America Libre (6 page)

Once the introductions were over, Jo seemed eager to leave. “Why don’t you start by taking an inventory of our parts and tools,
Manolo?” she said, walking toward the door. “I’ll be in the office if you need me.”

After watching Jo leave, Luis addressed the newcomer. “You know anybody that went down, Manolo? From the vigilantes, I mean.
My neighbor lost his brother Saturday night. They shot him in the belly and he bled to death—right on the street, man.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mano answered.

“That was some wrong shit, man,” Luis added. “I brought my piece,” he said, patting his pants pocket. “Those fucking vigilantes
mess with me, I’m gonna be ready.”

Pepe leaned forward, his eyes eager. “Let me see, Luis. Show it to me.”

Luis reached into his pocket and produced a cheap .25 caliber pistol. Mano knew this puny Saturday night special would do
little to stop the heavily armed vigilantes.

“I’m getting me some hardware, too,” Pepe said excitedly. “We can’t just take this bullshit.”

Although he shared their outrage, this bravado worried Mano. “I want to stop them as much as you do,” he said evenly, “but
a gunfight in the street might get more innocent people killed. Stray bullets don’t know the good guys from the bad guys.”

Luis scowled. “What are we supposed to do, man? Lay down like a bunch of jotos?”

Before the confrontation could escalate, Jesús raised his coffee cup toward Mano in a toast. “Estás bienvenido, Manolo. Por
seguro necesitamos un mecánico.”

“I’m sorry, Jesús. I don’t speak much Spanish.”

“You welcome here,” Jesús said in a thick accent. “We much need a mecánico.”

Pepe and Luis grudgingly nodded in agreement.

“Thanks, Jesús. I’m glad to have the job. Have you been working here long?”

Jesús held up a pair of fingers. “Two jeers.”

Studying the man’s friendly face, Mano wondered how Jesús had dealt with the brewing tensions between Latinos and African-Americans.
“I guess you’re not from Mexico,” he said, offering Jesús an opening.

“No. I from Panama,” Jesús answered, his features suddenly tight.

Sensing the driver’s uneasiness, Mano changed the subject. “You like working here?”

Jesús’s face brightened again. “Josefina is good boss, man,” he said, smiling. “She very rich. She no have to come to el barrio.
Josefina start business here because she want justicia.”

Mano’s eyebrows knitted. “What is ‘ hoos-tee-see-uh’?”

Jesús shrugged. “I don’t know how to say in English.”

“Justicia means justice,” Luis offered.

“You won’t work for anybody better, man,” Pepe chimed in. “I mean, she a chick and everything. So we gotta do some silly shit
sometimes. But Jo looks out for our people.”

Mano nodded. “That’s good to know.”

Their gruff formalities complete, the drivers climbed aboard their trucks and roared out of the garage, leaving Mano to his
inventory project. He dove into the task like a man who’d stumbled onto a cool pond after a long stretch in the desert. Shortly
after 3 p.m., he knocked on the bookstore’s heavy steel door. “Excuse me, ma’am. I’m done with the inventory. Here’s the report.
Is there something else you need me to do?”

Jo took the paper from his hand. “Not right now, Mano. Why don’t you take a seat until something comes up?” she said, pointing
toward the chairs in the corner. “You’re welcome to borrow any of the reading material.”

Alone in the shop, Mano glanced restlessly through the books, too anxious to sit down and read. Having nothing to do was a
bad sign. A few minutes later, he returned to the garage, determined to find a productive task. He could not fail his family
again.

Rosa Suarez knew her husband’s habits. Every Wednesday after the children were asleep, Mano worked out with the barbells stored
in their closet. The rhythmic clinking of his free weights was a comforting cadence for Rosa, a familiar ritual that marked
the passing of another week. But this Wednesday was different. Mano had come home with a six-pack. After dinner, he’d remained
at the table, staring out the kitchen window, drinking methodically.

Once the children were in bed, Rosa approached her husband.

“Que te pasa, Mano? Is something bothering you?” she asked, clearing the empty cans from the table.

Beer sprayed onto the floor as Mano popped the top on the last can. “Everything’s fine, querida,” he answered, slurring slightly.

“Are you sure, mi amor? You’ve never brought home liquor before.” The only time she’d seen her husband drink alcohol was at
parties and weddings.

“This?” he said, holding up the beer can. “It’s just my way of celebrating,” he said dryly.

“People don’t celebrate by drinking alone, Mano. What about this new boss of yours—what do you call her? Jo? Is she being
difficult?” Rosa didn’t know what to make of this odd woman. To Rosa, Jo had intruded in the world of men—something bound
to cause trouble.

Mano shook his head. “No. Jo seems OK. She’s started a business in East L.A. that’s created jobs. Not a lot of rich Hispanics
doing that.”

“What is it, then? You finally found work, mi amor. I thought you’d be happy.”

“It’s hard to be happy when our neighbors are buying coffins,” he answered before taking another long swallow.

Rosa made the sign of the cross. “We can’t change what’s happened, Mano. It was God’s will. I’ve been praying every day for—”
Before she could finish, there was a knock on the door. “I’ll get that,” she said, moving quickly toward the entrance. She
did not want anyone to see her husband like this.

