what do you want?"
It was Casey’s turn to shrug. "My life, I guess."
Daniel chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, me too."
Casey’s eyebrows shot up in question. Daniel’s smile deepened.
"Ah, I think…you and I…have a lot more in common than I thought. I heard Mistress talking about you attending UCLA Med. I’m there too, and I thought ‘Cool.’ Now…look, whatever is bothering you, shake it off. I mean, you’ve got to like this just a little, there’s no way you can fake that much, and well…juice it for all its worth. Get everything you can out of it…and enjoy it." His smirk was wild.
"You’re evil," she laughed.
"I try, but I did get you to smile. How about you join me today?"
"In what?"
Daniel stretched his arm towards her, offering her his hand, and shrugged. "We’ll make it up as we go?"
Cool and dark, the interior of the movie theatre recalled the feel of phantoms and the sounds of opera tenors with its old-world décor. The stadium seating made viewing the screen easy, its chairs fitted to mold the body into a lounging posture. Buttery popcorn perfumed the air-conditioned chill, a fragrance so much a part of the experience it would have been unreal without it. Immense and bright, the screen captured the eye, transporting all who looked on it through a celluloid gateway and into a world created for public consumption. Daniel held an oversized bucket of white kernels on his lap. He had foregone the oily butter as a conscious move to preserve one of his dearest assets—his body. He laughed at the events transpiring on the screen, sometimes nudging Casey with his elbow as if they shared some private joke. Casey sipped at the soda cup sweating in her hand; it was mostly ice, but after eating some of Daniel’s conservative treat, it was a welcome refreshment. They enjoyed the film together, neither taking much interest in the other, their focus on the movie, but content to have company all the same. Casey hadn’t left the house in weeks, and the outing made her think of how her Black Velvet may have felt at her release from prison, only to die soon after. She pushed the thoughts away, closing off that part of herself that was cloaked in mourning.
Sensing her change in mood Daniel threw his arm around her shoulders, gave her a squeeze and a goofy smile, and then returned to his popcorn. He stole a few sips from her drink between laughs, made interim remarks about the actors, and while the credits were rolling grabbed her hand and hauled her from the theatre.
"The day’s still young, we’d better not waste it," he cried with a gentle teasing as he dragged her behind him.
Daniel drove his red ’68 mustang with its top down for the sheer pleasure of feeling the wind. He covered his piercing blue eyes with black Calvin Klein shades so that he looked like a vampire out on a forbidden ride. Scorning L.A traffic, he wove around other cars who were "slow as cold molasses," a deep southern drawl coloring his speech. To Casey, his seeming lack of ulterior motives and zest for living eventually allowed her to let go and concentrate on the moment; for one brief drop in time, she could be free.
Universal Studios was packed with as many locals as tourists. Billboards announced upcoming attractions, promoted programs and lured consumers into specialty gift shops. Everywhere, overhead sprinklers sent out a fine cooling mist over the crowds lined up to wait their turn for rides and spectacles. Daniel wanted to do it all, going so far as renting a wheelchair to skip to the front of the line using the handicapped entrance to the attractions. Casey scolded him jokingly and chuckled at his conniving nature.
"You’re being very naughty, Daniel," she said shaking a finger at him.
"You are so right, and I should be punished," he retorted with a wink. "Oh, please make sure to tell Mistress."
She laughed; for a submissive punishment was half the fun, and she had no doubt Daniel was completely intent on enjoying his time on earth.
Night’s descent phased out some of the heat and began dispersing the mobs of young children that plagued the daylight hours. Casey sat on an old-fashioned wooden bench with her knees drawn up, watching parents walk by with sleeping young ones clutching their shoulders. A little one with tight blond curls and sunburned cheeks sucked its thumb and stared off sleepily from a stroller; Casey waved but received no response from the dazed toddler. Another stomped past lamenting the loss of a large swirl lollipop, her father’s patience wearing thin. Casey looked around for Daniel, who had left her at the bench holding his enormous dinosaur-headed soda mug, to chase an item he just had to get. What it was, he wouldn’t say; she spotted him leaving a souvenir booth.
