Chango's Fire (11 page)

I tell him, Benitez lost that fight.

“Exactly, and he didn't let me down. Imagine if he'd won. I'd be out five Gs. But you people never do that to me.”

But this old man doesn't believe in a lucky gambler, only winners and losers. And the winners are the ones who control the game. So if he bets on the roach that's to the left, it's because he has seen something, a missing leg, a lost antenna or something that the roach on the right is lacking. It's the reason why he reads all the city papers. He feels bits of trivia on various subjects gives him a gambling edge. Once he told me that, since I don't read papers, never to gamble, because I would always lose.

“All right, good luck.”

I thank him and just when I'm about to go, his cell rings again, and Eddie motions with his hand for me to wait.

I stare at the photographs by the cashier. I see the story of his family. There's a picture of a younger Eddie taking his kids to church. Trompo Loco, of course, is missing. Trompo Loco is a sin that Eddie denies ever committing, a sin he never confessed to his priest or anybody. And, just like saying “I love you” to his wife, without an ounce of embarrassment or discomfort, he tries to ignore Trompo Loco's existence, just as naturally. But somewhere in Eddie's being there is Catholic guilt that gnaws at him, that eats his liver every night and grows a new one in the morning. I know, because he always manages to ask me about “my friend.” I know that's why he wants me to wait, to ask me about Trompo Loco. There are times when I just want to snap at him and say, “How should I know. He's your son, you go ask him yourself.”

“That's great, dear,” he says, “I'm happy you got it started.” Eddie talks to his wife like a newlywed, he says “I love you” often. I mean, he has said “I love you” already, now hang up! But no, he is still on the line.

“No, I like Father Hernandez, I like him, sure I'll throw some money his way.”

Eddie talks and performs at different speeds, as if he has created two new languages, feelings, and faces. One for his wife and the other for the coldness of his profession.

Finally Eddie says to his wife in the sweetest of tones, like many times before, “Yes, okay, bye, I love you too.”

“Can I go now?” I ask him.

“I heard your friend was at the demolition site?”

“Yeah,” I say, “he was there, I told him to go away, but he doesn't listen,” I say.

So, I know that the boss squealed on me. Which should be the clincher for Eddie, letting him know for sure that the entire world knows the truth. The only one who still thinks people don't know Trompo Loco is Eddie's son is Eddie.

“You keep your friend away from anything that has to do with me.”

“I try, he just doesn't listen,” I say to Eddie. Then—I don't know where I get the guts to say this, but I do—“He thinks you're his father.”

Eddie's face collapses like he was smacked in the face.

“You don't believe that do you?” he gets really defensive.

“No,” I say, “of course not, but I just wonder why he thinks that?”

Eddie grumbles. He lies back against his chair.

“Listen, I appreciate you looking out for him. So, I'll tell you that, yeah I had a thing with his mother. That don't mean he's my kid. A lot of men jammed that broad. She was a mental case, you know. I confessed that, I did my retribution, long ago. But now, no way I'm going to be the sucker who takes responsibility for that kid. That's why I don't lift a finger for that kid. I would if the kid was mine.”

I want to tell Eddie that Trompo Loco is no longer a kid. He's man. A bit slow, but a man.

“Damn right I would. But I never lifted a finger for that kid. And you know I'm not like that at all. I help people too. I helped you out when you needed a job, right?”

“Yes, and thank you,” I tell him. “Don't worry, I'll keep my friend away from here.”

“Good,” Eddie says, “but take him to church. It's the only way he's going to find some direction. Some people are saved by it. His mother could have used it. So take him. Okay?”

“Yeah, I got him a job at a church.” Though I don't tell him which church, because Maritza's church has got a crazy reputation.

“Good, that's good,” Eddie's eyebrows lift up. I think he is glad. “Good, Julio, now, here, take these.”

He hands me car keys.

“What is this?” I say.

“A favor, just a favor. Pick up at 82nd and Park and drop at Hunts Point, you know where.”