Ignoring the murmurs from the doorway, Mano brought the can to his lips again, a distant focus in his eyes.
How long will this job last?
He’d asked himself that question countless times over the last three days. Jo seemed a good person, but she was not running
a charity. Without more to do, he might be back on the street again any day. And the streets were getting deadly.

Mano was no stranger to death. He’d seen men die shrieking in pain in Afghanistan. But the memory of the Jimenez twins huddled
on the sidewalk plagued him in a way the sight of soldiers killed in combat never had. Since the shootings, his dreams had
been haunted by the twins—a nightmare that always ended with the bodies of his own children on the bloody sidewalk.

The vigilantes had already struck twice; he was sure they would again. His wife and children were in danger anytime they stepped
outside—and not just from the vigilantes. Luis and Pepe were not alone. Working people in the barrios were arming themselves,
escalating the risk. The only way to protect his family was to move them out of this place. That would take money, though,
which meant his job was their only ticket out of harm’s way—if it lasted.

When Rosa returned, she held a small bundle of clothes, her eyes welling with tears. “It was Nana Jimenez,” she whispered.
“She gave me these clothes for Elena. They belonged to the twins.” Tears began a slow path down her cheeks as she looked at
the garments. A small yellow Mickey Mouse shirt was folded neatly on top. “What kind of men would do such a thing, Mano?”

Mano drained the rest of the beer as he pondered her question.

The men who’d done the shooting did not care who they killed. To them, one Hispanic was the same as any other—young, old,
woman, man, it didn’t matter. Mano knew only one thing could create such senseless cruelty. “Men who are afraid,” he said
at last.

“Afraid of what?”

“Us,” he said, crushing the empty beer can.

During his first four days on the job, Mano tuned up the trucks, reorganized the tool drawers, drew up a vehicle maintenance
schedule, and cleaned out the cluttered garage—all on his own initiative. The drivers had seemed glad to have a mechanic.
But where was the work they needed? He did not want to ask them the question, fearing the answer.

Until now, he’d clung to the hope that Jo had yet to figure out the best way to use him. But by Friday afternoon, he could
no longer deny the obvious: there wasn’t enough work for him. Jo had suggested he wait in the bookstore on Monday. Maybe if
she saw him sitting idly, she’d find a task for him.

He crossed the alley and entered the bookstore through the back door. Ramon Garcia, the man he’d mistaken for “Joe Herrera”
that first day, was behind the counter, reading a book. As soon as Mano sat down, Ramon retreated into the office, leaving
him alone.

A week ago, Mano thought finding a job would solve all his problems. How quickly that had changed. Now, the safety of his
family depended on keeping this job—a job that looked shakier each day. The uncertainty was a torment more intense than being
out of work. Something had to change. The shame in Rosa’s eyes when he drank was unbearable. Yet it took a belly full of beer
each night to numb his mind enough to sleep. Even then, the nightmares of the twins usually returned.

As the silent minutes passed, Mano imagined Jo’s words of dismissal:
I’m sorry, Manolo. This isn’t working out. You’ve seen for yourself why we have to let you go.
He could even picture the pity in her eyes. That was the most painful image of all.

Looking for a distraction, he noticed a stack of pamphlets on the small table next to him. He opened one of the brochures
and began reading.

JUSTICIA, by José Antonio Marcha. Edited by J. M. Herrera.

If you are a Latino living in the United States, you are a foreigner in your own country. That’s right. You may not realize
it, but you are the rightful heir to significant parts of the territory now called the United States.

Look around you. Spanish place names prevail throughout most of Texas, California, New Mexico, Arizona, and Florida. The cities
of Los Angeles, San Francisco, San Antonio, El Paso, and Albuquerque are just a few of the many places founded by your ancestors.
They came from Spain, merged with the indigenous people of the Americas and the slaves brought over from Africa, and created
the Hispanic culture. This was a unique and profound fusion of people and traditions. Nothing like it has ever taken place
in the United States.

This new Hispanic culture existed throughout much of North and South America for over four centuries. However, the Hispanic
settlements in North America were overrun by the territorial expansion of the United States during the 1800s. These illegal
immigrants often squatted on Hispanic lands, then wrested them away by force. The so-called “Battle of the Alamo” is probably
the best-known example. The Anglo aggressors crushed the Hispanic societies they conquered, driving away your ancestors or
reducing them to positions of servitude.

Over the last few decades, Hispanics have been returning in large numbers to their former homelands through “immigration.”
Yet Hispanics in these U.S.-occupied territories are relegated to the lowest rungs of the social ladder. They are denied the
opportunity to work and live where they choose. Most Hispanics are only hired for menial jobs and then frequently paid unfair
wages. Through discriminatory housing practices, they are reduced to living in crowded, filthy, crime-infested barrios. Sometimes
the prejudice is overt; at other times, the discrimination is indirect. And most galling of all, this injustice is perpetrated
on soil that was once their own.

This must stop. The time has come for you to reclaim the lands that are rightfully yours.

This is treason
, Mano thought as he stopped reading. He was a native-born American who’d fought for his country. This pamphlet was an attack
on everything he believed. And yet…

The words also captured the frustration he fought every day to ignore.

Despite his rock-hard loyalty to his country, Mano was astonished to find he could not completely reject the ideas in the
pamphlet. He was left with a nagging doubt, a feeling gnawing in his belly that something in the words was right. He looked
back down at the booklet in his hands and finished reading
Justicia
.

Those eight pages would open the first crack in the foundations of his world.