by Robert Martin

The homies always told her “Trouble Man” couldn’t be her favorite song because she wasn’t a man. Whenever they said that, she gave them the finger, laughed, and answered, “Yeah, but I’m still Trouble.” And she was, Trouble from East Side Belvedere, or at least she would be if the Belvedere still let in girls.
 
“Carmen!”
 
She ignored the first yell, and rolled over on her couch bed, pressing the headphones she wore close to her ears, the song, “Trouble Man” on repeat, drowning out the heavy knocks on her door.
 
“Carmen! Don’t fucking make me go in there.”
 
The knocks came again, this time hard enough to shake her wooden door. What time was it? Trouble asked herself, the adobe walls of her room keeping her cool and hiding her from the day.
 
“Carmen…”
 
Glancing over her shoulder, she saw her Tía Huera standing over her. Tía Huera never called her Trouble, saying that type of drama was before Trouble’s time and that she had no business getting involved.
 
“I know you can hear me, Carmen…”
 
Rolling over to face her, Trouble greeted her aunt, “Good morning Tía.”
 
Annoyed, Tía Huera answered, “Morning, it’s 1 o’clock and I need you today.”
 
“Need me?” Trouble feigned confusion.
 
Tía Huera snatched the headphones off Trouble’s head, “Yeah, I need you, I got a big order due, so come on.”
 
“I was listening to something,” Trouble protested.
 
“I don’t care, now the shop, let’s go.”
 
“You said I was too young.”
 
“I said that when you were eight, you’re sixteen or did that mota you smoke make you forget?”
 
“But you said I’m too clumsy, that I break things.”
 
“I’m going to say you’re fucking lazy, and I just need you to quench.”
 
Trouble’s confused look returned, “Quench?”
 
“Keep acting dumb...”
 
“I’m going, I’m going, shit,” Trouble sat up on her couch, her thin blanket falling to the floor.
 
Tía Huera smiled, “Thank you, Carmen,” and started to leave, stopping at the door, “Don’t make me wait,” then leaving her to dress.
 
Pulling the plug of her headphones so the music could play out loud, Trouble found her pants, black khakis, she slid them on and clasped her belt with a B on the buckle. Baggy, cuffed, and creased, they suited her as did her black and white shoes. Chuck Taylors, sold cheap and mass produced, everyone in the barrio had ‘em, their design even older than her favorite song.
 
Trouble picked out a shirt she stole from her brother, choosing a black and white plaid button up that draped down to her knees. Putting on dark sunglasses, also stolen from her brother, she ran her hand over her short hair. Not many homegirls had the heart to go bald or pelón like the homeboys, but she did. Not fully shaven, her black hair was crew cut, and to protect her from the sun she wore a black fedora she took off some hyna from the Low Bottoms Barrio, still a little bent from the altercation.
 
In Old Los Angeles, everything was a thousand years old and practically ancient. Everything that was new was reserved for the gringo colonies up in space. Earth and its old cities were only good for their resources, the poor and their labor included. In 2992, Raza like her did what they could to survive, and from the Raza history she knew, it had always been like that.
 
Tía Huera’s shop was built into the back of their adobe house. In the Chicano barrios of Old L.A., the houses were adobe, with no access to gringo building materials, la Raza returned to the ways of their ancestors. Walking to the shop, Trouble could hear her aunt working without her, slamming her hammer down on layered steel, forming what would soon be a sword.
 
Trouble had heard stories of ancient times, when barrios used to shoot each other up with cuetes, but that was back before anyone alive could remember. Ever since the world became a ghetto there hadn’t been a gun on the planet, even the gringo Corporation and its goons had to use swords, spears, or axes.
 
“What happened to you? Getting all dolled up for your vato?” her Tía teased her, still hammering away.
 
“Chale! I don’t get dolled up or nothing for no one,” replied Trouble.
 
All the boys in the barrio were from the Locos clique of Belvedere, that meant they were her brother’s friends, and she’d be damned if she went with one of them.
 
“Don’t be like me, Carmen.”
 
“Why not, Tía, you're firme, you got your own shop, you make your own coin, you were a Belvedere Loca, you kick ass.”
 
“I’ll kick your ass if you keep talking that homie shit with me, now take this and…”
 
Knowing what her aunt wanted, Trouble pulled on a heavy glove and took the heated steel and quenched it in a bucket of oil. Fiery, she held it and then pulled it as soon as it was ready.

