All Involved (8 page)

Apache hands the bullets to Fate and I watch him load the Glock full before he hands it to me. I squeeze it and the taped handle feels weird in my hand, grippy. Fate shows me where the safety is and how to click it off with my thumb, so I do.

There's all kinds of rules for how to do this. It's almost a list.

When I pop, I gotta count the rounds.

“Keeps you focused,” Fate says. “Keeps you from just squeezing till you're out.”

No cowboy shit. Close range is best.

Don't aim for the head first. Aim for the body. It's bigger.

Cluster for the heart. Finish in the head if you got time. If you're close.

When I'm done—when
it's
done—I drop the weapon. No excuses.

Apache will have my back then, and then we run, and then Fate has our backs, like a chain almost, and then we hit the car.

That's the plan cuz Fate says so.

I stare at the thing in my hands. It's the heaviest pistol I ever held, all black and shiny on top and white from its tape on the grip. And right then I think how some poor bastard is going to get his house raided tonight or tomorrow or whenever people quit rioting in the fucking streets and the sheriffs have time to figure out it was his gun used in a shooting. Soon enough anyway. Vikings always come.

If I do like I'm told and drop this shit in the grass or wherever and sheriffs find it and trace the serial number to find out it belongs to some guy legal, they'll go into his house at 4
A
.
M
. behind one of them battering rams and wake him up with a shotgun to his head, wake his kids up, his wife too, and they'll cuff him on the living room rug in front of his family like he's a murderer, but I don't feel bad. Hell no. Fuck that guy and his gun safe.

He'll get exonerated eventually. He'll go home right after. He'll be grateful and happy and free.

Not like Ernesto.

Maybe they haven't even zipped him up into his bag yet. Maybe he's not even at the morgue. Like, maybe he's still in the alley with my flannel on his face. That thought burns the worst.

But then Clever turns on the radio to KRLA and “I Wish It Would Rain” is playing. Fucking Temptations. That shit's not even fair.

Apache nudges me and opens his hands up. He's got a vial of liquid in one and a cigarette in the other.

“You need to get wet, Payasita?”

He's not looking at me. He's uncapping it, dipping just the cig tip, and closing the vial back up after.

He says it makes it easier.

Light stabs in through the window as we speed past streetlamps. I look at the tip, how it's stained and dark.

I say, “Makes what easier?”

He won't even look at me.

He just shrugs and says, “Everything.”

It's so dark and the party's so loud that nobody notices us take over the street outside: not Clever parking half a block down, not Apache getting out and crossing the street to post up at somebody's mailbox, and not Fate standing on the other side halfway in between.

I'm feeling hotter than if I was sitting on top of a bonfire when I get out the car but, goddamn, a little breeze kicking up on my face feels good. I wipe the back of one of my gloves up over my forehead and find out I'm sweating. Wow. I don't know why but that shit's funny to me all of a sudden.

Doesn't stay funny for long though, cuz it turns out Clever was right. In less than a minute we find the Ford Ranchero, the one with the trailer hitch. It's got a dent in its bumper.

I stare at that for a second wondering if my brother's head made that mark and how I feel about that, but I don't feel much of anything.
Apache told me that's the PCP. It numbs you right out, he said.

When I turn to the house, I'm thinking how it's late enough that whoever's gonna be at the party is already there. The street's real quiet except for music. And voices.

I hear people out back so instead of going through the house, I walk around and see if there's a fence or anything between me and it.

There isn't.

It's just a stretch of concrete that extends up from the driveway and guides me into a backyard. It's a good backyard. Half grass, half deck. A little roof of red-looking wood that extends off the house and over the patio. Under that, near the house, is Joker.

He's got a beer in his hand. One of his boys is behind him.

The other leans against the far side of the patio by the back fence, maybe fifteen feet away. He's rolling something in his hands.

I cross the grass toward Joker, ignoring people's looks.

Like, it's crazy how calm I feel when I think,
Oh, I'll just kill two, and walk to the other
. Whatever, you know? No big deal.

Cuz I don't really feel like waiting right now. I feel like shooting. For Ernesto.

Joker sees me and kind of bugs out. He gets a big smile on his face, like he's so happy to see me, like he's so fucking glad I came.

I can tell, and I like it, cuz it makes it so much better that this motherfucker doesn't realize I'm the angel of death.

“Hey, I thought you weren't coming,” he says, all enthusiastic. “Where's your cousin at? She here?”