His stride was all charm and grace, a perfect model of a body trained in control and movement; Julia did fine work. The dark shades he had worn were propped atop his head, revealing the intoxicating blue of his eyes and lending a beautiful partner to his mischievous grin. From a few feet away he tossed a small bundle at her; green legs flopped wildly through the air and plunked down on her lap in the form of a tiny cloth frog wearing a small gold crown.
"What’s this?" Casey asked tenderly, picking up the toy and holding it near her face for inspection under the flaxen lamplight.
"It’s a frog…And you’re in medical school?" he asked, feigning disbelief. Sitting down next to her he retrieved his mug and greedily drank down its sickly sweet contents.
"I know it’s a frog," she snapped, poking him in the ribs. "But what am I supposed to do with it?"
He faked shock, and let his jaw drop in mock exasperation. "Why, you kiss it, of course."
Casey arched her brow and pursed her lips, giving the stuffed animal a scrutinizing look of inspection. "And why would I want to do that?"
He took one last gulp from the mug and shrugged, an almost boyish expression gracing his fine features. "Maybe, if you do it right…the frog will turn into that prince, or rather in your case, the princess you’ve been missing."
"Queen." Casey’s eyes darkened and she bit onto her lower lip nodding. "How’d you know?"
"In those emerald eyes…who could mistake heartbreak?" Daniel paused brushing back dark strands of breeze ruffled hair from his face. "What happened?"
She heard his words drift to her, crowded by the sounds of carnival and the scents of amusement. By a red and blue wagon, advertising cotton candy, a small red-haired boy stood up on his toes, sniffing the sugar-sweetened air, a balloon hovering above him. The fringed canopy sheltering machine and vendor swayed; a mild wind blowing, rocking everything that was light with its tender force. Reaching for the billowing cloud of spun, baby blue sugar his mother held out to him, the boy let go of the shiny cord of silver in his plump little hand. The balloon fled upwards, spinning as it went. Its mosaic of metallic colors melded into one, while it disappeared into the night sky.
"Can we go now?" Casey whispered, looking on as the boy began to wail and the balloon sailed further away.
***************************************************************
She wasn’t sure how it had happened, Magali couldn’t remember the last time she had slept a day away—naturally, but when she finally opened her eyes and rolled over, the sun was setting and the air was cooling. A siren’s screaming echoed from somewhere close enough to make her heart race with adrenaline, and she waited an eternal second for the flashing of lights to crash through her window and color the walls. The sound faded, and was replaced by the raucous laughter of Miguelito in the yard, Concha’s cackle, Joker’s warning to the toddler to "Stop chasing it," and Martina’s shrieks of delight. Magali rubbed her eyes and stretched, then reached down to the floor and grabbed the pack of cigarettes she had left there next to the beer bottle that was currently her ashtray. There was one left and she lit it with the sense of finality that she always found at the end of a pack, part of the lasting tendrils of prison that had stuck with her through the years: enjoy every last one, there may not be another.
Swirls and streams of gray floated towards the ceiling from the cigarette. She blew into the changing pattern a cloud of her own, temporarily shattering the flow. Not really listening to the particularities of the banter from the yard, she let the totalities of it settle around her with a strange comfort--the sounds of a family at play. She feared moving and destroying it with her presence, felt her silent eavesdropping of it to be sacrilegious, undeserving. It hissed when she dropped it into the bottle, dying with one last plume of smoke among the other soaked and brown butts she had discarded. Her skin stung, but she knew it would have been worse if not for the careful ministrations of Martina the night before. Magali ignored the smarting the way she ignored everything else that hurt, with a sneer and a force of will. Neatly folded at the foot of the bed she found her jeans and a clean T-shirt. Although grateful for them, it bothered her that she had slept through an intrusion. She chastised herself for it while she pulled on the garments. Concha noticed her first, standing at the doorway of her lodging, barefoot and with tousled hair.
"Heh, look what the cat dragged out!" Concha laughed.