The sword was going to be a gladius. A short sword with a blocky guard and rounded pummel, it was also cheap. Unlike other swords like sabers or claymores, the gladius required little skill, just slash or stick ’em with the pointy end. This made them popular in the streets because, as her brother always said, “too many homies are too lazy to train.”
 
Thinking of him, she asked, “Hey Tía, where’s Hugo?”
 
“He’s not here, keep working,” her Tía replied, showing her another sword that needed quenching.
 
A dozen quenched swords later and Listo, a youngster from Belvedere, strolled into the shop, bald headed, with a white tee and his button up folded over his shoulder.
 
“You’re too sexy to be working, how come you don’t let me sweep that ass, my bad, I mean sweep you off your feet?”
 
Trouble caught her Tía rolling her eyes, answering him, she snapped, “Nobody fucking cares, Listo.”
 
“Trouble, you’re breaking my heart,” Listo, the neighborhood player, pressed a finger beneath his eye then dragged it down his cheek like a teardrop.
 
“Nobody fucking cares, Listo,” she said again, “Now what the fuck you want?”
 
“To tell you that your brother is good.”
 
“Good? What the fuck happened?”
 
“Corpses in the barrio, you know what it is, homegirl.”

Trouble hid her anxiety, Corpse was a diss name for the Corporation and the Corporation was not to be messed with. They were the gringos that controlled the valley and raided the barrios to the East and South like vikings.
 
“Don’t trip, the corpses are gone,” Listo pulled a cigarette he kept tucked behind his ear and started to smoke, “They might come back though.”
 
Tía Huera interrupted, “Ey! You want to talk that bullshit, then take it out of my shop!”
 
“Outside,” Trouble shot her hand with a pointed finger outwards directing Listo to the street.

“Whatever,” Listo turned and walked out.
 
Once alone, Troubles asked, “Are you sure, Tía? I could keep helping you if you want.”
 
“You remind me of the old days sometimes, I swear, now go, you’re clumsy like you said anyway.”
 
Stepping out into the street and leaving her Tía to her work, she saw that Listo had already left. In school, her teacher had told her that all the streets in Old L.A used to be paved, even the river, but that was ancient history. The streets, now dirt roads, flooded nasty, with centuries of trash lining them like curbs and broken gravel sidewalks. All except for the gringo valley run by the Corporation, they kept everything like it was or even better, or so she was told. Chicanas like her weren’t allowed in the valley.
 
The Belvedere Barrio wasn’t very big, not like the Willowbrook or Hollenbeck, but it was theirs. It had a park that they had taken over and a corner store that sold liquor and smokes. When she was a little girl, her big brother would walk her to get candy, sour worms and chili powder. She would never go alone, even now, Trouble still didn’t like walking around by herself. Other barrios knew who she was and could catch her slipping, running her down and stabbing her up, not that she’d ever admit to fearing for her life.
 
Walking first to her homegirl’s house, another flat-topped adobe, she knocked on the door and called out, “Muñeca! Muñeca!”
 
The door opened and it was Ms. Rodriguez, Muñeca’s mom, “Letty is busy, studying.”
 
That was a lie, Muñeca had dropped out with Trouble last year.
 
“I said she’s studying, so leave.”
 
“Ms. Rodriguez…”
 
“I wish you’d forget my daughter lived here, you’re trouble.”
 
Trouble smirked, “I know I am.”
 
Ms. Rordguez stood firm at the door as if to hide all that was behind her.
 
“Mom, it’s just Carmen,” said Muñeca, squeezing herself past her mother and outside.

“She just said she was trouble.”
 
“She’s my friend Mom, I’ll be back,” Muñeca leaned back towards her mother to give her a hug, one her mother reluctantly accepted.
 
Close to her daughter, Ms. Rodriguez whispered in her ear, “Don’t be out all night.”
 
Muñeca gave her mother a kiss goodbye without agreeing to anything, then joined Trouble outside, dressed similarly only she kept her hair in a long single braid that went down her back and her shirt was solid blue not plaid.
 
“Your mom doesn’t like me,” said Trouble, walking with her best friend.

“It’s cuz you’re a crazy bitch,” teased Muñeca.
 
“Fuck you,” Trouble teased back.
 
Exchanging shoves until Muñeca, the smaller of the two, fell into the street. Together they met their homegirl, Bashful, the oldest of the three and sporting a big blue sweater and dyed red hair. The homegirls, occupying the sidewalk, walked shoulder to shoulder in search of Trouble’s brother and the vatos from Belvedere.
 
