Once Upon A Wish : Book One (5 page)
Read Once Upon A Wish : Book One Online
Authors: Richard Poche
Tags: #noir, #noir crime, #hit men, #noir crime thriller, #drug cartel fiction, #edge of your seat thrillers, #gripping thriller, #hit man book, #hit man series
from his past life haunted him in different ways. He’d chained his
bike up in front of a store and then find it missing. He tried to
find it, racing down blind alleys looking for the thief, but
finding his aunt Lucia instead, her boisterous laugh making his
skin crawl.
When he lived in Tijuana, he thought about
going to a fortuneteller or a psychic who could tell him what the
dream meant. He didn’t want to know anything about his future
because he knew what that looked like. He just wanted to know about
his dream.
In time, he took the dream as an omen. An
omen that told him that he would never find whatever it was he was
looking for and life would laugh at him.
He woke up to the smell of chorizo and the
sound of eggs sizzling on a grill.
“That smells good,
amigo
.”
paper plate and handed it to Nestor.
“Where are you going?” Nestor asked. Hernan
had his shoes on and his restaurant nametag on his shoulder.
“To work.” Hernan walked over to the couch
and slipped on his tennis shoes. “I’m late!”
“Cisneros is not going to want you
back.”
“He said he forgave me.”
“He didn’t say come back to
work tomorrow. Jesus. Do you think you can rob a guy blind and come
back to work at his place?”
Nestor started
laughing as he chewed on the chorizo and eggs.
big toe peeked out from a hole on top of his shoe. The one on the
left didn’t look much better.
“What am I going to do?”
“Wait.”
“Wait?”
“Cisneros said he would be in touch. To pay
him back. I can’t even guess what that means.”
“Can you go talk to him?”
Nestor looked at Hernan with an ‘are you
serious look’ on his face.
“We could go together,” Hernan said. “Or I
could go alone.”
“Fine,” Nestor relented after a moment.
“I’ll talk to him. You stay here.”
toward Foothill Boulevard. Even during the daylight hours, you
could smell and hear the poverty in East Oakland. He heard the boom
beat coming from a car stereo in the distance. The sound of
sirens.
He turned around and saw a vehicle
following him. Nestor ignored the car at first then turned around
to get a second look.
The SUV inched along. Dark tinted windows
hid the identities of the drivers.
Nestor hurried to the next street and
turned right at the corner. He would have to double-back to get
back to the restaurant for a sit down with Cisneros but at least he
was forcing these fools following him to make their move.
Nestor looked back casually and saw the SUV
stop at the corner of the street.
In front of him, popped out three men from
a Trans Am. They all looked familiar.
They were the same men who attempted to rob
him at the horse races.
The lead punk, the young Mexican with “RIP
Antonio” written across his bicep, stepped forward.
“Where's your punk ass friend now?” he
snarled. He had a cast on his hand and a swollen left eye. His
friend, the big-armed Samoan had a bandage across his nose.
Nestor never did get a look at the third
person back at the racetracks but a girl emerged out of the Trans
Am with a sassy look on her face. She smacked her gum and threw her
head back to get the hair out of her face. She could be cute if she
ditched the black lipstick and pulled the two piercings out of her
nose.
The Mexican punk kicked Nestor's legs out
from under him. The two men then began to stomp on Nestor.
Old and sore from life in general, Nestor
curled up in a little ball and offered no resistance. He closed his
eyes and accepted the beating.
“Where's my mon—” the punk said, kicking
him.
The man's question fell short. Hernan
slammed an ice pick into the side of the punk’s neck. Their girl
screamed and ran off.
The Samoan looked to run off himself.
Fighting off his fear, he reached into his back holster, pulling
out a zip gun.
Hernan kicked him in the nuts before he
could point the weapon. The Samoan bent over in pain and dropped
the zip gun to the ground. Hernan slammed the icepick into his
throat.
A police siren wailed. They were
close.
“Hernan!” Nestor screamed. “Get the hell
out of here!”
Rubber squealed against the asphalt. The
SUV with the tinted windows pulled up next to them on the street.
The back door opened.
“Get in!” Cisneros said from the
backseat.
Nestor stood frozen. Hernan picked him up
and threw him into the SUV before diving in himself. The vehicle
drove off leaving the two dead men on the ground, their blood
pooling on the concrete.
said.
Nestor looked back at the scene. They
turned the corner and got out of sight as two squad cars
arrived.
“Every one of these dumb ass gang-bangers
is under my thumb,” Cisneros said. “Even the ones who don't know
me.”
Hernan wiped the blood from the ice pick on
his pants.
“The skinny one with the tattoos. His name
was Nino. A real dumb ass. Supposed to do a job for me but tried to
lift you two instead. One of you showed them what a mistake that
was.”
Cisneros looked at Hernan, appraising
him.
“You have talent,” he said. “It pays a lot
more than washing dishes.”
Cisneros rolled down the window and looked
into the Oakland streets. He reached into his coat pocket and took
out a Cuban cigar and a matchbook. He fired up the cigar, twirling
it around until it lit. He blew the smoke through the window.
Traveling down East 14th street, the car
stopped at the red light. A dozen Mexican men dressed in blue jeans
and work shirts loitered around the street corner. They looked at
Cisneros with question marks in their eyes. They were looking for
work.
“You know the problem with Mexicans today?”
Cisneros said as the light turned green and they drove away. “They
have low self-esteem. It is a national epidemic.”
The driver, a hulkish Latino, scowled at
the two men from his rear view mirror. He had a wind-blasted face
with deep creases, like a leather raisin.
Nestor sat silent like a timid child next
to Cisneros.
