When Dad Came Back (7 page)

He crawled over his bed and listened to the figure cross the yard and finally scale the fence. Whoever the intruder was, he was nimble on his feet—or her feet. Maybe the homeless weren't the only ones who were letting themselves into the yard and stealing whatever they pleased. Maybe the rumor was circulating that Gabe's family had tasty, vine-ripened red tomatoes. With the price of produce in stores, why shop when you could hop a fence and help yourself?

Gabe closed his eyes again and slept a dreamless sleep.

When he woke at eight thirty, his mom had already gone to work. Gabe fixed himself a plate of
huevos con weenies,
plus two tortillas and a glass of milk. To finish off his breakfast, he ate three Fig Newtons, which he was washing down with a second glass of milk when Pablo called.

Early that morning, Pablo had returned to the playground, where he found their bikes stripped—the handlebars, pedals, and seats were gone. Worse, the spokes were kicked in, he said. Whoever stole the bikes had punished them for fun.

“Come and see for yourself,” Pablo said.

Gabe agreed to meet his friend in fifteen minutes. After he locked up the house, he surveyed the backyard. The tomatoes, bright as Christmas ornaments, hung heavily on the vines. Whoever had visited his yard last night had left shoe prints. He thought of Frankie and his crew, of his father, of the homeless in search of a place to sleep.

“It's going to be hot,” Gabe remarked, wincing at the sky.

He walked a mile to Pablo's house, not in the least concerned about the older men, the
vatos locos,
who sat on high porches, shirtless and tattooed, watching the street. Their running days were over. They were now fathers and husbands (or ex-husbands) with front-row seats to
la vida loca,
the crazy times in the neighborhood. It was cheap entertainment—beer, sunflower seeds, and the best view of every car, truck, baby stroller, bike, skateboard, and motorized scooter that rolled up the street.

When Gabe saw the remains of their bikes behind Pablo's garage, he rolled his hand into a fist. He was against fighting, mainly because he always got hurt, but now he was furious.

“Who do you think did it?” Gabe asked. “Frankie?”

“Nah, the fool didn't have time. He's too busy playing out his role with his wannabes.” Pablo peered at Gabe's face and asked: “Does it hurt?” His hand was touching his own mouth.

Gabe touched his tender lip, no longer puffy. “Nah, just when I laugh. And I ain't laughing right now.” Squatting, he plucked music from a bent spoke.

“We'll never know,” Pablo said calmly. “But I'm going to get new wheels.”

Gabe knew where they were headed: to the house of Manny Treviño, an old-school
vato loco
who sold bikes and bike parts from his living room. You could put in an order for anything, including cars and boats, and Manny would do his best to get it for you. The prices were good, and the merchandise first-rate.

Manny was a heavyset man who wore oil-stained jeans obscenely low on his wide hips. His customary white T-shirt reached only as far as his belly button. He was a veteran: not of foreign wars, but of the streets of southeast Fresno. He had done six months here, six months there. His last stop for time-out was Happy Valley Prison in Coalinga, where he plucked chickens at the prison meat-processing factory—for this work, he only had to serve four months of a six-month sentence, and he got the chance to learn about poultry. He learned so much about poultry that he would never eat chicken again.

Manny's wife told Gabe and Pablo that he wasn't home, and he was not about to come home anytime soon. He had been busted trying to sell a plasma television to an undercover cop—he was back at Happy Valley and getting acquainted with poultry again. Manny's wife scorched their ears about her husband being stupid.

“Did he care about me?” she roared. “No, I told him to stick to bicycles, but what does he do? He thinks there's more money in TVs.”

The two boys slowly edged away from the front door, but Manny's wife stepped out onto the porch, intent on telling her story. She was dressed in a nightgown and slippers. She ranted about one of Manny's kids from a previous marriage—something about his stealing the microwave oven right out of her kitchen. How was she going to reheat her coffee now?

The two boys hurried away, wondering what to do next. They didn't have to wonder long, because sliding up the street was Frankie Torres, with a larger posse than usual—the two little homeys-in-training, and two new boys, who were as large as refrigerators. They were wearing white T-shirts that hung to their knees.

“This is messed up,” Pablo remarked.

Gabe was glad he had double-knotted his shoelaces and drunk two glasses of cold water. He was certain that in a few seconds, sweat would pour out of him as he sped away from Frankie and crew.