I reach into my purse.

And I bring out Lorraine's lip gloss.

I do my lips up in front of him, all sexy, with my eyes on him. I think of doing it for Elena.

As I'm putting it back in, I wrap my hand around the Glock, around its tape.

I smile the sweetest smile I got at Joker, one of them I-been-thinking-about-you smiles.

And I say, “For Ernesto.”

When I whip the gun free, the top sight snags on the zipper. But only a moment. Less than a second.

That's when time slows down. It isn't bullshit.

It does happen.

Joker makes a face where his forehead gets bumpy and he opens his mouth like he's shocked as he tilts his head.

He turns too, looks away, toward the house.

I give it to him in the ear. Right below it.

That shit goes clean through his skull, puts a bunch of him on the people behind.

And that's good. I like that.

It makes sense cuz Ernesto didn't have his ear either when he got it. That's justice right there.

Joker's nearest homeboy starts ducking, reaching inside his jacket. He only gets his hand halfway in before I blast on him too.

The piece booms like a cannon in my palm, shakes my whole body.

Dude's chest opens up as he stumbles backward. He gets one more in the top of the head when I'm close, like,
blau
.

That's what it sounds like. A German word, kinda. That's what I think it sounds like.

I don't see people, not really. I see scrambling.

I see waves of clothes rippling and rolling back. Like I'm Moses. Like the motherfucking Red Sea's parting just for me.

I turn toward the fence as Joker's other boy is making a break.

I shoot and miss.

I shoot and hit a girl.

I shoot and hit him in the leg. He falls off the fence. And I laugh.

That's six,
I think.
Is that six?

I do the add-up, that mental math.

Yeah. That's six spent.

I think he screams, but I can't hear anything. My ears are ringing like crazy.

I'm standing over him saying, “For Ernesto.”

Halfway through him saying, “Who?” I blast.

I miss. From four feet away, I miss. The next one doesn't though.

It goes through his eye, out the back of his skull, and makes a hole in the bottom of the fence that's golf ball big and red. Real red.

That's kind of funny too.

But damn, I'm hot. Burning up. I need water bad.

I don't even feel my finger on the trigger, but I shoot him again in the collarbone. At least I think I do.

His chest doesn't explode or nothing, just shows a hole that turns red right away.

That's nine or it's ten.

The backyard is almost empty now. People are smashing through the sliding glass door into the house, and past them I see dudes trying to get out.

Dudes wanting to get at me.

Drop the gun,
I think.
Run.

So I do.

My foot slips in the grass and I go down in somebody's blood puddle. I don't know whose. I think that's funny too.

But I'm up fast and it's bad cuz a dude with a beard and a big fucking pistol is shoving through the door, lowering the thing at me.

I can't feel my feet. But they move. I'm sweating like I've been running for hours.

Out of nowhere, Apache's there, walking toward me, like magic. He's got the .357 and he opens up on the dude. And he must've got him cuz we're not getting followed anymore and he's pulling me, yanking me forward, saving me.

I look back and there's another body on the grass and two more guys coming out the house.

We turn the corner, hit the driveway, the sidewalk.

When Joker's homies turn the corner of the garage, Fate opens up with the shotgun. Shit's so loud it sounds like a plane crash. And I laugh.

It goes like that, like planned, cuz we're in the car and driving. But I don't know which way's which.

I feel thin like Kleenex. I want to laugh again. I want to tell the whole story of what it looked like, what it felt like.

And then I feel like I need to puke maybe.

“You got them motherfuckers?” Fate wants to know and I want to answer.

I can't. I try but my mouth won't work.

I never shot nobody before.

I mean, I shot plenty. Targets and birds and all that.

But I never shot no
body
before.

It's different.

“You got to fix up,” Fate says and yanks the rearview so he can see me. He stares at me hard. Nobody argues with that face. Never.

The car feels like it's moving faster than fast, but I know Clever's going the speed limit.

That was part of the plan too.

I nod.

I know I need to fix up.

But my arms don't move. They don't do what he wants. Or what I want.

Fate tells Apache, “Fucking do that shit.”

Apache lifts my arms up, smashes a hoodie down over my dress.

He swipes the makeup off my face with a cloth, pinches my earrings out, and mashes a ballcap down on my head before pulling the hood up.

They're looking for a girl shooter.

