Juarez Square and Other Stories (6 page)

As Diego followed he noticed the older boy’s shoes. They were new and white and store-bought, so much nicer than his own thin-soled hand-me-downs from Lorenzo. Pedro was getting paid.

They cut through an abandoned warehouse and then down a narrow alley crowded with taco stands and street peddlers whose wares were laid out on dirty, frayed blankets. Flimsy sun-yellowed tarps shaded the vendors as they sat about, moving as little as possible in the oppressive heat, waiting for the afternoon crowds to return. The boys picked their way through the alley.

“Don Pedro!” an old man shouted, rising from his stool to shake the older boy’s hand.

A short round woman chopping cilantro wiped her hands on her apron and handed Pedro a bundle of tacos wrapped in foil. “This is for your
jefe
.
Tacos al pastor
, his favorite.” She smiled, silver teeth gleaming as she handed him another. “And these are for you.
Chorizo con queso
, just the way you like it.”

More vendors fawned over them, offering smiles and more free food. An old man, seeing Diego empty-handed, gave the younger boy a paper cone of cherry-flavored crushed ice and patted him on the shoulder. “This is my pleasure, young man. My pleasure.” Diego looked at the man for a moment. He was the same cranky old fart who only a week earlier had threatened Diego with an ice pick for smiling at his granddaughter. Now he was all smiles and ass-kisses.

Pedro nodded at Diego and winked, as if he were reading the younger boy’s thoughts. “Nice to have friends people respect, isn’t it?”

Respect
. The word echoed in Diego’s head. Pedro the joker had that rare commodity every kid in El Cuatro coveted: the respect of the street.

The boys exited the alley and a narcobot passed in front of them. The green, trashcan-shaped machine rolled along the sidewalk, its red eye scanning for customers. The expression he’d heard countless times popped into Diego’s head.
Looking for pot? Find a green bot
.

He paused and pondered the machine as he bit into the sweet, deliciously cold crushed ice. It was an old Ono-Hiroshi R57, a sturdy factory bot converted to sell weed. Diego pictured its innards: the large dispensing basket packed with plastic-wrapped ounces and half-ounces, the impenetrable cash box, the deadly defensive systems, ready to fry anyone who tried to do anything but insert bills into its money slots.

“Hey, you trying to get your
huevos
fried or what?” Pedro called. The older boy motioned for him to follow. “Hurry up, he gets pissed when people are late.”

They continued walking, and as they approached the river at the edge of town, the sinking feeling Diego had back at the apartment returned. All around him were crumbling brick buildings and empty lots. There were no places to play soccer in this part of town.

A minute later they arrived at the river and the big bridge. A pair of stray dogs sniffed through clumps of weeds growing up through large fissures in the concrete, but otherwise the bridge was empty.

Pedro leaned over the handrail and peered down at the trickle of greenish water in the muddy riverbed. He scratched his chin. “
Puta madre
, ever wonder why they built such a big bridge over such a tiny piss of a river?”

Diego swallowed a snicker. “It wasn’t always like this. There used to be cars on this bridge every day, packed bumper to bumper.” He pointed to the dilapidated buildings at the bridge’s center. “Over there they had men with guns checking papers, dogs sniffing for weed, cameras taking pictures of everybody’s face when they crossed over.”

“The fuck you say.” Pedro looked at the Diego like he was crazy.

“You didn’t know this is a border bridge?
¿Un puente de l
a frontera
? We’re standing in the States, and over there is Mexico.”

The older boy made a face. “Shit, I know
that
,” he snapped, though his eyes lacked the conviction of his voice. “I ain’t no genius like you, but I know that much.” He turned and started across the bridge. Diego followed.

As they approached the Mexican side a yellow narcobot appeared a couple blocks to the south. It rolled to a stop, paused, then turned onto a street and disappeared from view.

Buy meth from a yella and you’ll be a happy fella
.

Yellow bot turf was meth turf. And meth turf was narco turf.

Diego’s stomach tied itself into knots. There wasn’t going to be a soccer game.

* * *

Turn around and run away
.

The thought repeated itself over and over in Diego’s head as the boys approached a small fabric store. He forced his legs to keep following, fighting down the animal urge to flee from danger, trying to ignore his pounding heart. You didn’t bail on a meeting with
El Carnicero
. Not if you wanted to live another day.

The boys passed through the door-less entrance; the front room was packed with large bolts of cloth of all colors, strewn about in messy piles that reminded Diego of a child’s discarded crayons. Two women working on treadle sewing machines in the corner glanced up at them for a moment, then returned to their garments without saying a word or breaking the steady rhythm of their pedaling.

“Through here,” Pedro said, his voice low, expression serious. No longer Pedro the joker.

Diego followed him into a small back room, empty except for two folding chairs on opposite sides of a card table.

The older boy closed the door and motioned to the far chair. Diego sat.

Minutes passed and neither boy spoke. Diego tried to slow his breathing, tried to hang onto the fading hope it was all an elaborate scare-prank.

He started at the sound of the door flying open. Two large men strode into the room, shotguns strapped to their backs. Sharp eyes, hard faces. Bodyguards. Pedro quickly got out of their way, moving to the corner of the room. One of the men pulled out a weapon sniffer and waved it over Diego’s body with quick, practiced precision. He nodded to the other bodyguard, who then turned to the doorway and said, “
Todo bien, jefe
.”

A short, pudgy man with plain clothes entered the room. Diego stared and blinked. He’d been expecting someone the size of a wrestler to stomp through the door, a man who fit the larger than life reputation. Could
this
really be him, this man who looked more like a taco vendor than a narco boss?

