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"Hi, we’re not at home right now, so leave a
message right now, and SHIT!" Beep. Jo, college grad, receptionist at a doctor’s office, weekend helper at Saint Agatha’s, drop-dead gorgeous, enters the tiny apartment they share, with their daughter, carrying a freshly cleaned suit, only one that Israel owns, and a flat package, a present: his G.E.D. diploma, framed. A small argument ensues, regarding the cost of the frame, which escalates into a larger fight when she tells him that she purchased it from her savings, which he does not want her to touch. He decides to take a shower. She decides to leave and buy some sandwiches at Mr. Koo’s for lunch. In the shower, Sanchez reminisces: How tired he was of all the crap, all the anger, all the posturing that comes with being a gang member, worse, a gang member with a conscience, who began something as a teenager, to have a group to belong to, and watch, helplessly, as his best friend Romero turned that group of kids into something more, something dangerous. How he stayed with the group, despite his misgivings, because the gang was all he had. Until he met Jo. Sweet, funny, hot-tempered Jo, who showed him another way, another life, and gave him a beautiful daughter, then left him, because she didn’t want her baby to know her father, if he wasn’t going to stay alive long enough to be one. So he quit. Got jumped out of Diablos Negro, walked tall through the gauntlet of fists and feet and bats, and yeah, he cried, he bit his lip, but he didn’t stop, he didn’t punk out, and the black eye healed, and the broken hand healed-kind of, and his soul healed. And when he came to in the hospital, Jo was there, Anita was there. And Romero sent a dozen roses, with the flowers cut off, just thorny stems in a vase, and Israel just couldn’t give a shit, because, for the first time, he felt whole, a man. Out on the street, Israel hurries to Mr. Koo’s, hoping to catch Jo before they left the shop, so he can apologize, and thank her for his present. The day is hot, his close-cropped wet hair plastered to his head, and sure, a few women turn to look, but he doesn’t see them, and sure, there are a couple of punks on the corner, and they turn to look, but they don’t mess with him, ‘cause he’s an O.G., an original gangster, and he jumped out, don’t play that shit no more, and he’s a man. Opening the door to Mr. Koo’s, Sanchez bumps into a man in a hat and trenchcoat, wearing dark glasses, who is exiting. Sanchez excuses himself, and as he enters the small shop, these things register: the day is hot, but the man is overdressed; the man carried a stink about him, like he smoked too many unfiltered cigarettes at one time; he left with no purchase in his hands, in fact, he wore gloves; the store, usually bustling, was quiet, probably because the sign on the door had been turned to ‘Closed’, which it shouldn’t have been. The store carries the same stink as the man, as well as a hint of copper. There on the counter, lay a gun. Behind the counter lies Mr. Koo. And down the aisle, between the canned food and, opposite, the boxes of pasta, lie a woman and a child. Blood everywhere. God, the blood. The bodies were covered as if the blood were a blanket. The stink of death everywhere. And all the fury, all the rage that has been tamped down, all but extinguished, comes bubbling up again, scalding, seething. Sanchez scoops up the gun, an automatic, and removes the clip. Three fired, six left. First mistake. He rushes to the door, knocking past Miz Johnson and her little granny cart, without giving her a second glance. Second mistake. He hits the street like a panther charging its prey, gun in hand, his face contorted in rage and pain, as people walk by, looking at him in shock, and, behind him, Miz Johnson’s screams fill the air. Third mistake. Everything from here on out is blind fury, a whirlwind of vengeance, a white pinpoint of cold clarity as its eye. Where, where, where...? Car? No. Nothing parked outside. Bus? Too slow, timing unpredictable. Subway! And he runs... The man in the trenchcoat is walking, keeping a pace that is not casual, but not hurried. Determined. Just another guy on his way to work, hoping not to be late. And if the other dozen or so people who flank him wonder at his dress, they say nothing. This is the city, after all. They march, like weary soldiers, towards the subway entrance. Sanchez turns the corner at a skid, just as a young gang-banger, out for an early morning joint, pushes himself off the building he was leaning on, and they collide. The kid doesn’t fall, just kind of slides back a foot, and starts to say something, something dangerous, that only a kid breastfed on violence can say, without regard to whom he’s speaking, and here’s the thing, the thing that starts with, "Hey, muthafucka...." and quickly drowns itself in fear. It’s not the gun in Israel’s hand. That comes with the territory; the kid has one in his pocket. It’s the fact that the gun isn’t raised, not held high like most punks would have it, ready to shoot; but rather, at Israel’s side, hanging loose and casual, with nonchalance, because the guy holding it has no doubt that he can raise it in time when he has to, shoot it when he has to, and hit what he shoots at. That, and the eyes that hold him and regard him for only an instant, before dismissing him. Israel’s eyes are full of murder... The kid slinks back, as Israel passes him, and tries to look cool as he props himself back up against the building, and shakily lights up the joint, inhaling deeply, before he mutters, to himself "...watch where yer going..." Israel runs. The subway’s not far. What if he’s wrong? What if the shooter-- there! He stops, turns a bit to the