As expected, her brother had the homeboys training. Not every barrio trained, a lot of barrios didn’t even have swords for all their homies. Belvedere was different, her brother didn’t let no one in unless they had a blade, and when all the other barrios were out drinking and getting high, he had them working, learning techniques, and practicing their footwork. The homies hated him for it, until they got in a scrap and survived using what he taught them.
 
When Trouble was a little girl, a viejo with some money built a rancho. He raised animals and planned to sell their meat, eggs, and milk in the barrio, but he forgot about the Corporation. The corpses sold their own fake meat, eggs, and milk, and they wouldn’t suffer any competition, so one night they killed the viejo and burned everything he had down to the ground, animals too. Since then, her brother and Belvedere took over, burying the viejo’s body, and using the remains of his rancho to train at.
 
The Locas were a clique, a subset of Belvedere that had been all Chicana, and once upon a time they trained with the Locos and fought with them against rival barrios, but that had all ended after her Tía Huera’s generation. Now the Locos thought the homegirls were only good for polishing their swords. But the homegirls didn’t care, they marched up to the wooden fence of the old animal pen the homeboys were training in and peered over.
 
The Locos were deep, twenty of them sitting on the floor crossed legged around the rectangular pen. The homeboys mostly went bald, some wearing fedoras, they all wore baggy pants and Chuck Taylors and white tees under button ups. Their shirts, plaid or a solid dark color, worn extra long to conceal the swords at their waist. Just ahead of them in the middle sat her brother, a legend at twenty, they called him Dreamer from Belvedere.
 
Hair slicked back with pomade, Dreamer’s plaid shirt was blue and white, worn open allowing his sword, slung at his side to peek out. A katana, Japanese steel in Chicano hands, it was hard to get and dangerous to use. A vato could just as easily cut off their own hand by accident than fighting the enemies. To wield it, made him feared and respected, even by Belvedere’s rivals like Calle Eastern. And his ability as a barrio warrior earned him the title, the Sword of the East.
 
At the center, stood two homeboys, Listo from earlier and another homeboy called Shorty. Both were holding training swords made of wood, stepping awkwardly they exchanged blows, neither very skilled. Trouble could tell Shorty was intimidated and it made him skittish. Listo, overly confident, took too many risks and swung wildly.
 
“Aagh!” cried out Listo, charging Shorty at full speed and making the mistake of running into the point of Shorty’s wooden sword. Seeing him fall, groaning and cursing in pain, Trouble laughed loudly, getting not only Listo’s attention but all of Belvedere.
 
“Who let the hoodrats watch?!” questioned a vato her brother’s age named Stretch, a gigantic homeboy from Belvedere.
 
From the floor, Listo made his excuses, “You all saw that shit, I got distracted by them sexy ass hynas.”
 
Shorty scowled, “Fuck that, I beat your ass, them hynas saw it too,” shifting towards Trouble and her homegirls, “Who gonna give me a victory kiss?”
 
Trouble hated when the homies acted stupid, even more so she hated the way Shorty was looking at Muñeca and when Listo started to give her the same look, she snapped, “What victory? You got lucky Shorty, and Stretch, call me and the homegirls hoodrats again and I’ma fuck you up.”
 
The homeboys erupted in laughter, embarrassing Shorty and Listo, and making Stretch angry, “I don’t fight hynas, but I’ll consider your ugly ass a vato,” he then stood up aggressively.
 
Muñeca and Bashful couldn’t stop her in time, Trouble, hopping the fence and shouting, “You want to fight, motherfucker!”
 
Trouble didn’t have the voluptuous bottle shape the Locos were into and they punished her for it, teasing her at every opportunity. Having what her Tía called a warrior’s build, she was lean and well-muscled, with calloused hands and a broken nose. Taking offense at being called an ugly hoodrat, she pressed the issue, “You big son of a bitch!”
 
Stretch, leaving his real weapon, a cross guarded longsword, he picked up a wooden one. Shirtless, Belvedere tattooed across his chest, he stepped into the center of the pen.
 
“This is going to be bad,” said Shorty as he helped Listo to his feet. Listo, grinning, exclaimed, “Ooo, Trouble, your ass is going to get it now!”
 
“Shut the fuck up, Listo,” called out Bashful, and leaning over the fence, Muñeca taunted, “Fuck ’em up, Trouble don’t let Stretch get away with that shit!”
 
Happy that her homegirls had her back, Trouble stepped further into the pen, “I need a training sword, who got one I can use?”
 
