America Libre (5 page)

A mild chime rang as Mano opened the door and stepped slowly into the dimly lit shop, the air pungent with the smell of moldy
books.

“Buenos días, señor,” said a voice from the darkness.

As Mano’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw a man behind a counter at the back of the room. The shopkeeper looked well over
sixty, his gray hair pulled back into a ponytail. The man’s high cheekbones and bronze skin revealed a blend of Spanish and
Native American ancestors.

So this is Joe Herrera
, Mano thought as he walked forward and extended his hand over the counter. Though his own beefy grip engulfed the smaller
man’s hand, he found the shopkeeper’s handshake surprisingly firm.

“Hello, sir. I’m Manolo Suarez.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Suarez?” the older man said in perfect English.

“Father Johnson sent me. He said you might have a job available, but he wasn’t very clear about what kind of job it might
be.”

“Father Johnson has sent people to us before. They’re usually looking for answers they can’t find in a church. Are you one
of those people?”

“I’m not looking for answers, sir. I’m looking for a job.”

“You’re also a man who comes right to the point, I see,” he said, breaking into a smile.

“Yes, sir. And right now I’m wondering what kind of job a mechanic would find in a bookstore.”

“Well, let’s start by finding out more about you. We should have our employment applications around here somewhere,” he said,
crouching behind the counter. “Ah, here they are.”

The application was far simpler than any of the hundreds Mano had seen over the last six months. He stood at the counter and
quickly completed the form.

“I’ll take your application into the office and have it processed,” the older man said, carrying the sheet toward the steel
door behind the counter. “Our decision won’t take long. If you’d like to wait, you’re welcome to sit down,” he said, gesturing
toward a pair of upholstered chairs in the corner of the shop.

“You mean I’ll know today if you’re hiring me?”

“Yes, that’s very likely.”

“Then I’ll be glad to wait. Thank you, sir.”

Too excited to sit, Mano began wandering around the room. With the exception of those crowding the front window, the books
in the room were carefully arranged, their subjects neatly labeled along the edges of the shelves. African-American Studies.
Aromatherapy. Astrology. To Mano, the subjects seemed out of place for a barrio bookstore. Then again,
any
bookstore was rare in East Los Angeles. Except for the large number of titles in Spanish, he would have expected to see a
store like this in Venice Beach.

The books in the room did not hold his attention. He’d never had much time for reading, but he did have an eye for detail.
It didn’t take Mano long to realize that from where he stood, there was an eye-level gap in the clutter of books along the
front window. The space provided a view of the eastern approach to the store.
Is this intentional?
he wondered. He ambled along the pile of books and, at about three paces from the front door, he saw another gap with a view
toward the west.
Is there a purpose for these peepholes?

Before he could explore this mystery further, Mano heard the steel door open behind him. Emerging from the office was a tall
woman with long honey-blonde hair. Even across the shadowy room, Mano could see her ice-blue eyes. She appeared to be in her
early thirties, with a complexion and features he would have expected to see in Beverly Hills instead of East Los Angeles.
Despite a drab T-shirt, faded jeans, and spare makeup, her raw beauty would have turned any man’s head.

“Buenos días, Señor Suárez. Bienvenido a nuestra tienda,” the woman said. Although Mano spoke only a handful of words in Spanish,
he’d grown up hearing it and knew immediately Spanish was her native tongue.

“Hello, ma’am,” Mano replied. “As I told Mr. Herrera—”

“I’m sorry. There’s no Mr. Herrera here,” the woman interrupted in flawless English.

“But I’m certain Father Johnson told me to come see Joe Herrera… at the Cielo Azul Bookstore.”

“Yes, he did. I’m Jo Herrera…
Josefina
,” she said, pronouncing her first name—
Ho-say-FEE-nah
—with its Spanish inflection.

“I’m sorry. I meant no disrespect, ma’am.”

“It’s OK—you’re not the first.”

“When Father Johnson said ‘Joe Herrera,’ I figured—”

“Mark—
Father Johnson
—has a sense of humor. And besides, he may have thought you might be reluctant to apply for work at a business run by a woman.”

“No, ma’am. That’s no problem. My last CO in the Army was a woman. But I’m a mechanic. I’m not sure what I can do in a bookstore.”

“Besides this bookstore, I own a recycling business. We keep our trucks in a garage on the other side of the alley,” she said,
gesturing toward the back door. “The business is growing and we’re going to need another driver soon. We could also use your
skills as a mechanic to keep the trucks running.”

“I have a California CDL, so I’m licensed to drive up to thirteen tons,” Mano said eagerly.

“Yes, I know.”

“You didn’t ask about my CDL on your application. How did you know?”

Jo tapped her fingertips together. “For now, let’s just say we have certain resources.”

Although Mano found this answer puzzling, the prospect of finding a job overrode his misgivings. He was elated at the chance
to work again. “Is there anything else you need to know?”

A soft smile crossed Jo’s face. “Can you start Monday?”

Mano walked home with a jaunt in his stride that had been missing for quite some time. To celebrate their good fortune, he
stopped for a modest bouquet of flowers for Rosa and a cake for the children. After six months of scrimping, the time had
come to splurge a little.

Since losing his car, Mano had grown closer to the soul of his barrio. The riots had not changed the daily pulse of life amid
the bungalows, bars, body shops, apartments, and weedy vacant lots. Dusk was a time when those heading home from work crossed
paths with the ever-present teens and people of the night—the gangbangers, drug dealers, pimps, and prostitutes.

Near his apartment, Mano saw the Jimenez twins playing hopscotch on the crowded sidewalk with a crushed Budweiser Tall Boy
can.

“Hi, big guy!” one of them called out, giggling.