side, and raises his arm, squeezes the trigger. The crowd that surrounds the shooter don’t bother him. Right now he has magic bullets that will find their mark... Israel is quiet, but a low, guttural snarl escapes his lips, he can’t help it, and the woman just in front of him, hears that, and turns, and sees the gun, and screams, and the shot is fired, and the scream is enough for others to hear, and the shooter, almost to the subway entrance, turns, and that is what saves his life, as the bullet lifts his hat off his head. Panic as the commuters trample forward, towards the dubious shelter of the subway. The shooter thinks, follow them or into the street? Use them to cover me, but no room to maneuver. Hit the street, I’m open, but I can run. Which, which, which? Both! Ducking down, the shooter melts into the crowd, letting them propel him towards the entrance, like he’s going into it, and then at the last minute, he swerves and dashes into the street, as cars and trucks and buses blare past. It’s a good plan. It should have worked. Except Israel is fast. Very fast. And limber. So, when the shooter sneaks a peek behind him, just a little peek, to see if his plan worked, all he can see is Israel launching himself off the roof a car, and flying towards him... The automatic doors at the Kwik-E-Shop-N-Go slide apart, and Josefina Ortega and little Anita turn north, to head back to their apartment, loaded down with bags. Jo feels a little guilty about coming here instead of Mr. Koo’s, but, as much as she likes the man personally, and as convenient as the store is, that man is a thief! I mean, he charges two dollars more for disposable diapers than this place, and you know ain’t nobody buying them, since the dust almost obscures the generic names emblazoned across the smiling white baby. And the bitch of the Kwik-E is that, once you go in, you’re gonna buy more stuff than you need, with all their sales an’ shit. So Jo loaded up, and if her bell-headed boyfriend complains, she’ll just show him the receipt from the store and he’ll see how much she saved and— Jo smiles. Israel is a good man. He loves her and their little girl. If he complains about the money, it’s only because he wants to make sure that they are never left wanting. And who can argue with that? That smile stays frozen in place though, when the reach the neighborhood. Sirens can be heard in the distance, and they’re coming closer. There is a crowd gathered around Mr. Koo’s, Miz Johnson is sitting on the pavement, wailing, as her granddaughter, Laetitia, wipes her brow with a wet rag. Old Mr. Martinez is trying to calm the crowd, and his son, that asshole punk, Jaime, is pushing people back, so they can’t get into the shop. Joe tightens her grip on Anita, who is starting to get a little antsy at all the commotion. "What’s going on?" she asks to no one in particular. The crowd turns, and looks at her like they’ve just seen a ghost. The taxicab’s driver was surprised to find the trench-coated man in his path, and his reflexes weren’t what they should have been, lucky for all that the man dived out of the way. The bigger surprise was the second man, who landed hard on the hood, rolled off, and kept running, albeit a bit unsteadily, like the impact of the cab was only a minor annoyance, a moment’s hesitation. But the cabby was definitely going to stop for coffee, now, to get his nerves back. Maybe a drink, instead. The shooter makes it across the street, dodging and weaving between cars with horns blaring, and makes it to the subway entrance across the street, slipping down the steps, two, three at a time. Sanchez, a bit unsteady, hangs back until the path is clear. He hesitates for a second at the mouth of the subway entrance, thinking, then takes off at a gallop down the street. The shooter leaps over the turnstile, races toward the platform, stops. The subway terminal is divided into north- and southbound trains, with a thick concrete wall running down the middle. The shooter is on the southbound side. He hugs the wall, waiting, as the train pulls into the station. the doors open, and still the shooter waits, wondering when Sanchez will appear at the bottom of the steps. People enter and exit the cars, and still he waits, with no sign of Sanchez. Then, just as the doors begin to close, the shooter rushes forward, slipping between the doors. The train starts to chug into the darkened tunnel. The shooter begins to relax, just a bit, but still keeping his eyes glued to the entrance. With any luck, Sanchez got run over up above, and is now just another stain on the pavement. The woman at the grocery store, it is discovered, was Mr. Koo’s niece, Soon Yee, and her infant son, who were staying with Mr. Koo while the niece was going through a divorce. Homicide detective Ray Bolger towers over Josefina, who sits on the tiny couch in her living room. She is thinking of Anita, now staying with a relative, and how they will all laugh about this one day, the baby, and Joe and Israel, laugh at the audacity of it, the insanity, because that’s what this is, insanity, everyone around here is crazy. The detective is speaking, but Jo doesn’t hear a thing. she stopped listening after the first go-round, when she told them, in no uncertain terms, that if they thought for one second that Israel had anything to do with this, they should step on up and get ready for an ass-whuppin’, ‘cause no way did her man do this. No way. The detective is speaking, but Jo is looking off into the kitchen, where Bolger’s partner, Detective Marker, sits in a chair, glaring at her, rubbing the side of his jaw, which she punched about half a second after he accused Israel of thinking that he had murdered his girlfriend and his daughter. The shooter tries to make himself