A glance at Pedro’s anxious expression erased his doubts.

Diego chewed on his lower lip as
El Carnicero
sat across from him and looked him over.

“My God, you’re whiter than a gringo,” the narco boss said. He tossed a coin at Pedro. “Go get our guest a soda.” The boy hustled out of the room.

“Your friend says you know a lot about robots.”

Diego’s throat was tight and dry. “Yes, sir.” He worried what Pedro, who was always prone to exaggeration, might have said.

“Who taught you? Your father?”

“My brother taught me,” he said. “He fixes bots for the university. My dad lives in California last I heard.”

“And your mom?”

Diego looked at the floor. “She got sick and died last year.”

The narco boss stroked his razor stubble and nodded sympathetically. “I lost my parents when I was young. Cried my self to sleep for years, missing
mami y papi
.” He raised his eyebrows. “I hear you fixed Father Sanchez’s robots better than new.”

Pedro returned and placed a can of soda on the table in front of Diego.
El Carnicero
looked up at the boy, annoyed. “What about mine?” Pedro’s mouth dropped open and his eyes widened. The narco boss flipped another coin at the boy, who caught it and scrambled away to fetch another drink.
El Carnicero
cracked a smile and the bodyguards chuckled.

“We were talking about robots,” he said, turning his attention back to Diego. “Do you know why I like them so much?”

Diego shook his head. The soda can dripped with condensation in the dank heat of the small room.

“Robots don’t skim money from me, they don’t smoke the inventory, and they work a corner until every junkie spends his last peso. Those little machines work the streets better than people ever did. Way better.”

Diego forgot his fear for a moment, losing himself in the man’s easygoing charm. But then he stiffened again, reminding himself the kind-faced man sitting across from him had earned, with countless brutalities, the nickname
El Carnicero
, the Butcher.

The narco boss raised a finger. “But there’s one thing my bots aren’t very good at, and that’s getting away from police.”

Why would they need to get away from police
? Everyone knew
El Carnicero
paid the police to let the narcobots roam the streets hassle-free.

“Have you heard about the new police chief?” the man asked.

“No, sir.”

A cloud came over the narco boss’ face. “That new police chief likes to have his fat face on the news. Likes to think of himself as the big man not afraid to take on the narcos.
Pinche cabrón
. Last week he raided Juarez Square and jacked four of my bots.”

“But the shockers? How could they just take them?” The ugly aftermath of an attempted bot-jacking near his apartment flashed across his mind, the acrid smell of the charred body in the middle of the street.

The narco boss shrugged. “Shockers are good for
pendejos
on the street who think they can crack open a bot for easy money. But police have big budgets and smart technicians. Not easy for a little bot to fight against such things.”

Diego nodded. For a street hustler bot-jacking meant certain death. If the shocker didn’t do you in, the tracker hidden deep inside would. When a bot was picked up or pushed even a single meter off its programmed route,
El Carnicero’s
men showed up in less than a minute, guns blazing. Diego had never heard of a successful bot-jacking.

And the narco boss was right about the police. For a police force with good equipment, capable engineers, and an incorruptible leader, it wouldn’t be very hard to get bots off the streets. Not very hard, but definitely foolish. Diego wondered what kind of reckless idiot would take on the Butcher on purpose.

“This new police chief is a real church boy,” the narco boss said. “Thinks he’s too high and mighty to take my money. Thinks he’s as pure as
La Virgen de Guadalupe
.” He made a disgusted face. “The day after he took my bots he went on the news, telling everyone ‘Juarez Square is clean.’”

The Butcher repeated, “Juarez Square is clean,” as if it were the worst possible insult.

Pedro entered the room breathing heavily, holding another can of soda. He gingerly placed it in front of the narco boss and took his place in the corner.

El Carnicero
reached over and popped open the can. “Something tells me this new police chief won’t be around much longer, but until he…” The man paused before uttering the next word, glancing over at the bodyguards. “…
retires
I can’t just lay down like a scared dog, can I?” He leaned in closer. “I have a reputation to think about.”

He took a long drink. “This
hijo de puta
is daring me, in front of the whole world, to put my bots back in Juarez Square, so that’s what I’ll do.” He took a second drink and added, “With your help.”

Diego shivered, the words striking him like a blast of cold air.

The narco boss watched him carefully, studied his reaction. “Father Sanchez says you’re a clever boy. I was a clever boy at your age, too. Not clever with bots, but clever in other ways. Clever enough to make a bit of money and earn some respect. That’s all a boy from El Cuatro could ever want, no?”

Diego blinked and stared.

“Yes, I grew up in El Cuatro just like you. Hidalgo Street’s my home turf.” He reached over, opened the other soda can, and handed it to Diego. “Smart boys from El Cuatro should stick together, don’t you think?” He paused for a moment, letting his words sink in. Then he said, “All I want to do is ask you a few things…”

The man questioned him about robots, exploring the limits of the boy’s expertise. Diego told him everything he knew: what the little converted factory bots could and couldn’t do; the mods he knew about; other mods he’d only thought about but never tried. His mind raced nervously, searching for the right answers, imagining what a wrong answer or an ‘I don’t know’ might mean for him.

But the more they talked, the less Diego worried. He knew who this man was, knew the terrible power he wielded, but even so he felt the tension in his shoulders easing, the knot in his stomach relaxing. Maybe it was the man’s easy way of talking. Maybe it was because he was a homeboy from the same neighborhood. But there was something about this man he hadn’t counted on.

Diego took a thirsty gulp of soda. The cold, sweet fizziness soothed his parched throat.

It was just what he needed.