Cry Revenge (11 page)

"Goddamn, goddamn," Fat George murmured over and over.

Curtis went behind the bar and held the head of the dying bartender. "Did I get them?" Ruben inquired, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah," Curt said, as a lump came into his throat, "you damn sure did get both of them, Ruben." He wondered why the death of a man who meant nothing to him should affect him the way this one was doing.

"Good! Good!" Ruben said. "I told you wasn't no bastards goin' come in my bar and stick up nobody, didn't I?"

"You sure as hell did," Curtis answered softly as he felt the man's warm blood running down onto his hands.

"The nerve of them bastards, Curt, comin' in here with guns...."

Ruben the bartender never finished what he was about to say. His head dropped to the side and he died.

Basketball practice lasted until twelve-thirty that night. Billy and his club had practiced well. They were getting it together with their fast break, a move that had held them up during all of their previous games. Billy was the guard, and when the tall, lanky center Edgar got his rebound, Billy was the man to whom the high-post bullet came. Edgar and Billy had been practicing this move for weeks, and this night the practice was paying off.

"Hey, man, that's smooth. Beautiful! ! !" the small, fat coach shouted after Billy had sunk his sixth straight fast-break lay-up.

Billy grinned at the coach, then ran back across the court and slapped Edgar's hand. The two boys had dreams of someday making it into the college ranks, then maybe to the pros. They both knew that they had talent, and both were trying their hardest to realize their potential.

"It's goin' good, Billy," Edgar said, throwing a towel around his neck. "We got ourselves something here, my man. We just might make it!"

"You and me, Edgar baby! You an' me!"

They showered and dressed, slapping each other in the locker room and joking constantly. They all felt good. They were doing something that they liked. And then there was the added fact that playing basketball might lead them out of the slums and ghettos and into a decent life. Each man on the team had the same dream, and each man had the same vision of what he would do if that dream were to come true. For Edgar, it was getting his little sister and brother out of Clovis and into some decent house, paying for their education and maybe some new clothes.

For Billy, he thought of getting his mother away from her small house. Maybe out to the ocean to live like human beings someday. As far as Curtis was concerned, Billy knew that his older brother would never accept his money anyway. So there was no reason even to think of giving him any. But the dream felt good. It made him respect his body and his mind. He knew that, as long as he continued to play ball, he would never fall into the pits that he had seen so many of his brothers fall into. Dope would never catch him, as long as he could make a fast break and sink a lay-up.

"Hey, man, how about comin' over to my place? We could catch the tape delay of that Lakers game."

"No, Edgar, not tonight, man." Billy was just finishing pulling on his old sweater. "I got to get home and get some sleep, man. It's been a long day."

Edgar smiled at his friend. The two were like brothers, traveling together down a road that they both knew would end somewhere better than where they had started. "Okay, man. Don't want you gettin' jealous over West or Goodrich or any of those other dudes, right?"

"Hey, man," Billy joked back, "last time you saw Jabar, we couldn't get you out on the damn court for a week. All you could say was `mannnnn..., nobody ever goin' beat that dude!...

The two youths shadow-boxed each other, laughing and dodging at the same time.

"You never be a boxer, boy," Edgar chided.

"An' you never be no Cassius Clay, neither!"

The locker room had emptied. Most of the other guys had wanted to get away from the smelly gymnasium where they practiced. Edgar and Billy were always the last to leave. To them, the place was like a dream-an escape from reality where they could build themselves a life.

"Catch you tomorrow, man," Edgar called out as they split up outside the gym.

"Right, man! An' keep on thinkin' you're shooting that ball from a cannon!" Billy watched the tall, lanky figure of Edgar disappear around the corner of the building. He turned and started toward his mother's house, where he knew a good helping of blackeyed peas would be waiting.