invisible in the train car, hunkering down between an old lady and some kind of mechanic, who are supporting themselves by the overhead bars, looking, like the rest of the standing passengers, like monkeys hanging from trees. An instant after the train rolled into the tunnel, it seems, it rolled back out again, slowing as it reached the next stop. Anxiously, the shooter, cranes his neck back and forth, watching as the doors open, watching as commuters are ejected and then sucked in, sometimes both at once, people jockeying for position in the crowded car. The doors close. The train surges forward. Nothing. Wherever Sanchez is now, thinks the shooter, he ain’t here now, and that, of course, is the exact moment when the door connecting the cars, one to another, opens, and Sanchez is there, death in his eyes and the gun at his side. Too many people, thinks the shooter, too many between us, as he elbows his way backwards, toward the exit, and, more importantly, the emergency cord. You’d have to be crazy to try anything in here, so, when Sanchez raises the gun to fire, the shooter realizes that, yes, maybe he is a bit mad... The shooter leaps for the brake cord, grabbing it and pulling, and the train, not moving very fast to begin with, doesn’t quite make a screeching halt, nothing as dramatic as that, but it does sway, just a bit, just enough for Sanchez to hesitate, not necessarily because he doesn’t want an innocent to get shot, more because he doesn’t want to miss the shooter, doesn’t want to waste the bullets. And that moment’s hesitation is all the shooter needs to push the old lady forward, towards Sanchez, and leap off the train onto the platform, and off that, onto the tracks themselves, scrambling into the darkness of the tunnel, mindful of the electrified third rail. Sanchez tries to extricate himself from the tangle of people, but their panic has frozen them en masse, and he is slowed. So when he reaches the exit door, he is unsure of which way to go. Upstairs, back to the street? Or down into the tunnel? As he is deciding, a hand reaches out to grab the wrist of his gun hand. Sanchez whirls, and points the gun squarely on the forehead of the mechanic. The man, who should have flinched, at the very least, looks remarkably calm. He and Sanchez lock eyes for a second. Then the mechanic points toward the tunnel. Sanchez looks in that direction, then back at the man. For a long instant, neither moves. They just look at each other. Then Sanchez nods and is out the door. Later, at some point, he will reflect on that moment, consider why the mechanic did what he did. He will wonder if, somehow, they were able to communicate on some level that went beyond talking, beyond explanation. Sanchez will question it, but never get an answer. Now, however, he has a man to kill. The tunnel is eerily quiet, considering the roar that otherwise echoes off it’s concrete walls. Amber service lights dot its length, bright enough to see your hand in front of your face, far enough apart to prevent you from looking beyond that. There is the drip, of course, the constant drip of drain- and waterpipes, a sound that would be negligible if accompanied by any other noise, but alone takes on an almost palpable energy. Sanchez would like nothing better than to rush headlong down the tracks, or fear losing his prey, but the presence of the third rail, and the possibility that the shooter might be lying in wait, somewhere in the dark, forces him to slow down, taking one maddeningly cautious step after another, the gun gripped between both hands, the erratic beat of the dripping pipes loud in his ears. His head swivels from side to side, eyes trying to pick out one shadow from a thousand others as the slide over, past and through the debris and waste of thousands of construction and repair crews. A slight vibration and a low rumble makes him pause, looking up and down the track in preparation for the arrival of a train that never materializes. When the vibrations end, he continues and, as if on cue, the drips start again. There are indentations along the sides of the tunnel, built as a safety measure for workers, who can scurry into them and wait while the train roars past. Sanchez takes note of them as a new rumble begins, then fades, and after long minutes, as the process is repeated, and again, so that he is barely aware of the sensation anymore, the niches seem to come alive, the pale lights wavering, forming fleeting shadows that disappear just as quickly, a good place to hide if he were the shooter, and so intent is he on studying these scooped out portions of wall, so inured is he to the rumble beneath his feet, that when the small round light off in the distance starts to grow larger and larger, coming closer and closer, he is quite slow to respond, until he realizes that the sound in his head is not the buzz of anger, but the wail of a train’s whistle. A fast moving train, an express train, that will not slow as it reaches the station, but continue on, with barely a pause, leaving a whirlwind of dirt and dust and detritus in its wake. Sanchez skips nimbly off the track as the train approaches, and starts quickly toward a nearby depression in the wall. And that is when the toe of his shoe catches on a large bit of concrete that has shaken loose from the ceiling. He stumbles, his hands windmilling to maintain his balance as the train looms close. The pale lights around him clash with the bright one behind him, and shadows dance like dervishes until he cannot tell where the depression is, and then the roar fills his ears... He throws himself against the wall, willing his body to deflate, to flatten, the fingers of one hand clawing into the concrete, the others clinging to the gun, the wind from the