I had just told him I wasn't doing jobs for him. Any type of jobs, not anymore.

“The father buys his kid a Lexus for his birthday. Kid wants the money. Kids these days, you were not like that. That's why I always liked you.”

I shake my head, extending my hand with the keys toward him. I can't. Don't want to do it. Can he get another guy?

“Julio, one last favor,” he stands up again and holds my face with his hands, they are wrinkled and hard but he holds my face as if he was holding eggs.

I'll do it but I repeat that this is my last. I say, this is only a favor. I make sure to repeat it.

I turn to leave.

“Good scout, don't be a stranger and let me know when you graduate. And remember, don't take nothing. Don't even open the glove compartment. And keep that kid away from here.”

I walk out of the coffee shop to find Trompo Loco across the street, staring at me. I work up a slow anger at seeing him. I fight it, but get furious at the complex mess I have to manage while I had nothing to do with creating it.

“Didn't I say not to come around here.” I push Trompo Loco to keep walking. I want him as far away from here as quickly as possible.

“Did you talk to him? Did you talk to my father?”

“How many fucking times I'm gonna tell you he ain't your father.” We turn the corner and I hope Eddie hadn't seen Trompo.

“Did Maritza talk to you,” I ask him and his head drops. “You going to work for her church, right?” I say, demanding more than asking. Trompo Loco nods.

“You gonna move in too, because those people where you live hate you, Trompo. Those people are playing for keeps. You just holding them back, okay?”

“But I want to be help-less, I just want a little help and then I want no help at all. Less help,” he says and I look at Trompo Loco and see a man who just wants what we all want. There is nothing outrageous in his wanting, no fancy cars, women, or fame. Trompo Loco just wants a real life. A job. A house. A father. I can't keep discouraging him. It is his right to have these things. And he is working towards obtaining them, too. He is plugging away, he is trying to make the team, and I keep cutting him. So I hug him and tell him to go home and I would talk to him about it. Really talk to him about it the next day and help him on his way to being help-less. But the father thing? There is nothing I can do about that.

M
y favor for Eddie has to do with a Lexus. This kid wants his car stolen so he can get the insurance. The kid gets in touch with people that know Eddie. The kid gives Eddie the keys, tells Eddie where
the
car's parked, and my job is to
go
steal it. I drive it to wherever it is that Eddie tells me to, park it, screw off the license plates, and let the vultures pick it apart. The insurance company investigates, and when they find it, it's a skeleton. This has nothing to do with chop shops, it's plain insurance fraud. The kid gets investigated but he didn't steal it, I did, and they have no idea who we are. Even I have no idea who “we” are, I only deal with Eddie. These jobs are almost gimmes. I've done tons of these. The only danger is if the police stop you for some violation. Then you're busted. You got grand theft auto on your hands and Eddie don't know you. So you drive carefully. No running through yellows, and you use signals.

The car I am going to steal is supposed to be parked on 82nd and Park Avenue. A black Lexus. I have the number. I have the keys.

I spot it and approach it. I get the key out of my pocket, open the door and get in as if I own it. I put the key in the ignition and fire up the engine. I check out the glove compartment. Only Gloria Estefan CDs in there. What kinda music is that? This guy's car deserves to be stolen … without an insurance kickback.

I drive past the Willis Avenue Bridge. I throw Gloria out the window and into the East River, cross over to the Bronx and dump the Lexus at Hunts Point. I ride the 6 train back to El Barrio, pick up my car, drive to my night class happy with money in my pocket.

Qué
es eso!”
Mom screeches.

“That is an altar, Ma',” I say.

“An altar?
Dios mío.”
Mom's mouth drops. Not only does her Protestant religion forbid Catholic saints, it also forbids lighting candles and offering fruits, cakes and feathers to them.

“What are you doing opening and checking inside my room?”

“Something smelled real bad and I had to see what it was,” she says, knowing she did something wrong so she'll make up an excuse, because these candles are odorless.

“Ma', it's my business if I erect an altar in my room. It's my house too.”

