America Libre (12 page)

“Taking time away from your work isn’t what worries me, Mano.”

Jo rose to her feet. “Right now, we don’t have any better options, Ramon. I know it’s a long shot, but I say we go for it.”

Mano sensed Ramon was losing face—and his resolve. “Ramon, you and Jo have done a lot of good things over the last few months,
things that have helped our people. They haven’t been easy, but you got them done. This won’t be easy either, but it’s something
we have to do.” It was the longest speech Jo or Ramon had ever heard Mano make.

As if on cue, the jackhammer started up again. Jo waited for it to stop before she spoke. “It seems like you’ve been thinking
about this plan for a while, Mano.”

“I’m the director of security for the DDP. I’ve got to earn my keep.”

“I get the feeling there’s something more than professional pride behind this, Mano,” Ramon observed. “Is this something personal?”

Mano’s eyes narrowed. “I’d like to meet the men who did these things—face to face,” he said, his voice nearly a growl. It
was the closest thing to anger Jo and Ramon had ever seen from him.

Ramon whistled softly. “If your plan works, I almost pity them.”

Lying awake in the darkness, Rosa heard the faint click of the deadbolt on the front door. She looked at the glowing dial
of the clock by the bed. It was 2:11 a.m. She followed the sounds of her husband’s movements through their apartment. When
Mano entered their bedroom, she turned on the lamp.

“You’re awake,” Mano whispered in surprise.

“How long is this going to last, Mano?” Rosa asked without rancor. “This is the third time this week you’ve missed dinner.
Each time, I made the children wait until nine to eat a cold meal. And now Pedro is following his father’s example—he’s started
hanging out on the street. It’s a constant battle to get him inside before dark.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

“You really think that’s going to help? You always said children need examples, not lectures.”

“Don’t do this, Rosa. You know I’ve got a lot of work to do right now.”

“I still don’t understand what kind of work needs to be done at a recycling company at two in the morning.”

Mano exhaled slowly, trying to stay calm. Preparing his trap for the vigilantes was taking longer than expected. Still, he
could not risk telling Rosa about the plan. The less she and the children knew, the less danger they were in. “Rosa, we’ve
been over this before,” he said evenly. “It’s not something I can talk about. You have to trust me.”

“I want to trust you, mi amor, but it’s a struggle. I try not to listen to the gossip. But when you bring home a fancy car
and then stay out late, night after night—”

“What do you mean, Rosa?” Mano interrupted. “What kind of gossip?”

“It’s foolishness. It’s nothing.”

Mano stroked his wife’s cheek tenderly. “Please, tell me what people are saying that’s bothering you, Rosita.”

“Well, Jorge Pujols, the cashier at the grocery store, told me Nana Jimenez is spreading gossip. She’s telling people she
saw you getting out of a classy new car driven by a beautiful blonde.”

Mano had not expected this. His attempt to prevent a misunderstanding now looked like something furtive. At the same time,
he could not deny the growing attraction he felt for Jo.

“Rosa, I want you to listen carefully. What Nana Jimenez said is true.”

“Que dices?”

“The woman she saw was Jo. She gave me a ride home from work a while back.”

Rosa was stunned. “You never told me that Jo was a beautiful blonde,” she said, wrapping the covers around her torso. Rosa
had always pictured Jo as one of those mannish women with close-cropped hair she’d seen once on a trip to Venice Beach.

“It never seemed important,” Mano said, knowing that was not completely true.

“What else have you been keeping from me, Mano?”

“I’ve told you everything that’s important.”

“Then tell me why you have to hide what you’re doing late at night.”

“I’m trying to protect you and the children.”

“How?”

“That’s all I can tell you.”

“But Mano…”

“Please, Rosa. Don’t ask me any more about this,” he said sternly and began to undress.

Rosa watched him silently from under the covers until he turned out the light and crawled into bed.

“Good night, querida,” Mano said, then kissed her passionlessly and turned away.

Rosa stared into the darkness. For weeks, she had been trying to suppress the notion that Mano might be seeing another woman.
Now, it seemed, her worst fears might be true. Mano had never lied to her, but it was impossible not to doubt him. Why else
would he need to keep secrets from her?

She probed her memory in desperation, trying to understand what had driven them apart. None of it made sense. Mano finally
had a job; they had a little money. Things should be better, not worse. Yet when Mano had been out of work, they’d pulled
together, giving each other hope and strength.

Looking back, it seemed the troubles in her family had started with the turmoil in the barrios. She’d tried to ignore the
world outside, to keep her home normal and safe. It was useless. Pedro was on his way to becoming another cholo hanging out
in the streets—and Julio would follow him before long. Worst of all, the rioting had brought
that woman
into their lives. Josefina had money, an education, and now it seemed she was beautiful as well. But that wasn’t enough.
It seemed she wanted Mano, too.

Rosa wasn’t sure how, but she had to find a way to protect her family from this woman. Tomorrow she would place fresh offerings
on her shrine to Our Lady and pray for guidance. She would not give up her husband without a fight.

