Drowning Tucson (23 page)

Rudolfo offered to take Jaime to see a bullfight in Agua Prieta, to drink his first beer in the blistering heat while watching the splendor of the matadors. He told Jaime if you just come, if you just get out of here for a while, then maybe you will see things differently. Jaime grunted and said where would you stash your oxygen, viejo? What if the bull ran up in the stands and punctured your tank, then where would you be? And they shared a good laugh while they cleared the dishes and readied themselves for opening the shop.

If he caught Jaime spending more time in a certain portion of the store, he said why don’t you see if you can do something with those flowers? Make some sort of arrangement to put in the window. Sometimes the boy listened, and sometimes he ignored him and went right on examining the flowers, as if memorizing every detail.

Though Rudolfo knew he had little time left, he decided only to wait. Wait, even if it gets to be too much, wait and let the boy have his pain. And his revenge.

Jaime flipped the switchblade open and pressed it closed. Señor Gutierrez slept in the next room, snoring and coughing at intervals through the night. For Jaime, the sound was a bitter one. Here was a man who had a good heart, and had been punished for trying to take care of his family. This wouldn’t have bothered Jaime, except that he had seen the way Señor Gutierrez’s loss tormented him. He had woken up to the old man’s moans and screams on several occasions, frequently enough to know that Señor Gutierrez often relived burying his son and his wife side by side in Holy Hope Cemetery.

Why is it, he thought, that there are so many horrible parents out there, like my father, who never get their children taken from them? Is there really some sort of reverse justice in the universe that allows the good people to suffer?

Jaime flipped the switchblade open again and made slashes at the air. He was in good with the Kings now, and he enjoyed hanging out with Güero and Peanut and the Nuñez brothers. They treated him with respect. Almost as if he had already proven his street credibility. But he didn’t have the teardrop tattoo on his face, nor did he have the crown tattoo. No, to them, Jaime had the look of a disturbed genius. A powerful glare set into a pleasant face. He looked kind and dangerous at the same time.

Not that they considered him violent. In fact, Güero and the Nuñez brothers were equally surprised when Jaime asked them if they could get him a switchblade or a gun.

A switchblade? they asked. The fuck you want a switchblade for? Someone’s givin you trouble?

Nah, just for protection, you know. In case. Oddly, the guys all felt uncomfortable giving Jaime a weapon. Like they were being asked to teach their mothers how to kill a man. It just seemed wrong. But when Peanut told them why he really wanted a weapon, they understood and gave him a switchblade and taught him how to use it, and he practiced every night, pulling it out of his back pocket and pressing the button while stabbing at an imaginary target. He practiced grabbing someone from behind and slitting his throat so fast the victim wouldn’t have time to react. He mastered several swift, fluid movements so that when
the opportunity for revenge arose, he would be able to take out an enemy regardless of the circumstances.

When Jaime didn’t return home for dinner at his usual time, Rudolfo Gutierrez knew he had finally decided to go through with his plan. The boy can only take so much, he thought. In fact, he had watched the inner struggle take place before his eyes when each night Jaime fought the urge to lash out with all the anger built up inside him. Every morning the boy woke with a fresh outlook on life, as if he could stave off his demons all day long, but as soon as it got dark, they had free reign to taunt him and remind him of his failure to payback Sammy’s killers. Each day it seemed as if a new person took over Jaime’s body. Dark circles formed beneath his eyes and the bright, twinkling happiness permeating Jaime’s entire face gradually gave way to a somber, clouded, slumping cluster of features. Each morning Jaime’d have breakfast ready, and by the time Rudolfo finished his meal and put on his wind-breaker, the boy would be halfway out the front door, joking and laughing the entire walk to the flower shop about how he couldn’t believe he had slept on that nasty mattress behind McDonald’s. It always made Rudolfo think maybe the boy will pull out of it yet. He was so convinced with his self-deception that when Jaime didn’t come home for dinner, he really thought maybe he’s down at the park, hanging out by the pond, but he knew he was wrong because no matter what the boy was doing, he always made it home to set the table for whatever meal Rudolfo had cooked.

Sitting in front of a steaming plate of albóndigas, poking at the meatballs with his fork, Rudolfo waited for Jaime to come bursting through the door full of apologies for his tardiness. He made elaborate excuses for the boy, thinking of all the possible alibis, places a teenaged boy could go, inventing friends’ houses he could be staying at, until the sun slowly faded out in the west and a thick layer of grease formed on the surface of his uneaten dinner, and Rudolfo remained seated, ignoring the long shadows coming through the picture window and over his shoulder. The knot of worry in his stomach grew into a ball of paranoia. The boy’s actually going to go through with it. He was scared and proud
of Jaime at the same time—like he had been training the kid for the big game and now he would get to watch with pride as the kid scored a winning touchdown.