“You guys don’t think much of yourselves do
you?”
“We’ll pay you what we owe you.” Nestor
said softly.
Cisneros nodded his head. “You just killed
two of my associates. Those guys were my hatchet men. Incompetent,
but useful. You, on the other hand.” Cisneros pointed his cigar at
Hernan. “Are a lethal weapon.”
Hernan looked out the window. He gripped
his ice pick tightly.
“You work for low wages because, like most
Mexicans, think that is all your worth. With your skill, you should
be making more. Would you agree with that assessment?”
Hernan remained silent for a few moments.
Then he nodded his head as expected.
“There are certain elements here in the Bay
Area that are in the way of achieving my financial goals. I cannot
deal with these elements in a gentlemanly manner. I need certain
people…certain obstacles, eliminated. That’s where you two will
come in.”
Cisneros reached over to the passenger seat
and picked up a small, black briefcase. He handed it to
Hernan.
“Where did you learn to kill?” Cisneros
asked.
Hernan shrugged his shoulders.
“A couple of months ago a group of Zetas
were found the San Diego border. They said it looked like a
professional hit. You read about this stuff on-line and then you do
a little research. Ask a few questions and it becomes easy to
connect the dots.”
Cisneros now eyed Nestor. “A pair of
killers. My lucky day.”
Nestor’s heart began to pound. He knew men
like Cisneros could smell fear. They doled out pain so often that
it became old hat to spot the signs of a frightened man. He knew
there would be money with Cisneros. Until you were no longer
useful. Then you would be discarded just like the two men that
Hernan ice-picked.
“There is a drug war going on,” Cisneros
said. “There always is. I want the market a bit more
Mexican-friendly, if you catch my drift. I eliminate the
competition and make more money. You make more money. Open the
case. I provide all of my employees with the necessary tools to get
things done.”
“Can I have my job back?”
Hernan opened the briefcase. Inside sat a
gun and silencer in the foam casing.
“Yes. Washing the streets instead of the
dishes.” Cisneros laughed so loud that it hurt Nestor’s ears.
Nestor invited Hernan to the duck pond on
his own that Sunday morning. Usually, they would only go there at
Hernan's request.
Upon arrival, Hernan waved the bag of
breadcrumbs at the ducks. He squeezed the bag, making a crunching
noise.
The ducks quacked in unison.
“You see that?” Hernan said as the ducks
flew and waddled over to him. He proceeded to feed them from the
palm of his hand. “They’re so tame!”
Nestor looked off to the side, unable to
hide his disinterest. He studied the homes across the pond. Homes
he could never afford.
A flock of geese flew in and the ducks
scattered. Hernan tried to hand the geese the scraps of bread but
they hissed at him.
“Damn!” Hernan laughed. He looked over at
Nestor and could see that his friend looked to be in a world of his
own.
“What's wrong,
amigo
?”
“You look sad.”
“I have a lot on my mind.” Nestor blinked
his eyes like a man living his life half-asleep. “We have a lot to
think about.”
“I never thought life could be like this.”
Hernan walked over to three ducks that flew over from the other
side of the pond. “A life where I could just sit at a pond and feed
the ducks. When I grew up, there was only dust and dirt. I don't
know, man. People don't really care about you when you are poor.
But animals? Ducks? They love you if you give them just a little
bit.”
An older duck came up to Hernan. One of his
wings jutted out to the side, broken. He wobbled forward and
accepted the young man's offering.
“Look at that one,” Hernan said, pointing
at the duck's fading colors. “All of the others have shiny green
heads. But his is dull.”
“
Been out in the sun too
long. He's old.”
pond and hopped onto the grass.
“Baby ducks!” Hernan tore the breadcrumbs
into smaller bits and spread them out on the grass. The ducklings
came and ate the goodies. The large brown mother duck stood between
Hernan and the ducklings.
Hernan and Nestor sat in
their truck in the parking lot of
Giant
Burgers
. Hernan took huge bites out of his cheeseburger, eating as if
someone were about to snatch the sandwich out of his hands at any
moment.
“I can't help it,” Hernan bit into his
hamburger again like a werewolf.
“Better than the chili burgers at
Merritt?”
“Almost. Maybe.”
Nestor didn't argue. He dropped a few of
the chunky French fries down his throat.
Hernan looked across the way at San Pablo
Avenue. He noticed the numerous hookers walking down the street
peddling their wares. None of them caught his eye.
Except one.
She had long blonde hair and wore a
skintight leather skirt with black nylons. She walked toward the
counter at the Giant Burgers and placed her order.
Hernan shook his head in amazement as the
beautiful woman stood thirty feet away from him. He marveled at how
indifferent the cashier was to her appearance. Running her finger
through her hair, she looked over at Hernan and noticed him
admiring her.
She smiled.
He wanted to smile back but he had a
mouthful of cheeseburger.
“You know he wants us to kill people,”
Nestor said; following the young man's eye line to the Latina
prostitute putting an order in.
“I know.”
“You're okay with that?”
“They're bad people. Bad men. If he asked
us to kill women? Children? That’d be different.”
Nestor nodded his head. He took a bite of
his own burger.
“It isn't hard,” Hernan continued. “Once
you do it, it gets easy. I can teach you.”
“I think it better if you did the killing
and I did the driving.”
“A team.”
“But we cannot trust Cisneros. It is only a
matter of time. When we become a burden to him, he will let us
go.”
“I owe him. And he can be a nice man.”
“He's a bad man. A fake.”
“Hey,” the woman said softly as she
approached the truck. Her long eyelashes, sparkling green eyes and
country Mexican accent made Hernan's heart thump.
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