train passing whipping his clothes and hair about, as he realizes that he’s made it into the safety niche, and then realizes that he’s not alone. Jo hangs up the phone. Who else to call? No one has seen or heard from Israel. The detective, Bolger, has put out an APB on him, has described him as armed and dangerous, and the reality of the situation has cut her deeply, like a knife in her gut, twisting round and round. He cannot have done what they’re accusing him of, and yet, she knows that he is involved, somehow. He didn’t do it, but he might know who did. And if that were the case, then the person responsible was dead, or soon to be. Mr. Koo was a friend, had been since Israel left the Diablos. If anyone caused that man harm, and Israel found out, he’d go after that person like a runaway freight train. Sanchez tries to pry away the fingers that claw at his eyes as the train rockets past. His head is pushed forward, so far so that he can feel the moving metal brush the ends of his hair. Neck muscles straining to keep his head back, legs muscles screaming as they try to keep him erect, in an instant, he knows, he will pitch forward and be whisked away, a leaf in a whirlwind, and in an instant, it’s over. The train continues it’s crackling journey, one last blast of whistle emitted before it disappears round the bend in the tunnel. The shooter, who has half-clambered onto Sanchez’s back, is trying to reach for the gun in his opponent’s grip. They struggle in almost silence, only grunts and growls and the drip of pipes breaking the calm, until Sanchez remembers that the train is past, and he doesn’t have to hold himself back, so he allows himself to fall forward, bending at the waist, and the shooter flips over, landing on his back onto the tracks, one foot precariously close to the electrified rail. Sanchez braces one hand against the wall, catching a quick breath before he shoots the son of a bitch, and that one quick inhalation and exhalation is all the shooter needs to scramble to his feet, scooping up a handful of dust, which he flings into Sanchez’s eyes, followed by a chunk of concrete the size of a softball, which the shooter swings in a horizontal arc. Sanchez, already raising his hands to rub away the grit in his eyes, catches the blow in his shoulder, and falls as the concrete rips away a goodly amount of flesh. As the killer’s wild swing spins him around off balance, Sanchez, from his kneeling position, blindly grabs the man’s legs, encircling his calves, and hangs on, even as the man rains his concrete filled hands down on Sanchez’s back. Dully realizing that he still holds the gun, Sanchez raises it and fires. The sound bounces off the walls in diminishing echoes. The blows stop, and Sanchez thinks for a second that he’s shot the man. But when he relinquishes his grip, Sanchez is greeted by a kick to the chest, followed by the sound of footsteps running away. His eyes cleared of grit, but clouded with pain, Sanchez aims at the receding figure, and fires. A grim satisfied smile spreads across Sanchez’s face as the shooter yelps, falls to one knee, and then rises again, continuing to flee in a stiff-legged gait. You go ‘head, he thinks. I have slowed yo’ ass up a bit, so I’m jus’ gonna rest here a sec, then we gonna play some more, ‘kay? With a slow tremble coursing through his body, Sanchez closes his eyes. But not for long. Because there’s a film playing on the inside of his closed lids, a movie of what might have been: little Anita playing on her swing, in her own backyard, while Daddy turns a steak over on the grill nearby. Jo is walking out of the kitchen, onto the lawn, a tall pitcher of lemonade, a cold bottle of beer, resting on the tray in her hands. Sanchez looks up at both of them and smiles, casts a quick glance at the steak (Jo likes it medium rare), then back at his family, who suddenly isn’t there. The tray is on the ground, pitcher smashed, beer bottle on its side, gurgling out the foamy brew. The swing is on a backward arc, empty, as if Anita had jumped off at the apex of its ascent. And when he looks back at the grill, Sanchez sees a human heart, cooking to perfection... Sanchez rises, using the slick walls of the tunnel for support, and starts in the direction of the shooter, who is now long gone. In the beginning, every step is agony, but, as the movie starts again, replaying every horror, Sanchez begins to trot then run then fly, trying to catch up to the shooter and outrace the film of what might have been and outdistance the reality of what is. Sanchez is kamikaze; divine wind, set to blow that fucker off the planet. "Missuz Sanchez, we really need your help here." Bolger the scarecrow has taken a seat across from Jo; his tactic of using his estimable height to tower over her, unnerving her, has failed. Indeed, the pretty, petite woman with the flashing eyes has subdued him with her quiet strength. A tour of the apartment earlier revealed nothing to support the idea that Sanchez is a killer. Nor did it support that he wasn’t. "It’s Miz Ortega. We’re not married" replies Jo, and, off in the kitchen, a grunt is heard. Scarecrow and Jo both catch Marker in mid eye-roll. Jo stands quickly, her fists bunched at her sides. "The fuck is your problem, man?" she demands, and then Marker, too, is on his feet, ready with a reply. But Bolger cuts him off. Jo whirls on Bolger. "Look, I don’t know what else I can do. I’ve called everyone I know, all our friends, my family, some people who Israel goes to school with. No one has seen him. I told you our routine; we’re both real busy, we don’t have a lot of money, okay? And we got a kid. Most nights we just stay home, y’know? He’s got schoolwork... I don’t know what else to say. But I’ll tell you again: he did