But this was no game. He knew it. It’s no game when you want something as bad as that kid does. I guess all I can do is sit here and wait.

Each time Jaime’s nerves threatened to get the best of him, all he had to do was flip his switchblade open, rub the sharp metal edge with his thumb, and press the blade back into the handle. He had done this several hundred times by the time they turned onto Charleston Road, heading for the San Pedro River, the streets of Tucson almost two hours behind them. Meanwhile, Güero and his friends ignored Jaime’s nervousness, bobbing their heads to the radio instead.

Surely one of them will be there, thought Jaime. When they had driven down the main drag in Sierra Vista, the road had been relatively quiet. Of course, that doesn’t mean they’re not out at the river. They’re always at the river banging some girl or smoking weed. At least, that’s what they boasted about each day in gym class when they spoke loud enough for everyone in the locker room to hear, trying to make the others jealous. Not that anyone cared. But there were only so many places for people to go in this town, and if they had the urge for some ass or some drugs, they took it out to the river because no one ever drove by during the night, since the only thing out in that direction was Tombstone, and who cares about old dead cowboys?

Jaime flipped the blade out again and told Güero to pull over. Ditch the car for now, he said. We’ll come back for it.

They left the car hidden behind a cluster of paloverde trees, not particularly worried because Jaime assured them no one ever drove down this road. Maybe two cars a night. They walked in silence, following Jaime as he led the way through the grasping limbs of trees. With each step closer to the river, Güero and his friends felt the adrenaline beginning to pump through their veins. It was a familiar feeling for all of them, the main ingredient for survival on the streets. Always be prepared.

Jaime, on the other hand, was practically bouncing with energy. He was so close, just a few hundred feet from facing the guys who killed
Sammy. The quiet atmosphere of the desert made the whole scenario seem unreal. But this
is
real, Jaime reminded himself. He wanted to see the fear in the eyes of his victims and relish the moment. He’d imagined this scenario hundreds of times, dreamed about it even more, and yet he had no idea how it was going to play out. Would he actually kill one of them? Might they actually kill him?

But those questions only lasted for a moment, quickly replaced by the reassurance he had received from Güero when the two of them sat in Güero’s garage and Jaime explained his plan—the route from Tucson to Sierra Vista, the other two Kings they might take with them, whose car they should use, what they should do if they were outnumbered. Jaime had considered all of it, each possible obstacle weighed, even the possibility of getting caught. For him, it was worth every risk. He’d rather be sitting in a jail cell somewhere sleeping peacefully than walking the streets knowing he had let Sammy’s killers back him down. And luckily Güero had agreed.

Güero had picked the two people closest to him, Chuy and Peanut, who went on missions without asking questions. They knew if Güero was willing to risk it, then it was something that had to be done.

And now they stood at the bank of the parched San Pedro River. Looking down, Jaime could see that it was dried up except for a thin ribbon of water perhaps six inches across. He squatted on the edge, holding on to the trunk of a tree so he could lean over and gauge the distance of the jump. The riverbed was littered with shattered beer bottles and torn condoms and the occasional shred of material caught on a cactus or some brush. Jumping down into the river, Jaime motioned for the others to follow him to the cover of the bridge. They waited for a moment, letting their eyes adjust to the shadows.

There it is guys, Jaime pointed. That’s one of their trucks. Güero and his friends looked and made out a vague outline of a truck idling in the darkness.

You sure you ready for this? Güero asked, remembering the terror he had felt the first time he went into battle, at the age of fourteen. He had ridden in the backseat of the Caprice Classic, slouching down with three other Kings as they drove onto South 6th Avenue to rough up the
black kids who were trying to come into the neighborhood and steal their women. It had been a long and terrifying drive across the city while the wind whipped through the car and Güero trembled, fearing bullets slicing through the side of the car at any moment. When they pulled into the parking lot of the shopping center, time became a blur of bodies jumping out of the back and running toward a group of cars where a bunch of black guys stood around passing joints and drinking forties. Güero was a little slower than the rest, running a few feet behind Cheeseburger and his brother when they leaped into the air, slicing at whatever came into contact with their knives. They took the black guys by surprise, and there were more Kings running to back them up, but in those first moments, when Güero felt his blade sink into the soft flesh of a crouching black kid’s neck, he felt a rush of relief. He knew it would be okay. Knew these niggers would be the ones who would pay tonight, not them. And when it was all over, when all the black guys were lying in puddles of blood or crumpled on the roofs of their cars or rolling around in agony clutching whatever parts of their bodies they wanted most to protect from the beatdown, Güero knew this was what it was all about. Protecting our vatos and our ladies. It was the reason they were crouched beside the San Pedro River a few miles from Sierra Vista, peeking through the shadows of the bridge at the outline of a truck that held Jaime’s enemies. The boys who had taken out Sammy.