Gabe and Pablo bolted up the street, past dogs barking behind chain-link fences and the old-school
vatos locos
watching the action from high porches.

They had to live long enough to at least start eighth grade.

Gabe and Pablo found safe haven under a tree at Romain Playground. Jamal, the rec leader, who was playing four-square with three barefoot little kids, was their savior. If Frankie appeared and started a ruckus, Jamal would grab him by the back of the neck, shove him out the gate, and yell, “I don't wanna see your ugly face for a week. Now get out!”

“Why is Frankie bothering me?” Gabe asked Pablo.

Pablo had stuck a blade of grass into his mouth and was chewing on it, savoring its natural sweetness. After a moment of reflection, he mumbled, “Practicing.”

Good answer, Gabe thought. He and Pablo had softball practice in summer. Practice drills for a homey like Frankie must involve messing people up.

When they left the playground, they skirted the block of Section 8 housing and crossed Belmont Avenue, stopping for sodas, which they drank in hurried gulps. They were still hungry for something solid, so they tripped back into the store, bought powdery doughnuts, and began meandering toward Gabe's house.

On Angus Street, someone shouted from a porch, “Hey, little dude, what happened to my dog?”

Gabe stopped in his tracks, his last doughnut on his thumb. He rotated clockwise and was surprised to see Lupe, the
vato loco
from the Fulton Mall. Because he was squinting in the sunlight, his face had a hurt look. He was shirtless, and Gabe saw that he had more muscle than usual for a man approaching forty. His hair had been cropped so close his skull looked blue.

“I want that dog back,” Lupe announced. There was no threat in his voice as he came down the wooden steps, hitching up his pants.

Gabe chilled. Lupe was built, scarred from fights, without remorse for the harm he had done to others, and possibly still dangerous. But he was old school now, and wiser, with a devilish beard on his chin. He was a father, too. In the yard, there was a toppled-over stroller and a blow-up swimming pool, with flakes of grass floating on the surface of the water.

“Y qué?
What happened, little dude?” Lupe asked, with his arms out, as if expecting an embrace.

“They took him after you ran away,” Gabe began to explain, wise enough not to signal brotherhood with Lupe by embracing him.

Lupe sneered. He didn't like those words—
ran away.

“You think I ran because of
them?
Those freaks!” He pointed at the tattoo of crucified Jesus on his neck. “I don't run from nobody,
ese.
”

“You must be fast,” Gabe remarked. Sweat began to flow on his scalp.

“What does that mean, homeboy—‘You must be fast'?” Lupe stepped toward Gabe, who could smell hair gel and cigarettes. “You think I'm fast and that I run away from lowlifes? I banged a lot of heads in my time. You feel what I'm saying?” Lupe directed a hot stare at Gabe.

“I didn't mean it like that, Lupe.”

Still, Gabe conjured up the scene in the Fulton Mall. Yes, Lupe had turned and fled when Tony Torres and his crew spotted him. And, yes, Gabe recognized his mistake when he used the words
ran away.
For years, his English teachers had tried to pound into his head that using the correct words was important. At that moment, he could see their point.

“I didn't mean run, you know. I meant you had to, like, leave,” Gabe babbled. His scalp was releasing sweat and the stink of fear.

Lupe wagged his head at Gabe. “You're a bad liar, little dude.” He hooked his thumb at Pablo and asked, “Who's your
carnal?”

Pablo, who had been stationed behind Gabe, edged a few steps toward Lupe. He shoved his hands into his back pockets.

“Pablo. We play baseball together.”

Lupe lifted his chin in greeting, and Pablo returned the gesture. Lupe then hitched up his pants and said, “You know where I been?”

Gabe shook his head.

“I been to your place.” Lupe told how the last couple of nights he had gone to Gabe's house to fetch his puppy. With a smile that revealed a single gold tooth, he reminded Gabe that the puppy's daddy was a killer. Lupe asked, “What do you do, keep him inside where it's cool?”

Gabe could see it now. Lupe was the mystery man moving in the yard at night. He hadn't come for ripe tomatoes—he had come for the puppy. Was he intending to raise him and use him in dogfights? Gabe was against dogfights.

“Nah, Lupe, those guys took it.”

“You mean Tony?” The grin on his wide face suddenly vanished.

“Yeah, Tony,” Gabe answered. He touched his upper lip and his finger came away wet with nervous sweat. He was wondering,
How do you know where I live?