"That’s dragged in, Jefita," Martina corrected, strolling over to Magali and inspecting her shoulders. "Not bad, Vata. You’ll be fine. Hungry? The old lady made some huevos rancheros earlier, I thought you’d be up, but when I didn’t see you I kept them on the stove for you. Want them?"
Magali nodded, blinking at the sight of Miguelito desperately trying to catch a yellow-feathered chick. Running and dodging, the tiny ball of fluff dashed for its life, avoiding as best it could the boy’s sticky, dirty hands. Martina patted his head as he raced by her on her way back to the house, momentarily distracting him long enough for Joker to reach out and grab him.
"Hey, you. I said stop chasing it, you gonna kill it."
Miguelito squirmed, crying and punching at his young uncle’s chest to get back to his hunt. Magali scooped the chick up and held it in her hand. Miguelito stopped thrashing and stared at her with his big brown eyes. With the tip of her index finger she softly scratched the top of the chick’s head, clucking her tongue against the roof of her mouth as she did. The chick settled into her palm, exhausted from it plight and in need of the warmth. She took a seat next to Joker on the steps, Miguelito still and in awe, and offered the boy a view of the bird from her hand. Carefully, he leaned over, whispering some inaudible words to the chick as he did, trying to imitate the sounds Magali had made to it.
"Cuidado, Miguel. If you’re careful, it will stay in your hand, if not, it’ll run away. Okay?"
Slowly, he cupped his hands and held them out. The chick stirred as she deposited it in his hands, but kept sleeping. Quietly, Miguelito sat on the grass, holding the chick and watching it as it slept. Joker grinned at her and leant his elbows on his knees, darting his eyes between her and the boy.
"Wipe that fuckin’ smile off your face, Joker. I don’t want to scratch my knuckles against your teeth if I have to do it for you."
Joker cleared his throat and managed to put the smirk away, just in time to laugh out loud at Martina’s expression when she saw her son.
"How the—?" she started, then caught the furtively pointing finger of her brother directed at Magali and pursed her lips. "So, Macha, you like chicks? Ha!" Martina roared, handing her the plate and playfully pushing the back of her head.
"Very funny. Is it pick on me day or somethin’?"
"Well, you’re the one who slept all day. We gotta get something out of you, homie."
"Right."
Martina settled down next to her and handed her a fork. The eggs were cold, but Magali wouldn’t have complained even if she had wanted to. It was more than she had had for days. They were all quiet as she ate, both Joker and Martina marveling at the little form of Miguelito noiselessly sitting in the grass holding the chick. Concha was busy in the kitchen, cutting and preparing-- another day, another meal.
The slow progress of the car passing just barely in view stopped her breathing. A slight thrum in the air warned her, the hair on the nape of her neck stood on end; it was a rhythmic vibration she could feel down into her bones. The plate she held on her lap shattered in half when she dropped it and jumped for the boy, shielding his small body from the heated projectiles seething through the night, following the explosion of ignited gunpowder and hot metal. Time slowed, then sped up to a blur, leaving silence. Unarmed, she could do little else than curl her torso around Miguelito--who cried because the chick had escaped. A knot in her throat choked her as the familiar scent of blood poisoned the air. She shut her eyes wishing she could wake and find herself splayed across the lumpy mattress in the garage and start all over again. Martina was screaming, which could have been a good sign if it hadn’t been accompanied by Joker’s voice rising in a primal growl.
Just a few short steps away from the fence, staggering and slumped over, his white T-shirt and khakis darkening with a dark stream of thick blood, Shorty reached out for Joker. He was the youngest of the group and his stature fit his name-- small and thin, with the large hands and oversized feet preceding manhood. Pain and macho-calm took turns showing on his face. Joker was running to him, jumping the fence and grabbing onto him before he fell to the ground. Magali filled her lungs with the tense air, the darkness of death brooding over his work. The culprits were gone, but it was by no means over. She held Miguelito crying in her arms, and carried him over to a hysterical Martina. The effect that achieved was what she wanted; Martina cooled and focused on the life of her son instead of the carnage at her doorstep.