All the homies from Belvedere turned to her brother Dreamer, silently asking if they could give her one, none of them moving without his say. Her brother pretended to think it over, eyes hidden behind his own dark sunglasses. Rising to his feet, “The homie Stretch vs Trouble,” he declared, “that’s not a fair fight.”
 
Stretch protested, “What the fuck you mean?”
 
Dreamer let slip a sly smile beneath his thin mustache, “Listo, Shorty, will join Stretch in fighting my sister.”
 
Shorty choked, “What?!”
 
“I said you three versus my sister.”
 
“Nah, that’s fucked up, we’d beat the shit out of her,” Listo argued.
 
“Sure about that?” warned Dreamer, walking over to his sister with his wooden training sword.
 
Handing it to her, he said in a low voice, “Don’t embarrass me.”
 
Taking the wooden sword from him, Trouble replied, “You taught me everything I know, it’s your fault if I lose.”
 
The fighters took their positions, Trouble standing across from the homeboys with Stretch in the center and Listo and Shorty on his right and left. Dreamer, retaking his seat, waited till he had all of their attention before saying, “Alright go.”
 
“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle, I don’t want nothing to happen to that pretty face,” taunted Listo.
 
Rushing her, his wooden sword raised above his head, he screamed a bird-like battle cry and was taken down with one swift blow. With an instantaneous switch of stance followed by the delivery of a well-timed strike, Trouble left Listo dazed in the dirt.
 
“I yield!” Shorty fell to his knees and raised his wooden sword above his head as if to offer to her.
 
“Leva,” muttered Stretch, knocking Shorty over as he passed him to take on Trouble.
 
When Stretch charged, Trouble couldn’t believe how fast the big man was moving, the strike she had planned became a dodge as she pivoted out of his way. Frustrated at missing her, he whirled himself back at her in a long sweeping motion, but she ducked and felt her fedora take the hit that was meant for her head. Kneeling, she stabbed and missed. Regaining control of his weapon, Stretch brought it down on her like a hammer, but sensing the attack coming, she rolled out of the way.
 
Back on her feet, Trouble skipped backwards to put distance between them and for a moment they caught their breaths then went at it again. Raising her wooden sword to meet his, his strength made blocking his attacks difficult. After an exchange that left her hands pulsating in pain around the grip of her weapon, she slowed down and used herself as bait. Thinking she was tired, Stretch hoped to make an example of her in front of her homegirls, still anxiously watching from the sidelines. Bringing his wooden sword up over his head, poised to bring down on her, he put all his force into it only to see her roll away at the very last moment. Too late for him to stop his attack, he hit the dirt floor of the pen so hard his wooden sword snapped and splintered.
 
Trouble, catching Stretch exposed and stunned by his miss, swung and cracked him at his right knee. The strike brought Stretch down, but not completely, so with another roll, she struck at his left knee, this time bringing him all the way down to her level.
 
Refusing to give up, Stretch smacked the broken end of his wooden sword into the side of her head, dizzying her and making her bleed. Stabbing in response, Trouble hit Stretch in the chest and took the air from his lungs.
 
I’ve got you now, you big motherfucker, she thought to herself. Leveling her wooden sword, she meant for one final attack that would bust his head wide open, making an example of him to all the other Locos.
 
“Ya Estuvo!” her brother called out to her.
 
Hearing her brother’s voice, mid strike, Trouble stopped herself a hair’s length from Stretch’s head, letting the wooden sword slip harmlessly from her hands.

“You’ve won,” Dreamer paused as Stretch fell over and stared down all of Belvedere, “All you vatos better have learned something.”
 
Trouble beating Stretch in front of the whole barrio had changed the atmosphere, although Stretch, when revived, was gracious in defeat, the other homeboys weren’t. Calling for a meeting to discuss an issue that the homie Roach conveniently remembered allowed the Locos to demand Trouble’s exit and for her to take Muñeca and Bashful with her.
 
Her brother couldn’t help her this time, and she understood, hated it but understood. Only homies from Belvedere were allowed in meetings and no matter who she beat, she still wasn’t from it. Catching a sigh on her brother’s face, she nodded, showing him that she didn’t blame him.
 
“That’s fucking bullshit!” yelled Muñeca over the fence.
 
“You’re all mad cuz she smacked up your homeboy!” followed Bashful.
 
“Fuck ’em,” shouted Trouble, giving Belvedere the finger.
 
Not all the Locos wanted Trouble and the homegirls out, and those that didn’t laughed and poked fun at their homeboy for his defeat and praised her for her victory.
 