Gabe guessed that Lupe was savvy about street life. He only had to put the word out that he was hunting for a thirteen-year-old, and everyone would say, “Yeah, the little
vato
lives off of Tulare Street. He can't hit a softball worth a pile of
frijoles.”

“You got some nice tomatoes,” Lupe complimented. “Three or four jalapeños, onion and cilantro … mmmmmm. You could make some killer salsa.” He beckoned Gabe and Pablo to his backyard. He pulled open a tall wrought-iron gate and maneuvered past two dusty cars up on blocks.

“Don't be scared,” Lupe told Gabe. “I ain't going to hurt you. I want to show why I want my pup back.”

In the backyard, Gabe found reasons other than Lupe to be scared, as he was surrounded by three pit bulls, two of them licking their moist chops. The third had narrowed its eyes at Pablo, who hoisted a fake smile, clicked his fingers as a sign of friendship, and sang, “Nice doggie.” When one of the pit bulls began to sniff Gabe's shoes, Lupe giggled. A tattoo of the Virgin of Guadalupe seemed to rumba on his chest. “What did you do—step in
caca?
Or you got a pile in your pants? The dog smells you.”

“It's my cat,” Gabe explained. “Your cat!” Lupe exploded. “Cats ain't nowhere. They ain't loyal. You don't feed 'em for one day, and they gone.” Lupe's face was stern and soulless as a snake's. Then he smiled and pounded Gabe's back in a friendly way. “It's OK if you like cats. But dogs is where it is. You feel me?”

Gabe did his best to smile.

Lupe relaxed. He described his plan for breeding guard dogs. “And you probably thought I was like breeding them for the pits. That's messed up. Dogfights is like evil.” He slapped Pablo's arm with the back of his hand. “Huh, dude?” He took the snout of one dog into his grip and shook it. He then scratched goo from the corners of its eyes. He wiped it on his pants. “These guys love me. They would die for me.”

“Yeah, they seem loyal,” Gabe responded weakly. Lupe ruffled the scruff of the biggest dog. “This dog is named Pretty.”

Gabe thought the dog had one ugly mug, but he kept his mouth shut tight.

“This one here is Brownie, and this one is Tiger.” After the introductions, Lupe became sullen. He cracked his knuckles and snarled under his breath, “That Tony—he's a punk. So he took my pup?” He stepped within inches of Gabe. “You know what?”

Gabe remained still. His upper lip had grown another mustache of sweat.

“I want you to get the dog from Tony.”

Gabe swallowed.

“Where you live, it's dangerous. You need a guard dog. You need protection.”

Gabe swallowed twice and issued a meager, “Yeah, I know what you mean.” He imagined a dozen Frankies running after him.

“He's yours. I want you to raise him good.”

Gabe was glad that Lupe wasn't into dogfighting. He lowered his hand and let Tiger snort and lick his fingers. He didn't feel afraid of the dog anymore. After all, what did he have to fear? The dog was whipping its tail in friendship.

Gabe hopped the fence, crouched behind a dumpster brimming with garbage, and glanced at the puppy sleeping by the back porch. The puppy had a rope around its neck. A water bowl was tipped over, and a canned dog food label was torn to shreds. Flies buzzed around the puppy's head like a halo.

I'm going to save him, Gabe promised. He pictured himself running with the pup in his arms and Frankie and crew chasing him.

Gabe heard music inside the house, music and a television, and party sounds of laughter, and things falling. He heard the refrigerator door slam, and a girl screamed, “YOU STOP THAT, YOU STUPID!”

They're all stupid, Gabe thought.

Suddenly the back door swung open, and Frankie appeared with a Popsicle stick in the corner of his mouth. He climbed down the steps, flicking the Popsicle stick at the puppy. He disappeared into the garage next to the house, and Gabe could hear rummaging sounds. Minutes later, Frankie tottered out of the garage with a case of soda. Before he returned inside, he tickled the puppy's chin with a toe. He laughed when the puppy sniffed and licked his toes. Frankie then poked his foot into the puppy's side. The puppy yelped but went on trying to lick Frankie's toes.

I'm going to get you, Gabe swore. He would smile on the day when he found Frankie all alone. He would roll his hands into fists and aim for Frankie's mouth. We'll see if you laugh then, Gabe thought angrily.