not shoot Mr. Koo. He did not shoot the lady and the baby. He did not think that they were us." Her words die off in frustration. How else can she make them see that they are so very wrong? "What about his family", responds Bolger. "His parents--" "Dead. Both of the them. A long time ago." "No other family? No sisters, brothers..." Jo hesitates. "No... not anymore..." Sanchez somehow manages to emerge from the subway unnoticed, or at the very least, ignored. Maybe it’s his appearance; bedraggled, sweaty, cut and bruised; it’s certainly not the gun which cause people to shy away; that is safely tucked into his waistband. For whatever the reason, no one approaches him, or even acknowledges him. Just another wino, or homeless person, wandering the streets. The shooter, of course, is nowhere to be found. Disappeared. Tamping down the urge to wail, to curse his fate and his luck, Sanchez makes a plan. Someone knows what went down at the store. Someone knows who the shooter is. Someone has information. All Sanchez has to do is get it. But to get it, he has to go back willingly into a world he walked away from with his head held high, returning with a droop in his shoulders, supplication and remorse weighing down on him. He has to find Diablos Negro. He has to find Romero. "What do you mean, not anymore?" asks Bolger. He sits at the edge of his seat now, looking intently at Jo. She has somehow shrunk, only slightly, enough to show him that she has some information, at last. Jo looks out the window, at the darkening sky. "When I first met him, Israel was in this gang, Diablos Negro. You heard of them? Yeah, I figured. Most people have. But, back in the day, they weren’t like they are now, you know? They were just... kids. Stupid kids. Hanging around on the block, you know. Protecting their turf or whatever, mainly just a reason to be bad, to have people think they were bad. Israel was, not the leader, but like, second in command or something. he maybe should have been the leader, but that wasn’t his thing. Israel knows himself, he knows how to take care of himself, he don’t, I don’t know, he cares too much for people, he won’t take anybody where he himself won’t go, right? Mostly, I think he just stayed in it because, when he saw where it was going, he thought that maybe he could steer it in a different direction or something. "Anyway, when I met him, the Diablos were just coming into power. They started getting into the drugs and the violence and all the shootings and shit. Not like they are now, but still, bad asses. People in the hood knew them, knew to stay away. Especially the crazy bastard, Romero. The leader. He was, like one second your best friend, the next he’d be beating your ass with a pipe or something. So, one day, my dad, he just bought a new car. Parked it in front of the house, ran inside to show us all. he never had a new car before, always bought used, so this was a real big deal. We all come out, right, he’s gonna take us for a ride. When we hit the sidewalk, there’s Romero and some of his punks, leaning up on the car. Now, my dad, he used to be a marine, big guy, never took no bullshit, but he also knew respect, he used to be in a gang himself when he was a kid. So, he doesn’t go apeshit or nothing, he knows that Romero just wants his props, he wants to show that he’s a badass. Daddy asks real nice, you know, hey man, could you please not lean on the car I just bought it, then he jokes, let me put the first dents in it before you, okay? "Romero doesn’t move. He just leans there smiling. Daddy asks again, do you mind? Still nothing, so he, my dad, calmly walks around to the driver’s side, opens the door, gets in and starts the car. To show, I guess, that he’s not scared neither, he’s gonna drive his car whether Romero’s on it or not. So he steps on the gas, just a little bit, and the car goes like, an inch or two forward. Then all hell breaks loose. Romero jumps up off the car and starts screaming, Man are you trying to run me over? Are you trying to kill me? then he and his boys start wailing on the car, beating it with rocks, bricks, whatever they can find. "My mom and my aunt and my older sister and me, we’re just standing there, watching, like, in shock, and Dad starts to get out of the car, and he’s got that thing, the club? That thing that locks your steering wheel? And he is pissed. "They start hitting my dad. He’s fighting back, you know, he’s breaking himself off a piece of ass, but there’s like, five of them and just one of him. My aunt goes inside to call the cops, Mom and my sister are screaming their heads off. I guess that I start to go a little nuts, cause I picked up this rock and go after Romero. "All of a sudden, this guy, this I don’t know, this like, blur of a guy is there, and he picks up Romero and drops his ass onto the street! He was soo fast, my God, like if you blinked, forget it! And the other Diablos, they stop, they don’t know what to do, and this guy, he’s standing over Romero, and Romero’s screaming at him, crying and kicking and going crazy like he’s having a temper tantrum, and this guy is just looking at him, real sad and he walks away, calm, goes over to my dad, helps him up. And it’s over. Boom. "And that’s how I met Romero and his brother Israel..." "Izzy." Sanchez steps into the foyer of the three-flat brownstone building. There are many people inside, mostly young men, many teens and a few women. All trying very hard to look hard. Tough. Most fail. A few succeed. Some give Sanchez the Diablos salute, index and little finger extended, the others curled in, first touching the right breast, then arcing outward. Sanchez doesn’t return the ‘represent’, he found it stupid when he was with them, he sure as hell won’t do it now. "Izzy." The