“Not if you are bringing demons into the house and I live here with your father too,” she says, and my father enters my room.

^“
Ave maria, una ofrenda
Julio?” My father knows what's up.

“An offering for what?
Porque yo voy a tirar eso a la basura,”
Mom yells.

“You better not throw anything away, Ma',” I yell back to her.

“Oh man, Julio, that's Ochun,” he says. I want him to shut up. “You want love to enter your life.”

“Pa', stop it, you're talking crazy,” I say, because I don't want Mom to know this. I'll feel so stupid.

“Love? You want love?” Mom says.

“Well, maybe. Yeah, I want love,” I say.

“You find love by going back to the meetings and finding a good sister in church.”

“Can I find love my way, please,” I say to her. “Ma', you always say that ‘the same recipe for
pasteles
always comes out different in other hands.' So let me find it my way, okay?”

“Not with
Satanas
helping you like this—” she says.

“Hector Lavoe was the biggest
santero,”
Pops interrupts, “and he was always erecting altars to Ochun. So, I know. One day, we were together—”

Mom returns the favor and cuts him off like always, before he finishes his story.

“Santeria,
en mí casa!”
Mom begins to plead with God to forgive me,
“Dios mío, no sabe lo que hace.
“

“I know what I'm doing Ma', okay? I'm doing it for my own peace of mind, okay? It's about stories—”

“Stories—
que tu ‘ta hablando?”
Pops says.

“It's about stories telling me how to live …” then I stop, because I can't say it like Papelito can.

“Nothing,” I say, also knowing they won't understand. I gently push them both out of my room, because I have only a few minutes to work on my love ritual to Ochun before school. I just dropped by to change and to pick up the sweet cakes. The five days that Papelito had told me to keep them by the altar are up, and now I need to throw them in the East River so Ochun could help me.

But Mom is really disturbed. Like I really did bring demons inside the house. Which, in her religion, I have. When she sees me pick up the cakes she snorts like a sow. I laugh at her, because she sounds silly.

“I hope I don't have to lock my own room now Ma'?” I say, because I know she is capable of getting rid of my altar as soon as I've gone to work. Pops, though, thinks it's funny when he sees Mom go to the kitchen, grab a mop and start mopping the house, as if that would keep spirits away. I go over to kiss her, and she brings her cheek toward me, but I know she's unhappy.

“Bendición,
” I ask.

“Que dios te bendiga,
” she says in a tone like it'll do me no good, but she'll do her motherly duty and bless me anyway.

O
utside the air is crisp and clean. Not a trace of smog in it. I decide to walk to the East River pier. I have time to kill, because my class doesn't start till later. Around dusk El Barrio fills with hardworking people coming back from work and picking up their kids from school. The neighborhood buzzes with a huffle and shuffle, just like Midtown during rush hour. I'm about to cross the street when I spot Trompo Loco looking down at a homeless person passed out on the street. The homeless man has plastic bags tied to his wrist, to make sure no one steals his possessions while he sleeps. Though inside the bags are only old newspapers and cans. His sneakers are laceless and bulging, like his feet don't fit in them, and he has on layers of clothes. Trompo Loco is looking down on him, and I wonder if they know each other. I cross the street. Trompo Loco sees me, smiles at me, and then goes back to staring at the homeless man.

“I like to watch him, Julio,” Trompo Loco says to me. I stare at the hard hat he is still wearing. “You know, keeps me alive. I could be there one day, right?”

“Never, you're too bright,” I say, lightly tapping his hard hat. Trompo Loco's face lights up like a candle.

“Has Maritza paid you anything yet?” I ask him, because she owes me from that day. That was our deal.

“Pay me what?”

“Pay you what? Money, what else.”

“Why? You helped me fill out those papers years ago.”

“What papers?” I say.

“To get money.” He shrugs. “Those stamps and WIC—”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” I now know what's he talking about. “Yes but Trompo,” I say to make it clear, “this is different, when you work you get paid.”

“Why?”

“Because work sucks. No one would do it otherwise.”