The street filled with people crying and running in all directions, shouting to the heavens in vengeance and hate. Shorty’s aunt, strangely tearless, knelt at his side in her nightdress, cradling his head and humming an old ballad as she rocked. Magali stepped into the war zone, the commanding step of Bajo Zero radiating through her the way the moon cut through the night sky. Shoulders pushed at her for a look at the boy becoming a corpse on the sidewalk. She watched the steady pumping of the fluid staining his garments, blood trickled from his mouth and nose; it would soon be over. He was drowning in his blood; his eyes showed the fear of suffocation and the desperate struggle to survive. Gongo stared at her, their eyes communicating a conversation more felt than heard, a fire shooting between them that bellowed with primitive instinct and wrath. He gave her a nod and took off. One last look to Joker, who couldn’t see her through his anger, and she was headed back to her room. At any minute the police would show up, ready to harass and pick up pieces.
Magali pulled the cord, turning on the bare bulb in the center of the room and went for the weapon hidden under her pillow, pulling it out and leaving it flat on the mattress. She couldn’t shake the barely averted images of a slain Joker, Martina, Concha or Miguelito from her mind’s eye. They burned in her as predictions, warnings of passivity; she’d give them a show that would turn their thoughts elsewhere, make them think twice about hitting her current residency. Out of the saddlebags hanging from her bike she searched for and retrieved the antler-handled knife she favored and threw it on the bed next to the gun, then she pulled on her boots. She was back out on the street and meeting Gongo at the corner as the yellow and red flashing lights of the police car came around.
Joker wrestled the uniforms away, getting a stern warning to stay out of their way, and glanced by chance at the figure of Magali getting into Gongo’s car. He ran for it, but Magali stopped him in his tracks with a look that would have frozen hell. He’d seen the stare before, on the night he had met her, and it had scared him just as much then as it did now.
Gongo was quiet as he drove. He wasn’t searching or looking for answers, he knew exactly where he was headed. His hands gripped the wheel of the old Chevy, eyes centered on the road ahead of him; he may as well have had blinders on. Magali recognized the streets they rode past; it was the neighborhood where she and Concha took the bus, and where she had first seen Joker. The snake had turned to bite back.
"There," Gongo snapped, and pointed to a corner where the car she had seen drive by was parked.
Magali watched them as they approached. They were already turning towards the car, ready to bolt out of its way. They had been expecting them…but not her. Their most morbid imaginings could not prepare them for Bajo Zero. "Stop the car."
"What? You’re crazy," he protested.
"I said stop the fucking car, Gongo. Let me show you how we do it back east…and stay the fuck down, or come with me, just leave the car running."
He rubbed his hands together and smiled. He liked her more with every passing second. "Alright, Camarada, you got them big. It’s a good day to die. A la madre," he whooped.
The smile was on her face as she opened the door. Her boots hit the tar-covered street securing the ground beneath her. She watched their faces, seeing the mixture of confusion and suspicion, all at once. Her knees hit the ground. Using the body of the car for cover, the pebbled tar of the street ground into her knees, and she let the first of the bullets from her only clip fly. They scattered. They hadn’t been ready, and she laughed deep down from her gut. None of them would die; she was aiming for their knees, hands, and shoulders. A few went down, crying in pain and praying for their lives. She was on them before their words reached heaven or hell, her knife in hand, Gongo following in pursuit. The work was quick, the sharpness of her blade holding true as she carved through ligaments and bone, severing fingers that pulled triggers and lit cocktails for fun. Beside her, a fragment of asphalt lifted at a "pop." With one hand still firmly clamped around her victim’s neck, she lifted a bloody hand and with a quick flick sent the knife hurling through the air and into the chest of her would-be shooter. His gun crashed to the ground and Gongo, leaving the bloody form he was kicking around the street, grabbed for it. Magali went for the man, her gun nearly slipping through her sanguine fingers as she held it up to his face.