soft voice calls again, and Sanchez turns to his brother, who is seated in a large leather chair, a girl perched on the arm of it. "Izzy, you look like shit, bro." Romero Sanchez is a small man, slight of build, a few years older than Sanchez, but looking almost twice his age. His pockmarked face, hooded eyes, the way he seems to always be in motion, even seated, reminds Sanchez of a snake. "Romy, I need your help." Sanchez tries to ignore the smirks on the faces of the other people in the room. Romero doesn’t stir. "Yeah, what up, dog? Why you need me? And no, that’s okay, I don’t need no kiss or nothin’ from my baby brother, and I’m fine, fuck you very much." He whirls on one of the young men. "Fuck you laughin’ at, bitch? Ain’t nothin’ funny here. This my brother, man, this Israel, he helped make this club. He an O.G., you better believe you gonna give him his props. Now wipe that shit eatin’ grin off your face and sit your punkass down!" Sanchez moves past the now somber teen to stand in front of his brother, who is busy lighting up a joint. "Jo and Anita are dead." Romero looks up sharply, the joint hanging off his lip. "Whaa-aat? Git the fuck outahere. Fer real?" "This morning. And Mr. Koo, this guy who owned the store they were at. All three got whacked. I need to know who did it, and why. I need your help." "Aww, Izzy, I am so sorry man." Romero holds out his hand to his brother, who hesitates. "C’mere, man. No, come here, dude, let me give you some love, please, we’re brothers, this is a sad day..." Sanchez takes his brother’s outstretched hand, and Romero pulls him close, hugs him. "You’re my brother, blood is blood, I don’t care what happened to us, that’s past. Let me help you, bro..." And Sanchez, exhausted, starts to cry, huge wracking sobs, as he grabs his brother, the only family he has left. Romero, his voice cracking, calls out to one of his men, "Chulo, spread the word. Go find out what you can." And then, to Sanchez, "Don’t worry, bro. We’re together now. Again. The Sanchez brothers. Diablos Negro. Can’t nothin’ break us. Shh, it’s okay, now, shh, stop..." Sanchez rocks back on his heels before his brother. "We had a fight. No biggie. But I wanted to apologize. So I went to find her. This motherfucker, I passed right by him, as he was leaving the store! He took off their heads, man! I couldn’t see him, he had on shades and a trenchcoat... He left his gun, I took it, went after his ass, but..." Romero looks at his brother seriously now, resting his cheek on a fist. "Okay, okay, I got it. Right. And you think what, that this was some kind of heist thing that went south or something? Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. We gonna find this cat. When we do, we’ll take care of it, don’t’ worry ‘bout it..." Sanchez wipes his eyes. "No, Romy, you just find him for me. I’ll take care of it." Romero looks at his brother fondly, sadly. "Okay bro. Whatever you want. It’s your thing. But I got your back, right? I got your back, no matter what. You’re my brother. You’re Black Devil. Family. We stick, right?" Sanchez starts to stand. "Right..." Bolger in the kitchen with Marker. Two cops with a lot of history behind them and a lot of streets that they’ve stepped on. Marker calls it like he sees it. Another two bit punk who tries to go straight but finds out its too hard….too demeaning. And he cracks. Gets juiced by the thrill of a gun’s power. Bolger disagrees. Something doesn’t figure so easy. There’s an underplay here. Romero offers a joint to Sanchez, who shakes his head no. "Benny, get Izzy a drink, you want a drink, bro? No? Okay, how about you lie down for a while? You sure? You can have Benny’s room..." At this, a large, bullet-headed tough steps forward. "‘Ey, now, Romero, come on, that ain’t right, bro. How come he gotta get my room?" Romero responds with a smile. "Cause he’s my brother, asshole, and he’s tired, and he’s back in the family, he’s number two in Diablos Negro, so shut your ass." Benny, pouting, puffs up his chest. "Bullshit, babe, I’m number two, I don’t give a fuck he is your brother. Ain’t my fault somebody capped his bitch and--" Benny never finishes his thought, as he lands on the floor, hitting his head, Sanchez straddling him, the gun out of his waistband and in his fist, aiming at Benny’s left eye. Romero rocks in his chair, laughing. "Hey Benny, what you say? I think my brother got other ideas, man." Everyone around begins to laugh. "Benny, you know who the most dangerous man alive is? The man got nothin’ left to live for, that’s who. Let him up, Izzy. Don’t kill him. Save the bullets in that gun you scooped off the counter for the mother fucker that wasted Joe and your little baby." "You’re right, Romy. This punk ass bitch ain’t worth it." Sanchez steps away from Benny, who gets up slowly, and slinks off. He puts the gun back in his waistband. He looks around him. No one is laughing now. Death hangs in the air, spinning like a tornado, and Sanchez is the eye of it. "I think I’ll have that drink, now." Someone hands him a glass of amber liquid, which Sanchez downs in one gulp. He holds it out, and the glass is filled again. "I need some rest, Romy. I’m gonna crash for a bit. You wake me if you hear anything. Got that?" Romero smiles. "Sure, Izzy…just get down for a bit. Let the boys handle it. They got eyes that you don’t." Romero starts to leave the room and Israel notices that he is limping. "what’s up with the leg?" Romero holds it. "Got into a bitch fight, man. She dug a knife like she was trying to carve me up." Pause. . "Been a long time, bro. We got a lot of catching up to do. As the gangbangers file out, some give Sanchez the salute, which he, this time, returns. Sanchez enters the room…Benny’s room. He clears the