Keith Sawyer was wringing out a fetid mop when the bright yellow poster on the bulletin board caught his eye. After a second
look, the school janitor recognized the familiar face on the placard and pushed his wheeled bucket closer toward the wall.
The brightly printed poster read:

Benefit Performance for La Defensa
del Pueblo of Los Angeles
featuring

TOMAS CRUZ!

Time: 8:30–10:00 p.m. Saturday, January 12

Place: El Lobo Club—112 Agnes Street

“Stupid, flashy-assed greaser. What’s he up to anyway?” Sawyer muttered to himself—a habit he had acquired after sixteen years
as a night janitor at Cesar Chavez High School. Like almost everyone on the planet, Sawyer knew that Cruz was a Latino pop
singer who had made it big in Hollywood, but he was surprised that a big star like Cruz would appear at a small local club
in East Los Angeles. Most of all, it infuriated him that Cruz was doing it to help La Defensa del Pueblo—a group Sawyer considered
the lowest kind of traitors.

The paunchy janitor fumed as he imagined the crowds of drooling chicas Cruz would attract. Then an idea surfaced in Sawyer’s
mind. Maybe there was a way to fix the smart-ass beaner—and his good-for-nothing fans, too. Walking briskly down the empty
halls, Sawyer entered the janitor’s room, fished a number from his wallet, and dialed his ancient cell phone, grinning in
satisfaction as the line rang.

“Hello?” answered a man’s voice.

“I’ve got news on a little shindig coming up here in greaser land that you might want to know about.”

“There they are,” Ramon said, tilting his head toward a group of vatos nearly a hundred meters away. “Nesto is the shortest
one.”

Across the litter-strewn length of Belvedere Park, Mano saw the outlines of six young men slouching on a row of benches under
the glare of the streetlights.

Walking toward the group, Mano was again pleased by Ramon’s change of heart. After initially opposing the proposed move against
the vigilantes, Ramon had arranged tonight’s meeting to prepare for the ambush.

“Y que, Nesto?” Ramon said to the mero as he and Mano approached the group, their sullen postures matched by menacing stares.

“Y que?” the slender gang leader answered, staring past Ramon with a look of indifference. The greeting was the latest insider’s
idiom in the ever-changing slang of L.A.’s gangbangers.

Ramon nodded in respect. “As I told your runner, we have some business to discuss. Podemos charlar un poco?”

Nesto pointed with his chin toward the center of the park and sauntered in that direction, Mano and Ramon in tow. After a
dozen paces, Nesto stopped, just far enough to be out of earshot from his vatos, but near enough to remain within their protection.

“So what’s up, ese?” the mero asked Ramon.

“Well, my young friend, we need weapons and some men for a job next week.”

Nesto stared at Ramon, his head cocked insolently. “Keep talking.”

“We want six men—four with AKs, two with RPGs.”

Nesto scratched his chin. “Fifty Gs,” he said after a moment. “Twenty-five up front.”

“That’s agreeable,” Ramon answered quickly. “Send a runner over tomorrow for the money.”

“Small bills this time, ese—small bills. You got it?”

“I understand, Nesto. Now let’s discuss the details. This is Manolo Suarez,” Ramon said, gesturing toward Mano. “He’s the
mastermind behind our plan.”

For the next hour, Mano outlined his plan to the gang leader. In spite of the mero’s impudent façade, he caught on quickly.

“Then we’re set for next Saturday,” Ramon concluded. “Send a runner if you have any questions, Nesto.”

“Hey, it’s cool, man. Just be sure you bring the rest of the money,” Nesto called over his shoulder, swaggering away.

Once outside the park, Mano could no longer contain his curiosity. “AK-47s… rocket-propelled grenades… where does an L.A.
street gang get that kind of firepower, Ramon?”

“The members of El Farol are sons of refugees from El Salvador. Many of their parents were leftist sympathizers who came here
fleeing the death squads. The insurgents in El Salvador were supplied with Russian weapons by Cuba and Nicaragua—when they
were still socialists. Many of those weapons are still floating around in El Salvador. That’s Nesto’s weapons pipeline.”

A revolution is like a hand grenade. Once the pin is pulled, it must be thrown. There is no turning back.

—José Antonio Marcha, 1982
Translated by J. M. Herrera

M
ano walked across the rooftop, the stiff fabric of his new black fatigues hissing rhythmically with each step. Near the center
of the building, he met Nesto. “Are we ready?” he asked.

“Everything is set, man,” the mero said, nonchalantly flicking the remnants of a cigarette into the darkness.

“Let’s take a look,” Mano said, walking toward the orange glow of the streetlights at the edge of the roof. Shrugging in disgust,
Nesto followed.

The building below them had once been occupied by a collection of retail shops and offices that lined the south side of Agnes
Street. The block-long structure was now empty and gutted, its tenants driven away by the rioting.

Mano scanned the two-lane street below: an urban canyon formed by an unbroken row of two-story buildings hugging both sides
of the sidewalk. He was glad to see the street deserted.