Through the dark alleys and vacated streets, Billy moved with the grace of an athlete. He thought about the moves that he had made that night. He thought about Edgar, and the obvious improvement the big man had made over the past few months. It was incredible to him, but the idea kept coming back into his mind. Both he and Edgar were going to make it! They were good, the best twosome in the area, and because of them their team could beat anybody around. It would be a long way to the pros, but Billy, for the first time in his young life, was beginning to believe that he and Edgar would really make it.

His daydreaming continued as he crossed Sixth Street and started the last long block toward his home. He didn't see the shadowy figure cross in front of him down the street. Nor did he hear the sound of boot heels on the cement behind him. He was oblivious to everything but his dream of making it as a professional basketball player.

"Hey, nigger!"

Billy stopped. It wasn't the first time he had heard the word. But the voice was familiar. He came instantly out of his daydreams. Pedro Fernandez! It was his voice, that high-sounding twang that had so many times drifted through his bedroom window when Curtis and Dan had been shooting craps with him out in the backyard.

"Hey, niggerman! Your blood brothers out to wipe the Chicanos, man?"

Billy stood on the sidewalk, not knowing where to turn. Pedro had never come at him before. As a matter of fact, Pedro had never come at any black man before. It was not like him to pick a fight with a black.

"What's happenin', Pedro?" Billy yelled, hoping that maybe Pedro had mistaken him for someone else.

"You tell me, brother, 'cause I ain't got no more brothers, you dig? I mean, that nigger Dan made sure that Ruben got laid under, you dig?"

"Pedro, what are you talking about, man?"

"C'mon, man. Be cool. You know what the moth- erfuckin' truth is!!!"

Billy felt the adrenaline begin pouring through his system. He still couldn't see anyone. But the hysterical pitch of Pedro's voice told him that something was wrong. Something had happened, and he was getting blamed for it.

"You motherfuckin' nigger!!! You'll all pay with your cocksuckin' black hides!!!"

Billy knew that it was time to run. He spun around on his heels and started in the opposite direction of Pedro's voice. But the dark figure of Jay, a Mexican friend of Pedro's, stopped him.

Pedro ran out of his hiding place and came up behind Billy. In another moment, Carlos Montoya, the biggest dude in the Chicano section of Clovis, was there also. Billy stood in the middle of the three men with nowhere to turn.

"Okay, pequito bastard! You shall pay in hell for Ruben!!! You goddamn little nigger!!!" Pedro was hysterical, Billy could see that much. His eyes were filled with tears, and his fists trembled in a rage that would not be easy to control.

"Hey, man," Billy pleaded, "be cool. I been playin' ball all night. I don't know nothin' 'bout nothin'!"

Pedro Fernandez did not let Billy finish his defense. He threw a right into Billy's hard stomach. It was a strong enough hit to force Billy over. Pedro came down instantly across the back of Billy's neck, flattening him onto the sidewalk.

Billy lifted himself to his knees, then up onto his feet. He gasped for air, the breath had been knocked out of him. He tried to focus on the men standing around him, but his eyes were watering terribly from fear and pain.

"Carlos, show the motherfucker what it means!"

Carlos looked at Pedro, then at Jay. He grabbed Billy by the shoulders, bending him backwards, and then raised his knee to Billy's lower back.

Red exploded in Billy's brain. The air rushed out of him; his body seemed to melt in an explosion of pain. He felt himself slipping backwards onto the sidewalk and could only listen numbly as his head hit the pavement with a sickening crack.

Pedro stood above the helpless body. He placed the heel of his boot on Billy's groin and added pressure. Billy screamed but never even heard his own cry of pain and terror.

"The man's a chickenshit, Carlos. Look at him. He'll never play basketball again..., eh, amigos?"

Carlos and Jay laughed. Pedro continued to exert pressure on Billy's balls. Billy screamed out, and Carlos finally figured out how to stop the sounds. He stuffed an old oil rag into Billy's mouth.