If they're looking. And even if they were, it wouldn't matter anyways. I don't look like that anymore. Not from outside.

But, shit, sheriffs sure ain't looking. They're all on TV. I laugh at that too.

I laugh at how they're busy in Florence, Watts, putting out Los Angeles's fucking fires tonight. You think they care if some all involved shit got handled in Lynwood? No way. They're prolly glad.
Glad they don't have to investigate. Glad they can just put on body armor and march into crowds instead.

I pick my pager up off the floor. I've got it in my hand. All's I can think about is
mi mamá
. All I can think about is her worried face.

And I feel the sadness fall on me like a blanket, making it so I can't breathe.

“Fate,” I say, and my voice's real small.

He's watching the road. “What?”

“How am I gonna tell her what happened?”

Fate doesn't get it at first. He looks at Apache but Apache's looking out the window, so Fate looks back at me.

He gets it then, but I can tell he doesn't have the answer when his mouth drops open in the rearview and stays like that.

We're on Imperial, cruising by the swap meet, when Fate says, “You tell your
madre
you did justice. That's what you fucking tell her.”

APRIL 29, 1992

7:12
P
.
M
.

I don't even know what Fate's fucking problem is. I only did what he would've done. Back in the day, he made his name doing what I did and way worse. He's all punishing me now cuz of what happened with me shooting up the front of that club, trying to check me or something by making me do his errands.

I been overseeing distribution for a year or more. I'm past this shit. Serious, pickups are for new booty motherfuckers like Oso. Truth is, he'd
been
doing them before Big Fate decided it was on me. Today he sees them riots going on TV and out of nowhere decides to send me out of town on a run. Sure, he says the right thing, like, “We're sending you cuz the cops are everywhere else,” but he knows me too well. He could see in my eyes how bad I wanted to get up in some shit. I mean, who couldn't use a new TV, right?

Only good thing about this trip, and I mean the
only
thing, is I get to drive Fate's car, this big old Chevy from the '70s. Swear to God, the engine on this thing, it just eats up the 10 Freeway. We
fly
east. It's Monterey Park, then El Monte, then West Covina before I even know my foot's on the gas.

Oh, but you know what though? There's all kinds of rules I gotta go by now. Cuz Fate fucking says so. Number one is lay off the sherm. Yeah, right. Number two, I always got to drive the speed limit. To that I'm like, try to make me, motherfucker. Number three, I'm not
supposed to bring nobody on my runs cuz I need to be better at being alone and reliable.

But how's he even gonna know what I do, so long as everything gets done? Besides, it ain't like I'm stupid enough to do any of that shit after I pick up. Well, except, I have to break the one about not bringing anybody, but it's not like it's that bad. Fate has at least met my homeboy Baseball, so I don't think he'd be mad if he ever found out. Not that he's going to though. I mean, I'm not telling. And Baseball isn't either.

It's obvious how he got his name. His head looks exactly like a baseball, like with stitching and everything, cuz his dad got in a bad car wreck when he was little and put him through the windshield. He ended up having half his scalp stapled onto the top of his head and his hair grows funny around that scar now. He's sensitive about it too. He wears a Los Doyers cap low, never takes it off.

Baseball's a fiend for stories. He's always wanting to hear about the club again, always wanting another detail or wondering how it felt for me to do what I did or some shit like that.

He says, “Did that dude really call your sister a
manflora
?”

I'm done talking about that shit, and I show him by sinking down into the seat a little more and rocking my wrist on top of the wheel. I don't even look at him, like to show him I'm above it, you know?

Besides, he's heard a thousand times how that dude said he was gonna rape my sister, Payasa, how he was gonna stick a knife up her pussy, and then, when he said my address, like my actual address, even the zip code and everything, I just lost my shit, man. Went out to the car and waited until he came out with his girl and I just let go. She got it. He didn't.

Oh well. Can't be a hundred percent all the time. No regrets in this crazy life. I knew they might come back on me though.

I started stashing guns in the house after that. Every room, man. Can't help but take that shit serious. I even keep
two
in the bathroom. Got one in the medicine cabinet, one under the sink. Something
ever happen to Lu, I'll go Rambo on that shit. Everybody knows I'm good for it. Hurt my family and you're done. I'll shoot you in church. I'll shoot your mom in her sleep. I don't give a fuck. The streets know it. Lil Mosco's not to be fucked with. How else you think I got my respect? They don't call you nothing if you sit home playing fucking Neo-Geo all day.