“What happened, Stretch?”
 
“Stretch got rocked by the homegirl Trouble!”
 
“The homegirl Trouble got hands!"
 
Walking to her brother, still seated, Trouble’s bent down and gave him a hug, “See you.”
 
Dreamer returned her hug, “Don’t let them get to you, they're stupid.”
 
“I know,” Trouble backed away and started towards the fence.
 
“Carmen!” her brother called out to her.
 
Stopping, embarrassed by the use of her given name, “What, Hugo?”
 
“Trucha!” Dreamer warned her.
 
Trouble rolled her eyes, her brother could be so paranoid, “Always,” she replied, and hopped the fence back to her homegirls.
 
With Muñeca and Bashful, she left the viejo’s rancho and the Locos in their pen, together they walked down the street, quiet and mad.
 
“The homies are fucking haters,” Muñeca declared.
 
Bashful looked over her shoulder before speaking, “They don’t want us there because they know Trouble makes them look bad.”
 
“Yeah, you fucked up Stretch, and he’s like the biggest one, chale, that shit fucking intimidates them,” Muñeca reasoned.
 
Exhaling in frustration, Trouble snapped, “Yeah, but what the fuck you want me to do about it?”
 
Muñeca and Bashful didn’t know what to say, the homeboys didn’t want another Locas click, only a Locos.
 
“Ey, let’s get something, I got coin on it.” Bashful’s tone had changed and was now excited, reaching into her front pocket she produced a handful of coins.
 
“If you got drink, I got smoke,” Muñeca said, reaching into her pocket and retrieving a sack of mota.
 
Trouble appeared defeated, “I don’t got shit.”
 
Both homegirls put a hand to her shoulder, “You don’t need shit, we got you,” said Bashful.
 
Muñeca, already laughing at the recent memory, followed, “Yeah, you deserve a party for what you did to Stretch.”
 
“I fucked him up?” Trouble asked humbly.
 
“You laid him out!”
 
“Yup, right on his humongous dumbass.”

The Little Store was a liquor store and served the Belvedere barrio since Tía Huera was a kid, it was owned and operated by the Corporation so it wasn’t adobe. Corpse funded, it was a small square building made of concrete with a steel door and a reinforced glass window.
 
Bashful knocked on the window, “Wake up or I’ma leave.”

An elderly gringo came to the window, he was new, none of the homegirls recognized him, “What can I get you?”
 
“Pack of Red Seven frajos, a big bag of…”

The man interrupted Bashful's order, voice trembling, “Excuse me, what are frahoes?”
 
The Corporation owned The Little Store and stores just like it in every barrio, employing old gringos in debt for no pay. Most of them had never been out of the valley before and all of them were scared of anyone Black or Brown.
 
“Cigarettes,” replied Bashful, seeing the man nod, she went on, “a big bag of Green Chili Chips, and three Old…”
 
Bashful stopped, interrupted now by Muñeca, “The blunt, get a blunt.”
 
“Right,” Bashful nodded, then finished her order, “A pack of Murrieta Cigarillos and three bottles of Old Hispanic.”
 
It took the old man working the store unbearably long to get their items but when he retrieved them all, Bashful paid him with her coins, sliding them through a small slot cut into the glass. Counting them, he slid their things through another larger slot on the opposite end of the store.
 
Leaving, Muñeca spilled the tobacco guts from the cigarillo and started to roll the blunt, and Trouble could smell Bashful’s frajo. She held her Old Hispanic out in front of her, studying its conquistador logo before taking a swig. The brand was the Corporation’s attempt to market its liquor to Raza, suddenly she dropped the bottle and paid no attention to it shattering at her feet.
 
In front of her, moving at a fast pace were three Tolucas, riding on their motorcycles coming toward them. “Ah shit!” shouted Muñeca, dropping the mota and the blunt and starting to run. Bashful, still smoking, took a drag, and followed.
 
“Hey! Get the fuck back over here!” yelled a Toluca, seeing them in their headlights.
 
Racing at them, they were surrounded by three Tolucas, one in front of them, one behind, and another at their side forcing them against the side of a tall adobe building.
 
“Where the hell do you little ladies think you’re going?” said the Toluca at their side, stopping his bike.
 
The Tolucas, or Toluca Rangers, were one of the many security groups that the Corporation contracted with to keep the so-called peace in Old Los Angeles. All gringo, they wore nothing but blackened leather with a lot of fringe and they kept their hair blonde, bleached if not natural, styled with product that made it stand and shine.
 