bed with one swipe of his hand and puts the gun on the small table next to it. He lies down and without thinking, reaches for the gun and cradles it as his eyes close. Bolger is sitting on the couch. Held in his hands is the picture frame of Israel’s GED diploma. Jo is sitting next to him. She tells him how much the diploma meant to Israel. "He didn’t do it…" The look in her eyes is passionate and serious. Bolger finds it unsettling. Did anyone ever believe in him like that? He doesn’t think so. Romero knocks on the door. "Izzy?" The door swings open. Empty. Israel hunched over as he walks down a street filled with adult bars with torn pictures of topless dancers taped to the entrances. His attempt at trying to blend in is failing. He commands too much of a presence. Figures lurk on the sidewalk…no where to go but at least there is activity here. Cast out from humanity it seems, yet, mired in the very baseness of it all. Patricia, a once attractive black women approaches him. Izzy doesn’t recognize her at first. She looks used up. She had yet to hit her 30th birthday. "Well, well…if it isn’t Mr. Izzy Sanchez. What brings you down here? Your woman give you the married attitude?" "Hey, Patricia. Just visiting. Ain’t a social visit. Looking for someone." Patricia slides up to him, caressing him. It is a move of desperation more than lust. "you used to look for me once in awhile." Israel looks intently at her. He doesn’t have time for her games…or for her. She is nothing more than a conduit of information. She has long been out of his thoughts. "Heard ‘bout that shooting? I’m looking for the shooter. Put the word out." Patricia tries her best attempt at sexy allure. "And what will that do for me, hmmm?" Israel gently cups her chin and looks into her eyes. "Respect". Patricia backs away. It was an odd response, one she didn’t expect. And she isn’t sure how to take it. But it makes her stop. "Okay, Israel. I’ll let everyone know." She watches as Sanchez moves on down the street. Bolger outside of Jo’s apartment. There are a dozen plainclothes cops around as Bolger is laying out the situation. He tells them that he believes Sanchez thought the dead people were his "wife" and child. He’s on a hunt for revenge. They have to find 1) the killer and 2) Sanchez before he crosses a line that he can’t come back from. Marker snorts but Bolger’s gaze quiets him. "We got a chance to keep someone on the right path here. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be about?". The cops look at each other. A new job description but they’re in agreement. As the cops begin to disperse, Bolger looks up. Jo is in the window looking down at him. Sanchez slamming a punk up against the wall. "You know all the jack that goes on around here, Maggot!" The kid, face colored with white patches from no pigmentation, is scared. Sanchez is a legend and you don’t never ever fuck with a legend. "Man, I really don’t know nuthin’….I swear.". Sanchez lets him down. "Then, I suggest you find out." Maggot nods eagerly. Anything. Sanchez puts his gun under Maggot’s chin. "You’re a scum bag, Maggot. Everyone knows it. If you give me any kind of bad shit, I’m coming for you. I don’t care what it takes. Don’t need much of an excuse to wipe you off this planet…and everyone will thank me for it." Maggot smiles, showcasing his gold capped teeth. "I’m working with ya, Izzy. Me and you…we’ll find this guy." Sanchez drops his gun. "Whatever it takes, do it." Maggot watches as Sanchez leaves, burying his gun in the back of his pants. Inside Bolger’s car, Jo is sitting next to him, cradling her baby. "I don’t think it’s a good idea…" Bolger is uncomfortable but nearly as much as Marker who is sitting in the back. Jo looks straight ahead. "If you’re going to get any answers, you have to know who to ask. You cops think you know it all but you guys don’t know shit." She looks back at Marker. "You have no idea of the games people play with you." Marker scoffs. "maybe. But we get enough of you behind bars. That’s our job. We’re not here to baby-sit you." Jo turns back. "You’re right. I keep forgetting what your job is." Sanchez turns into an alley way. Facing him are five members of a rival gang. The leader steps forward. Dutch. Big…brushcut like a military buzz and the tattoos etched over his arms and neck almost look like camouflage. "We heard you back, Sanchez. Back in the Diablos." Sanchez moves around the group to prevent being surrounded. "Maybe. Nothing to do with you." Sanchez looks into Dutch’s face. "Or does it?" Dutch backs away. Not a sign of fear but a sign to show that he isn’t threatening. "Nope. Not yet, anyways. But if you are back, Romero will soon make it our business if you catch my meaning." Sanchez nods. Romero has bad blood with almost everybody but wouldn’t push it unless he could win. Sanchez knew he was the missing piece. Dutch steps closer. "We were pulling for you, man. You got your shit together. You got out." Sanchez looks at the group…evaluating. "Well, it looks like I’m back in. Shit happens." Dutch waves and the other members leave. He turns back towards Sanchez as they get out of earshot. "No, Sanchez, shit just don’t happen. There’s a reason for it…there’s always a reason for it. I ain’t getting involved with nobody but all I’m saying is that what went down was planned." Sanchez is eager for the news. Finally. "By who." Dutch holds up his hands. "As I said, I ain’t getting involved. But I will say, who wants to pull you back in? Who wants you so bad that they’d do anything…" Sanchez backs away. It can’t be but he knows it is. Bolger watches from his car as Jo, still holding her baby, is talking on the streets with some prostitutes. Spanish is talked about rapidly and he doesn’t catch much. The