Baseball's trying to start the conversation again. “Hey, did you know the big homies put the word out on Manny Sanchez cuz of what happened way out in Norwalk?”

“Like, Elena's brother, Manny?” I know of him but I don't know him. “I fucking went to elementary with that girl. What's he go by now?”

“Lil Man.”

It's not ringing any bells. Swear to God, Baseball won't shut the fuck up about the big dogs. He idolizes them. What's that saying? Can't see the trees for the forest, or whatever? That's him. No idea about the big picture.

So I'm like, “Yeah, well, all them rumbles about a peace treaty is about making money, right?”

“It's about
raza,
man,” he says. “Being united. Being a fucking army.”

I take my hand off the wheel and steer with my knee for two seconds. That gives me the freedom to smack the back of his baseball-shaped head.

His eyes come up mad and I laugh in his face.

“You even know how stupid you sound right now? Real gangsters don't give a fuck about
raza
. They only care about money. Shit, it's what I would do if I was there. You would too. Say what you say to advance your goals. That's it. Get a dude to focus on something way in the distance and then put your fucking hand in his pocket. It's genius,
vato
.”

“I mean, like, maybe.” Baseball rubs the back of his head. “But getting a green light on you is fucking real, bro. Sometimes they put whole
varrios
on.”

“Why don't you tell me what happened with Manny already? Shit. Talking so much and never getting to a point!”

“Okay, so he did that one drive-by, killed that grandma on her porch by accident. How the fuck didn't you hear about that?”

I smash him with a look. “Shit, man, how did
you
hear about it? You ain't even involved yet and you spout more stories than a
veterano
.”

“I got ears.” He's kind of pouting and shit. “Everybody knows it.”

He gets quiet after that, not saying anything until we hit the outskirts of Riverside. That's when he finally says, “You ever worry they might put a light on you for that girl or what?”

“Never happen, fool.” But then I'm thinking about it. I'm wondering if they might. “Wasn't even a drive-by. That shit was a walk-up.”

“Raza's
raza,
man. Player or not, she was that. She was our people.”

I'm like, “She ain't our fucking people. Don't be stupid.”

But then I'm thinking, like,
was she?
I don't feel like talking no more, so I turn on the radio to keep him from responding but Art Laboe's nothing but static this far out. It's a shame too. This drive's perfect for them oldie sounds, but I put that new Kid Frost into the tape deck instead. Shit only came out like last week, so I don't know if it's no
Hispanic Causing Panic
yet, but it's good. I been listening to “Mi Vida Loca” on side 2 like nonstop since it came out.

Man, I never told nobody this, but I love the desert at night. I roll the window down just to see the stars and feel the wind, but a big rig goes by and I have to seal it up. Two exits later, I pull off the freeway, and we zigzag up onto a hill and cut through a giant batch of tract homes all built on a slant. Every one's two or three stories tall. They're houses with attics, you know? Every one with the same colors, like sand or wood or whatever, but nothing else. Pretty much the American dream if it wasn't for the hourlong commute both ways every day.

“Work in L.A.,” I say, “live way the fuck away.”

“
La neta.
” Baseball agrees with me cuz he knows it's the truth, and like that, we're friends again.

We stay that way through the front door, past the fake plants, and into the living room. There's a kitchen right next to it, separated by a little wall with stools up against it. My connect is standing in there, mixing a drink and looking all sexy and shit.

Through her thin silk robe, I can see a green-and-blue flowery bikini. She's white, forties-ish, all tan and hippied out with a red flower in her hair, but she's got good meat on her. Good thighs. Good ass. Tits to match. She's solid.

I didn't believe when she first told me, but she's actually a social worker. No shit, that's her job. Puts her in touch with the right kind of people, I guess. Her old man's up at Men's Central Jail in L.A., but she runs his business on the outside. I don't know her real name. Behind her back everybody I ever heard calls her Scarlet. I'm sure she knows and doesn't mind it.

The television's on loud and her son's sitting in front of it, leaning kind of hard toward the screen. It's on basketball for a second, then it's on news, and I blink and try to figure out which part is burning now, but then it's back on basketball. He's my age, maybe older. I can't tell. He's white like T-shirts and laundry, like he never goes outside. The skin under his eyes is all blue with veins.

“Hey,” I say to him.

“Hey,” he says back, not taking eyes off the screen.