Mano waved, feeling a pang of pity. Although the girls were only five, they were on the street alone. Both their parents worked,
and their nana—as grandmothers were called in Chicano households—often let the twins wander outside while she did her chores.

Mano had no such worries about his own children. Each day at five, Rosa would bring the kids inside, prepare the food, set
the table, and wait until Mano was home before serving their evening meal. The family ritual was now unquestioned.

Entering the courtyard to his apartment, Mano recognized the throaty growl of a V-8, accompanied by an odd series of pops.
He turned and saw an SUV speeding down the crowded street, bright muzzle flashes coming from its windows. For a heartbeat,
he stared in disbelief.
They’re shooting at us.

Acting on instincts honed in combat, Mano dropped his packages and dove into the courtyard. On his belly, he watched in horror
as the vehicle raced down the street, firing at anyone in sight. People on the crowded sidewalks tried to run, but few made
it to safety. The bullets found their marks in a sickening array. Some victims seemed to be performing a spastic dance, twitching
awkwardly before falling. Others simply collapsed like marionettes with severed strings.

Before Mano could make a move to help, it was over.

The roar of the engine faded, replaced by raw cries of pain. Mano looked around, stunned. His neighbor, Lourdes Echeverría,
was crawling toward the courtyard, her face drenched in blood. Near her, an elderly man stood motionless, transfixed by the
bodies littering the sidewalk.

“Mano!” Rosa called out, emerging from their apartment behind him. “What happened?”

Mano rose to his feet and stopped her in the courtyard before she could reach the street. “Go back inside, querida. People
have been shot and there may be more trouble.” He led Rosa to the entrance of their apartment and found Pedro, Julio, and
Elena gathered at the door, drawn by the commotion.

“There’s been an accident,” Rosa said to the children. “We need to stay inside and keep out of the way.”

When Mano moved back toward the street, Rosa reached for his hand. “Where are you going?”

“The wounded need help.”

“Your children need you, too.”

“Don’t worry, mi amor. I’ll be careful,” he said before turning away.

Nearing the street, Mano noticed the bouquet he’d been carrying was now strewn along the pavement. The flower petals were
blowing toward a sight he’d never forget.

Slumped against a wall were the Jimenez twins, their frail bodies riddled by bullets, blood seeping into the crudely drawn
squares of their hopscotch game. They had died embracing each other.

Mano stared, numb with horror, oblivious to the chaos around him until the panicked screaming on the street finally broke
his trance. With a shudder, he looked away from the twins and noticed the confusion swirling around him. People trying to
help the wounded were rushing frantically among the victims scattered along the street.

Mano grabbed a trash can lid, moved to a stretch of street without any parked cars, and began banging on the metal lid furiously
with a stone. The faces in the crowd quickly turned toward the noise. “Listen to me!” he called out. “Move all the injured
here so the medics can treat them in one place when they arrive,” he yelled, gesturing to the sidewalk in front of him. Minutes
later, the wounded that could be moved were placed along the open stretch of street. After what seemed a very long time, the
wail of sirens joined their cries.

On the narrow streets approaching the shooting scene, news vans jockeyed for position with emergency medical vehicles rushing
to treat the injured. Despite the gallant efforts of Mano and his neighbors, several victims bled to death before the medical
crews arrived. An angry mood swirled through the crowd. Before the last of the ambulances pulled away, a vacant building three
blocks away was set ablaze. By the time Mano returned to his family, more fires had been set and several businesses set upon.
The arson and looting continued through the night.

The shooting spree on East Fourth Street had left eleven dead and twenty-eight wounded. The following day, another drive-by
shooting on Pico Street killed eight more. Television interviews with eyewitnesses at both East Los Angeles locations revealed
a common detail: the men in the vehicle appeared to be Anglos. Putting a new twist on a frontier term, the media immediately
dubbed the attackers “vigilantes.”

J
o was behind the counter at the bookstore when Mano arrived for work on Monday morning. “The first thing we’ll do is introduce
you to the other drivers,” she said, leading him out the back door. Following his new boss, Mano tried not to stare at the
slim and sensuous body under her tight jeans.

Crossing the alley behind the bookstore, they approached a large concrete garage in a compound enclosed by a high chain-link
fence. Above the building’s main entrance, someone had hand-painted “Green Planet Recycling Company” in olive-colored letters.
The rest of the walls were a variety of gaudy shades. “We hire kids from the community to paint the building every few months.
I let them pick the colors,” Jo explained. “We’re due for another coat, but after the shootings this weekend, I’m not sure
it’s going to be safe for them to work outside.” She opened the gate and added bitterly, “These attacks were horrible… but
I’m not completely surprised. It was only a matter of time before this kind of vermin crawled out of their holes.”

Mano said nothing. He had no desire to relive the attack.

Jo stopped suddenly and turned to face him. “Hey, I just remembered something from your application,” she said, her eyes widening.
“Wasn’t the first attack near your home?”

“Yes,” he said after a moment’s pause.

“Did you see what happened?”

Mano’s face tightened. “I’d rather not talk about it, ma’am.”

“Of course, Manolo. I understand,” she said, nodding. “Let’s go inside.”

Mano was grateful to Jo for not prying. When he’d returned from Afghanistan, people had pressed him for details about his
combat experiences. Like most soldiers, Mano had learned to put the horrors behind him and move on. It was the only way to
survive. The vigilante attack was no different. Surprisingly, Jo seemed to respect that.

Inside the garage, three men sat sipping coffee at a small table near their trucks. Two of the drivers, Pepe and Luis, were
Chicanos. The third was a black man wearing a do-rag. When Jo introduced him as Jesús Lopez, Mano tried to hide his surprise.
Although he’d soldiered with a black Puerto Rican, Mano had never met an Afro-Latino in East Los Angeles. Until this moment,
he’d never questioned why.