"Eat me," she hissed, and pushed the gun through his lips with enough force to break the man’s front teeth. The trigger was fluid under her finger. Smooth and cleansing, she watched his eyes as they went dead; this had been Shorty’s killer. "That’s how you kill, sonofabitch," she said, spitting at him as she did. When his body hit the ground, she whistled for Gongo: the screams of his fallen comrades had brought out the shooter, retribution was taken tenfold. Gongo smiled. Blood splattered his face and stained his hands. The slaughtering was done, and the requisites of an unspoken law fulfilled, kill or be killed. They ran for the car.
Still hot, she let her head fall on the side of the car door, the hard wind hitting her face and cooling what was left of her rage. Streetlights formed puddles of light on the ground as they went, sliding through back streets and alleys leading back to their starting point. The houses were hands reaching for them, hiding them, and slapping them onward. She felt the grave coming for her--the blood drying on her shirt, crackling on her hands, overwhelming her sense of smell with its stench. Gongo cleared his throat. The car had come to a stop but her mind was yet racing, expecting another foray into her infernal throes of wrath.
Martina was on the porch, hugging Miguelito to her chest, a light from the living room spilling a bright square at her feet. She looked away from her as Magali approached, letting her eyes fall to the ground. Magali hung her head and walked back to the garage, her heart sinking, unfamiliar words catching in her throat. She had left the light on in the room. It seemed pale and cold to her, a solitary confinement of her own making. Magali ran the shower, sticking her hands under the stream and rubbing them to get the blood off. There was more of it than she had previously noticed--it stained her skin and crawled up her arms, turning the water pink. She pulled off her boots and stepped in under the stream. The warm flow coursed through her braids and down her neck, wetting her shirt and weighing down her jeans. She pressed her palms against the white plastic wall of the shower stall and let her head fall forward. The fury was leaving her, its farewell leaving behind an emptiness that wrenched at her guts with a loss that was excruciating.
Martina heard the shower’s burst of water through the garage’s thin walls as Magali turned the stream on, and half expected to hear the sounds of breaking glass and crashing objects being thrown against fragile walls. The coiled turbulence she had seen on Magali’s face was something she was unused to. Her husband often went on rides and came back in much the same state as he had left, fuming and inconsolable, his anger unassuaged. The garage door next to Gongo’s house opened, a black hole swallowing his car. She watched him strip off his shirt and close the clanking network of metal planks that served as a rolling door. Even at night his tattoo was distinguishable from afar, the muscles in his back moved the Saint as he moved. He never walked; it was always more of a stomp than a stride, a step that was all warning and hostility. He crossed the street the same way she had watched him do it thousands of times. She had known him since they were children, and many had wondered why it hadn’t been he that she had married. Gongo sat on a low step of the porch, resting his back against the railing and tilting his face up to the stars.
"That ruca’s nuts, Marti. I ain’t seen shit like I saw her do since I was away, and not even that bad then either. Fucking diablo on earth, homie. Fucking diablo."
"What the pinche’ are you talking about, Gongo. Chingon like you? How many times you been on a drive, eh?"
"Not like this, Camarada. This was no drive. That ruca put her ass on the line just to make a point. Scared me so bad I thought if I didn’t join her…I’d be next." He took out a cigarette and lit it, inhaling it quickly and desperately.
"You, Gongo? Scared? Get the fuck out of here." Miguelito stirred and she shushed him, rocking a bit and making sure he hadn’t awoken.
"Don’t spread it around, ruca."
"Yeah, your secret’s safe with me," she said unbelievingly.
"Not for nothing, but…Macha, yo…she’s got my back for life, camarada. What she did…that shit saved this hood a few bodies, maybe more. They won’t be coming back here ‘til they forget that shit, and that’s gonna be a long time, ruca. They don’t make cuete’s for finger-less motherfuckers."
"Finger-less?"
Gongo nodded. Pulling on his smoke and exhaling it, he spat on the ground. "She was high on that shit, Marti. Like a psycho. But I ain’t never seen someone get so sad after, like she regretted it or something."
"She cut off their fingers?"
He stared at her, as if she were hard of hearing, and sucked his teeth. "Yeah, ruca. Just got out of the car and snapped. Didn’t you hear me?"
