Cry Revenge (13 page)

"WHAT THE HELL DID YOU say you did?" Emilio Fernandez yelled at his younger brother.

"I said we caught that spade Billy coming from school and kicked the shit out of him."

"Why?" Emilio asked, sighing and sitting back down on their aging couch. His mother and sister had left earlier to go to the funeral home nearby to leave a proper suit for Ruben.

"Why?" Pedro repeated. "We wanted the coon to tell us where that punk Dan was hangin' out, that's why."

"Brother, just stop for a minute and think. Billy don't even run around with his brother, Curtis, so why pick on him? He wouldn't know where Dan was hangin' out because they are two different kinds of studs. Even you, Pedro, should be able to realize that."

"All these spade dudes know about each other, Emilio. You just like to hang around them too much 'cause you're shootin' that fuckin' shit now!" Pedro eyed his brother angrily.

"Bullshit, Pedro, and you know that's all it is. You just wanted to kick the shit out of somebody, and he happened to come along. I guess you figured it all out, 'cause when you have trouble with Curtis, don't come runnin' home telling me all about it."

"I don't give a flyin' fuck about no Curtis, man! To me, he ain't nothin' but another burr-head," Pedro replied arrogantly.

As Emilio stared at his brother, he had to shake his head in wonder because he knew Pedro meant what he said. Here he had gone out of his way and angered one of the meanest studs in the city, and Pedro didn't give a shit about it. As he stared at his brother, he had second thoughts because, behind the dark eyes that stared out at him, he could see the hint of fear. His brother was just putting on a big front while shaking in his pants.

"Okay, Pedro," he said, "it's your problem. I got my own troubles to worry about. It's too much trouble trying to live without going out of my way gettin' in some silly-ass gang fight. You and that fuckin' bunch of Chicanos that you run around with are going to bite off more than you can handle one of these days!"

Pedro laughed harshly. "I'm not about to lose no sleep on account of no nigger, Emilio, even if you do." Pedro stood up and began to pace.

"You ain't shittin' me," Emilio replied. "I know damn well you're worried, and you should be. Curtis won't take this lightly, but maybe if you guys didn't hurt his brother too bad, we might be able to get Fat George to hush it up."

For a few seconds Pedro didn't bother to answer, then he stopped his pacing. "Listen, man, he was hurt bad. That dumb-ass Vic Mohica shot him in the back while he was on the ground"

"What?" Emilio roared, jumping up from the couch and snatching his brother's arm. "You mean Billy was shot, too?" Emilio couldn't believe it; he didn't want to believe it.

"Just hold on, Emilio. I tried, I honestly tried to stop it, but it got out of hand. You know how these things are in a street rumble."

"Street rumble my ass," Emilio growled. "What kind of street rumble is it when six or seven guys kick the shit out of one kid? Street rumble! Bullshit!" Emilio started to pace, then snapped his fingers. "Jesus Christ, we let Mama Mia and Maria go to the fuckin' funeral home without no protection. Goddamn," he yelled as he ran towards the front door.

Pedro followed closely behind his brother. "Hey, Emilio, don't you think you're carrying this thing a little far? This stud wouldn't do nothing to our mother."

Emilio whirled on him. "You stupid bastard, if you fucked his brother up for nothing, do you think he gives a shit about our mother or sister? All he wants is black vengeance, and that means he'll strike at whoever the hell he can!"

As the two men hurried down the sidewalk, their mother and sister were getting ready to leave the funeral home.

Curtis sat across the street from the old Spanish mortuary. If he had it figured right, some members of the Fernandez family would have to show up sometime today. He glanced in his mirror as a car turned down the lonely street and drove slowly past. Curtis wiped the sweat from his brow. His only worry was the license tags he had removed from another car and put on top of his. He fingered the sawed-off shotgun, then leaned it against the window sill. His face had taken on a cruel snarl that belonged to the past-on some jungle hunter. There was no mercy at all in his expression.

As he sat waiting, he could still hear the words of his mother beating at him. It was a shame that things had to turn out this way, but he couldn't let the Mexicans get away with it. If they did, there was no telling who they might attack next. His best bet was to knock off the remaining two brothers. That way, he wouldn't have any more trouble out of the Fernandez family because there wouldn't be any of the males left to worry about.

As these thoughts flashed through his mind, he saw the funeral parlor door open and two women come out. As he looked closely, he saw that it was an old woman and a girl. As they drew near, he recognized Maria, the young sister in the Fernandez family. That must be the mother with her, he reflected, hesitating briefly. He didn't want to make war on the women, but he wanted to strike back so that they would be as hurt as he was. He sighed as the women drew nearer, then he slowly raised the sawed-off shotgun and held it on the window frame. As the two women came abreast of the car, he pointed the gun directly at the young girl, then pulled both triggers. The roar of the gun almost deafened him, but he still managed to get the car in gear and pull away from the curb.

Young Maria took the full blast of both barrels. The shotgun knocked her into her mother with such force that she pushed her mother off her feet. The buckshot ripped open the young girl's side all the way up to her armpits. Blood spattered the older woman, who still hadn't figured out what had happened.

She managed to push her daughter off of her and climbed slowly to her feet, then leaned down and shook her daughter. At the sight of the blood, she let out a scream that was far louder than the noise the shotgun blast had made. People came running from all directions to help, and in the crowd were her two sons.

Emilio took his mother in his arms. He held her tightly, staring down over her back at the body of his baby sister. Tears of rage filled his eyes as he glanced up at his brother, who was looking at the carnage dumbfounded.

All Pedro could do was shake his head. "I never figured it would get out of hand like this," he murmured to himself, unaware that he was actually talking out loud.