"All right, the bastard will never do nothin'. Maybe the fuckers will learn a lesson!!!" Pedro was half in tears as the three men dragged Billy's tortured body back amongst some trash cans. They moved the cans in front of Billy so that no one would see him from the street.

"Maybe," Pedro began before they left the scene, "just maybe the nigger will come to work sweeping out my house, eh?"

The three laughed. As they started to walk away, Jay, the silent, stone-faced one of the group, stopped. He slowly pulled a .38 revolver from his coat and walked back toward the body.

Pedro and Carlos watched as Jay, without hesitation, fired a shot into Billy's back. The limp body on the ground twitched, then fell into silence. Jay placed the pistol back into his coat pocket, turned to Pedro, and said, "Like you said, man, he'll never play ball again."

The three men ran quickly back toward their homes.

Billy lay half paralyzed in the alley. He would spend the night there, sinking into the dark abyss of his tortured madness until finally someone would find him the next morning and get him to a hospital.

It wasn't until the next morning that the news spread that the men Ruben had killed had been police. Then the stories began to fly. They had run into the bar after a junkie to arrest him for something or other, nobody really knew what. But one thing was sure, they knew the two officers were chasing after a drug addict, and before daybreak the addict's name was all over town. Even the police knew who the man was, only they didn't know where to find him.

Across town in a small, brown-frame house, the Fernandez family gathered. It was early in the morning before the story reached them about the two policemen their older brother had shot. After that, they began making calls on their old wall telephone. The ones doing the calling were the younger brother, Pedro, and the angry Emilio, who knew at once who the junkie was the two policemen had been chasing. He blamed himself for his older brother's death. But more than himself, he blamed Dan for running into the bar telling the lie he had obviously told.

Before daylight arrived, Fat George came by the Fernandez house with his wife, Maria. They both told the tale of how Dan had run into the bar and swore Fat George and Curtis were about to be robbed and how Ruben swore nobody would get stuck up in his bar.

The two brothers cursed loudly, while their mother and sister cried. The two Mexican women held each other and cried in each other's open arms.

Pedro had reacted the night before but didn't tell Emilio about his actions. He wanted more blood. Ruben had been like the father to the whole family, supporting them from his earnings ever since the day he had left school after their father's death. Sometimes he had worked two jobs so that there would be enough food and good clothing in the house for all the kids. The younger members of the family weren't asked to do anything but to continue on in school.

The only thing that Ruben wouldn't tolerate from any of his brothers or sisters was skipping school. He had an idea that, if they got good educations, they would never have to work at sharecropping like their father had done. He hated farms.

Now that Ruben was dead, the old gray-haired mother of the family was in a state of shock. She couldn't believe her oldest child was dead. They hadn't brought the body home, so all she had to go on was the word of other people. True, she had sent her sons down to see the body and they came back and told her it was Ruben. She still didn't want to accept it. Sarah, her daughter, had been sent back to the city morgue with Emilio to see the body. When she returned with the same report, Mrs. Fernandez had broken down completely.

After telling everything he knew about the death of Ruben, Fat George dug into his pocket and removed a hundred-dollar bill. On a second thought, he pulled out another one and left two hundred dollars on the table beside the old woman. George couldn't look her in the eye. For some reason, he felt that she thought he was responsible for the death of Ruben. He quickly left with his wife on his arm.

Once outside the house, Maria spoke. For once, her voice was low and subdued. "I hope they catch that lying sonofabitch for causing this family all this grief!"

"Don't worry," George said quietly, "it will be taken care of, and if the police don't move quick, there won't be nothing for them to arrest."

"That's good, Georgie," she said, using the name she always used when she was thankful for something he had done for her.

George seemed to be speaking to himself as he continued. "Yeah, that nigger is a dead man. Even if the police do get him, he'll die in prison, you can lay odds on it, and be makin' a sure bet!"

Maria patted his fat arm as he opened the door for her. If George said it would be taken care of, she didn't have to worry about it any longer. It would be taken care of.