I turn back to Scarlet and tell her, “This's my boy Baseball.”

She nods up at him after taking a sip. “Why do they call you that?”

I answer for him. “Cuz his
huevos
are bigger than baseballs.”

She gives me a you're-so-full-of-shit look, but I just shrug and then she looks curious. Scarlet will fuck anybody. She ain't particular. Which is exactly why I brought Baseball.

I owe him some money and he's never had any from a woman, so I figured it was an easy trade. Cuz, shit, you know I already hit it. It was okay. Would've been better if she wasn't smoking the whole time. Shit was gross, man. Kind of made her pussy taste sour too, if you wanna know the truth.

She comes out of the kitchen pantry with bags and we flow the exchange cuz we've already done it a few times before.

It goes through quick. I give her the envelope. She gives me two big brown grocery bags she packed special. I don't know what all's in there. Definitely sherm, coke, and heroin. Not sure what else. Maybe meth. Whatever Fate wants. I'm just the pickup man tonight.

I see Scarlet eyeing Baseball, so I don't bother thanking her. I know what's coming. Guess her son does too. I can already see him kind of cringing on the red couch. She shoots a look his way before opening her mouth.

“You said you would take out the trash—”

She doesn't even get to finish her sentence before he turns bright red and shouts, “Shut the fuck up, Mom!
God,
I heard you the first thirty-two times.”

He's not even looking at her. He's focused on the TV. But me? I'm dying inside, man. All mortified and shit. I'd
never
say that to my mom! Fucking white people are crazy, I swear.

“I haven't given you the tour,” Scarlet says to Baseball, but she's staring at her son, all mad. Her robe's already open. One of her bikini straps is down. She's pulling a cigarette out, turning, and guiding Baseball up the stairs. Takes a minute or two before she's moaning, but it's fast. That's just her speed, I guess.

The television's back on basketball. Lakers and Portland, looks like. The volume's getting cranked up too. I don't blame him. If my mom was a whore like that, I couldn't even stand to be in the same state, much less the same house. Shit. You know that's the truth.

I feel bad for him. I do. But when he gets up off the couch all quiet and goes to the door that leads to the garage and presses the garage door button and it raises, I'm thinking, like,
What the fuck? Is he letting in a dog or something?

I'm still wondering why someone would do that when that same door leading to the garage cracks open and three cops stealth in. Big dudes. Dudes with shotguns. They got vests that say LAPD all big on the front.
Damn
.

Man, there ain't shit I can do! They're on top of me so fast, putting my face in the fucking carpet, handcuffing my wrists too hard, and pulling me up on my knees. But that's when I'm wondering why the hell they didn't identify themselves as cops. Why they didn't shout.

On the television, the crowd's screaming. The clock's ticking down.

Right then, Scarlet's kid walks to the pantry. He opens it and shows the guys where the shit's hid at. He points at my bags too. And he makes damn sure to point upstairs and hold two fingers in the air. It hits me then.

This shit is a motherfucking
robbery
.

Behind me, somebody says, “You're on the
lista,
Little Fly.”

My lungs stop working. Hold up.
What?

When one of the dudes circles in front of me, I see tattoos on his neck, behind his ears too. He's bald and has a mustache, Bronson style. It's a sick feeling I get then, cuz these ain't cops.

These
ain't
cops.

And I feel extra stupid cuz I'm in Riverside and the LAPD vests
still
worked on me. It's not even the same fucking jurisdiction, homes!

“We'll pay you,” I say. “Whatever you want. We'll make it right.”

That makes them laugh, hands over their mouths, all quiet on purpose.

Above our heads, Scarlet moans and moans.

“All right, who did it then?” I try to wet my lips, but I'm dry and can't get up any spit. “Who set my ass up? I'm begging you, man! Tell me that much.”

Sure as shit looks like Scarlet didn't do it, and there's no fucking way this was her son's idea. I mean, if it wasn't, then there's only two choices and one of them is Fate. Fuck. That one hurts too much. But maybe it was Scarlet's old man, I think. There's sense to that one. Maybe he was just tired of her fucking around, and maybe she fucked up his money too. I got no idea how connected he is, how big he might be. I just can't shake the feeling this is some two-birds-one-stone shit.

In the game on TV, somebody takes a shot. It misses, but a teammate's there for a rebound. The crowd goes fucking crazy when it banks in. The whistle blows right after that as the other team calls time-out.