"You sonofabitch," Emilio cursed, clutching his weeping mother in his arms. "Now, goddamn it," he cursed at the sky, "I'm goddamn sure of it!"

Pedro was so shocked by what he saw he could only bend over his sister's body and cry. "It's not my fault," he cried over and over again until somebody took him by the arm and led him away. He never knew who it was that led him to the funeral home and sat him down in a chair. He couldn't see because of the tears that ran so freely down his cheeks.

Curtis drove six blocks before stopping and removing the license plates from his car. He then drove to an empty alley and broke the shotgun down. He left a piece of it in a burning garbage can, then drove farther and tossed another piece away. Each time he made sure the piece he tossed away was cleanly wiped. The killing of the young girl didn't bother him, though. He was numb from the pain of the early morning incidents.

Before arriving home, he stopped and called, giving Shirley plenty of warning not to allow anybody inside the apartment until after he got there. She listened quietly to his orders, then hung up.

Curtis climbed back in his car and drove slowly home. His whole world seemed to have changed in less than twenty-four hours. It was hard to figure, but he knew now that nothing would ever be the same. He realized also that he had another job to do. There was no way he was going to allow Dan to get away with the shit he had started. Somebody had to make him pay for it, and Curtis felt in the mood to be the one to do it.

The thought flashed through his mind as he drove aimlessly for a minute that he would have to purchase another gun. It would have to be a gun that couldn't be traced back to him. He gave the thoughts free rein, and soon he knew right where to go to find the kind of weapon he needed. He pressed down on the gas. But first things first. He wanted to make sure Dan was where he thought he might be, then he would get the gun. It wouldn't take long. Dan wasn't that hard a man to find, especially when he was so determined.

IT WAS STILL TOO LIGHT OUTSIDE, Dan thought as he stared moodily out of the vacant house window. Even though Dan hadn't occupied the empty yellow house long, there was plenty of evidence that revealed someone had taken up temporary shelter in the deserted home.

The floor of the once clean and well-kept home was now littered with debris that Dan had scattered about. Empty pop bottles and cigarette packs were everywhere. "Goddamn," he murmured to himself as he stared out the window, unable to make up his mind on what to do. One thing was for sure, he moaned, as another stomach cramp hit him. It was past time for him to fix. If he didn't want to become a real sick junkie, he would have to get out of the deserted house and find some junk. But from who? The question came back to him for the thousandth time: who in the hell could he turn to? It was impossible for him to just walk up on the set and cop. There would be a hundred police up there minutes after he arrived. No, he would have to come up with something a hell of a lot better than that. Dan reached for another cigarette, only to find the pack was completely empty. He tossed it on the floor, cursing under his breath.

Dan began to pace. He was like some wild animal that had been caged too long. He thought of Curtis but rejected the idea as soon as he had it. Curtis wouldn't do a damn thing to help. The only thing he could depend on was that Curtis wouldn't turn him over to any fuckin' police. Dope, dope, dope, that was the all-important thing right now. Nothing else meant a goddamn thing. He had to find some drugs and it would have to be done soon!

This time when Dan started for the rear door he didn't hesitate. He glanced out of the boarded-up window before slowly pushing open the back door. The late afternoon breeze felt good on his face as he walked quickly through the rear yard. As he jumped the fence, he saw three young Negro kids playing in the alley.

"See, I told you," one called out to his buddy.

"Told me what?" his friend asked quickly.

"I told you somebody was living in that old house, remember?"

The other colored child shook his head. "That don't prove nothin' 'cause he jumped the fence. He might just be cuttin' through the yard."

"Hey, mister," the young kid yelled as he ran after Dan, trying to prove his point, "don't you live back there?"

Dan glared angrily over his shoulder. "Ain't your momma taught you to mind your own business, nigger?" Dan cursed, and continued to walk swiftly down the alley.

The other boy laughed at his friend's predicament as he ran up. "You ain't proved nothin'," he sang as he reached them.

"You young punks better go and find you somewhere else to play," Dan warned them sharply as he glared at them out of his swollen red eyes.

Neither child was a fool. First of all, they knew Dan was a young man, and that meant that he could outrun either one of them. That one fact was more than enough for them. They both turned on their heels and went back the way they had come, every now and then looking back to see where the tall dark man was. The second time they turned around, Dan had disappeared. They realized at once that the man had taken a shortcut through one of the backyards farther down the alley.

Once out on the street again, away from the alluring feeling of security the alleys gave him, Dan became overly cautious. He took his time before venturing out from the sidewalks and crossing the narrow streets. He wandered aimlessly at first, hoping that he might just run across some addicts who didn't know him that well. He knew that he was only fooling himself, because even if he ran into that unlikely addict, the junkie would know from the grapevine that Dan was running.

As he neared Fifteenth Street, he still hadn't made up his mind on which direction to take. He stopped in the middle of the block and just stood there with his hands on his hips. He was the picture of rejection at that moment. Here he was, he reflected, with a damned pocketful of money and nowhere to spend it. The sight of a small neighborhood grocery store caught his searching eyes. He quickly crossed the deserted street and entered the store. Dan glanced around, then picked up a cold bottle of orange pop. He stayed in the store and drank the pop slowly as the aging male storekeeper watched him closely.

Before leaving, Dan bought a small cake. He didn't really want anything to eat at the moment, but he decided to force himself to eat something. There was no way of knowing when he might get the chance to eat again. This goddamn running shit, he decided, was for the birds. Once again the idea came to him that his best bet would be to leave town. Yet, even if he caught the bus out of town, he would still have to find some dope before he left. There was no way possible for him to even think about leaving unless he had an ample supply of drugs.