"But why?"
He shrugged. "Maybe so they wouldn’t hit you, this house, anybody in it. She didn’t do it for Shorty, I can tell you that without even asking why."
"But they didn’t shoot—"
"Not this time, but maybe the next time. You know better than that, ruca. It’s not what’s already happened that pushes us. It’s the ‘maybe’, the ‘what could be.’ Can’t do nothing about Shorty except cry for him, and get some payback maybe. Just the future, ruca, that’s what counts. Can’t do nothing about a beat down except keep from getting beat again."
"Yeah, Gongo. The future, yeah, that’s what counts, vato. That’s what counts," she whispered, planting a small, quiet kiss on her son’s forehead. "You better go get washed up, Gongo. I’ll go see about the psycho."
"Alright, Marti, but…remember what I told you. On the way back, ruca, she looked like something was killing her from the inside. So be nice, Marti. I know how you get."
She swatted him away, coming to her feet carefully and entering the house to put her son in his crib. Her mother had long ago gone to bed. An early riser she went to sleep soon after sunset through habit. No matter what the circumstances were.
A clicking of the door brought Magali upright. The shadow crossing the floor made her clamp down on her jaw and breathe in relief when she recognized Martina’s form in the light, a passive look on her face.
"That’s the wrong way to wash clothes, Macha."
Magali had remained in the shower, her fingers numb with the cold water that had once been warm. She hadn’t noticed the change, so lost was she in her thoughts.
"Take them off, I’ll wash them for you," she said turning away as Magali lifted the sodden shirt off herself.
"Thanks. You alright?"
Martina nodded and took the clothing Magali handed off to her. "Just a little shook. I’ll get over it."
"Where’s Joker?"
"He went to the hospital with the other guys. He was pissed you didn’t take him with you. Thank you for that," she said twisting the clothes into a manageable knot. "He’s never gone you know, on a ride like that. I’m scared for the day he does. Miguelito will follow him, just like Joker’s following my husband and all the other vatos on this street."
Magali nodded, the water hitting her bare skin and warming her somewhat. "You could leave, get you and Miguelito out of here."
"And go where, Macha. How far you got, eh?"
"Nowhere. But you’re not in it, Marti. You can get out. The world won’t forgive me, but you…they ain’t got shit on you."
"What makes you so sure, eh?" she questioned, pulling aside the collar of her shirt to reveal a long scar down her collar. "We’re all unforgiven, Macha. Some of us are just excused."
The muscles of Magali’s jaw tightened. She had hoped that, of everyone, Martina had been unscathed. She should have known better.
"I brought you some fresh clothes, they’re my husband’s…The pants might be a little baggy, but the length will fit you, and I washed another one of those rags you call a T-shirt."
"You didn’t have to, you know?"
"Yeah, well. If you walk around naked in this neighborhood you’re gonna end up kill-- I…ah…you’ll just give some guys heart attacks that’s all. And the Jefita will have a coronary too, so…" Martina’s humor never failed her; she used it as cover, a shield and a comfort, like laughing at a funeral.
"Okay, I guess I’ll just have to wear some clothes then." It felt good to smile, even if it were just a small reprieve, and Magali dunked her head back under the water feeling not as alone as she had just a few minutes before.
"I’ll let you finish your shower. If you decide to go to the hospital let me know. I wanted to go but there was no room. Alright?"
"Yeah, sure," Magali mumbled from under the water. "I’ll let you know."
When she left Magali wriggled out of the shower, the space too small to give her much room for maneuvering. She found the clothes Martina had left for her on the bed, folded in the woman’s customary fashion. Magali reminded herself how short of a time she had spent with the family, and how easily they had taken her in. In one sense, it offered her a place long lost to her; in another, it only reminded her of what she could never have again. Before she let her emotions confuse her she hid them away. Better to deal with things in the mind then in the heart-- everything except for Casey. The deprivation of her Saint’s presence cut deeper with each passing day. The spark in her was fading, craving fuel it desperately needed from a source she wasn’t sure needed her as much. She seemed happy. Maybe she is.