only words he catches are Diablos Negroes. Jo rushes back to the car. "Hurry. Get out of here before someone sees you. Can’t let anyone know that she gave me information." The car speeds off. "Don’t worry, Izzy" assures Romero, as Sanchez has returned to his brother’s place. "Chulo find out who this bitch is, and we go get him. Together, right? I just wanna watch, I won’t interfere." Sanchez smiles. Romero adopts a look of concern. "Unless Chulo freaks out, of course. Kills the mug. Sometimes he get like that. Damn, I sure hope he don’t though, I know you want him for yourself, and shit." Sanchez holds his glass up in toast to his brother. "That’s the way it’s supposed to happen, right? Drink?" Romero holds out a bottle as Sanchez approaches with his glass, holding it low to be poured into. "What you mean, bro?" Sanchez suddenly kicks his brother’s leg, not hard, but Romero doubles over in pain, acts as if he’s been shot. Which he has. Sanchez grabs his brother’s hair and pulls his head back up. The gun is in his hand and aimed at Romero. "What happened to your leg bro? usually you can’t sit still for more than a minute. Somebody shoot you? Back in the subway, maybe? Remember that, you son of a bitch?! Right after you killed Jo and our baby? And that poor old man? You remember?" he kicks him again. Romero howls. Sanchez brings his face inches from Romero’s. "You fucked me, Romy. you fucked up my life, my dreams, everything I loved, everything! WHY?!" Romero closes his eyes, squeezes out a tear. "Because I missed you," he whispers. "I missed you, I love you, I needed you, and I knew you’d never come back while that bitch was around." Sanchez snarls, digs the gun into Romero’s cheek. "Blood is blood, bro!", continues Romero. "I always knew you’d come back, but I couldn’t wait no more! I had big plans, Diablos is movin’ up, I couldn’t handle it alone, so I decided to take care of it. I saw her come out of your building, followed her. I lost her for a second, but then I saw her go into the store with your kid. I just went in blastin’, man. I never figured you’d show up like that! "Damn, Izzy, I was hurt that you didn’t even recognize me, behind those shades. I mean, we’re brothers man!" Sanchez blinks then. Lowers the gun. "...You’re crazy..." Romero smiles, "I couldn’t let no one else do it though. I had to. I owed it to you. Damn man, when I was runnin’ from you, it was like, wow, you still got it, you know? the fire! That shit was beautiful, the way you skipped ahead to the next station. Man!" Sanchez steps away, walks over to the window. "So, you knew I was gonna come here? And what, Chulo is supposed to find some guy, whack him, say he was the shooter, then I just come back in? Diablos Negro forever? That it? You know me that well?" Romero struggles to stand. "Yeah, little brother, I know you that well, just like I know this: one, you can’t do shit. There’s like, a dozen dudes here with guns ain’t gonna let you leave. Two, you ain’t gonna do nothin’ to me. You can’t shoot me. I’m your brother. I’m all you got left." Sanchez spins back to his brother, shoots him in the leg, and Romero crumples in agony. "Romy, you don’t know shit. You don’t know me. You think I’m scared of your people, with their guns? No man, remember? I’m the most dangerous man alive! Sanchez walks over to his brother, who is writhing on the floor. He looks down at him in sadness. "Romy, I loved you. I never would have joined you again, but I would have left you alone... " Suddenly a shot from behind, and Sanchez ducks. Benny stands in the doorway, gun in hand. Behind him the sound of sirens grows in intensity. Sanchez fires twice, and Benny falls. When he turns back to Romero, Sanchez finds his brother holding a gun on him. "You know what, Izzy? I believe you. I believe that you ain’t afraid to die. Okay, I am. I know that this is the only way for this to end with us. So, I’m sorry, I gotta kill you. but at least it’s me, right? Your own brother. Not one of these punk ass bitches that think they so bad. After all, blood is blood and NO!" Romero’s eyes flick to the right over Sanchez’s shoulder. Sanchez dives to his left, just as Benny, bleeding, standing fires off another round, catching Romero in the chest. Sanchez fires at Benny, killing him. The sirens grow louder... Sanchez stumbles out of the building. Police everywhere, rounding up Diablos, lights flashing off the walls. sirens blaring. Guns are trained on him, cops yelling at him to raise his hands. but Sanchez is tired, he doesn’t hear them. All the adrenaline that has kept him moving is gone, now, and he is left with nothing. "Israel!" Sanchez looks up, squints past the flashing lights. Someone in the distance. Funny, sounds like Jo. Looks like Jo. And Anita. The cops yell at him to raise his hands. "Jo?" he asks, he can’t really see, this can’t be real, and he raises one hand to shield his eyes. The gun is still in it. Jo’s screams are drowned out by the sound of gunfire... "Hi, we’re not at home right now, so leave a message right now, and SHIT!" "Heh-heh. Hi, Israel, Bob Conner here, from Weyerhauser, Fellows and Davis. Nice message on the machine. I can’t figure out how to work mine at home either. Listen, sorry I haven’t gotten back to you the last few days, but like I said at your interview, we wanted to talk to a few more people. Anyway, listen, congratulations! You’ve got the job! You start Wednesday. I spoke with Paul, the head of the mail room, and we both agreed, we need your kind of energy here at Weyerhauser. Give me a call tomorrow, and we’ll talk details, okay? And don’t worry, sure there’s a lot to learn, but we’ll take it slow. Don’t want to get your adrenalin flowing too quicBEEP
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