“The fuck you want with us?!” shouted Trouble, but she knew it was a stupid question, Tolucas like all the security groups tortured and robbed anyone they caught who wasn’t rich or gringo.
 
The Toluca in front of them stepped off his motorcycle, “Whatever you got to give us.”
 
“We don’t got shit,” Muñeca tried to hide her worry but her homegirls could hear it.
 
“Oh, I’m sure you got something,” said the Toluca behind them, stepping off his bike and retrieving the short spear all Tolucas carried on their back.
 
The Tolucas to their front and side, following the last’s example, pulled their spears, wooden shafts with sharp leaf shaped points, and started to stab at the homegirls.
 
Forcefully batting the spear away with her hand, not caring if it cut her, Trouble yelled, “Fuck, Corpse.”
 
“Ladies,” the last Toluca raised his hand and the others stopped their poking, “Let’s start over, I’m Steve, that’s Tony,” he gestured to the Toluca at their front, “and that’s Bruce,” he gestured to the Toluca at their side, “Now either you girls cough up some coin or we start getting to know each other.”
 
“You ain’t getting to know nobody, you fucking corpse!” Bashful pulled the gladius she kept concealed beneath her baggy blue sweater. She was the only one of the homegirls to own a sword, having taken it from a vato from Westside Westlake.
 
Like alarms the Tolucas went off.

“She’s got a fucking sword!”
 
“Model Gladius!”
 
Steve got the last word, “Bad move.”
 
The Tolucas all at once lunged at Bashful. Overwhelmed by the three, they speared her to death.
 
“Bashful!” screamed Muñeca, watching her homegirl’s body stabbed and pinned and bleeding against the adobe building.

Trouble thought and felt only vengeance; the Tolucas had come into her barrio and took her homegirl’s life. Like she was nothing, how dare they! she raged in her mind.
 
Dropping, she grabbed Bashful’s gladius, fallen by her feet, and brought it upwards into the jaw and through the head of Tony. She left no time for the Tolucas to react; pulling it, she slashed at Bruce, cutting him at the belly and spilling his guts. Her momentum was stopped by Steve, who pulled his spear from Bashful, finally letting her body drop, and stabbing it into Trouble’s shoulder.
 
Muñeca swung as hard as she could and yelled, “Fucker!”
 
Steve turned his head to meet her coming first, the punch giving her the precious seconds needed to pick up Tony’s spear. Steve, still tearing at the eye and bleeding from the nose, Muñeca charged him, running him through with the spear and toppling him over.
 
Holding the place where she’d been stabbed, Trouble locked eyes with Muñeca, looking back at her from skewering the Toluca, then they both looked at Bashful's body. Both homegirls stuck between sadness and relief.
 
They didn’t have too much time to think, a voice on the radio of one of the dead Toluca’s motorcycles echoed, “Boys? You there, boys? Steve? Bruce? Listen. If you’re alive? Help is coming, if you’re dead, expect revenge, the Corporation is sending in the Blue Eyes.”
 
The Blue Eyed White Knights were known as the white axe of Corporate, they left the valley and cut down anything or anyone that dared to stand up. Hearing the engines of their motorcycles, the homegirls huddled together their backs to the adobe building.
 
Needing heavy motorcycles to carry them, the White Knights kept their faces hidden behind snow white pig face helmets, worn atop blued plate armor and carried double sided battle axes, snow white like their helmets with blue steel blades. Reaching the homegirls first and stepping off his bike, a White Knight came towards them, his white axe at the ready.
 
“Belvedere!” yelled Muñeca, charging the White Knight she jammed her spear into his chest, but it uselessly deflected off his armor.
 
“ Muñeca, run!” shouted Trouble.
 
Too late, the White Knight’s axe came down, taking both of her homegirl’s arms off with one chop, severing them right below the elbow.
 
Teetering backwards in shock, Muñeca fell, but Trouble rushed in to catch her. “Pendeja,” she mumbled woefully, looking up to see the White Knight already bearing down upon them.
 
Thinking she was distracted by her wounded friend, the White Knight raised his axe high for one massive attack. Trouble, seizing the opportunity, let go of Muñeca, and took hold of Bashful's sword, slashing up at the neck and in between the knight’s armor. Stepping away from the homegirls as if suddenly disinterested, the White Knight turned to face his fellow Blue Eyes and fell, his head rolling away from his body when he landed.
 
“Cute,” echoed one of the Knights, and three, almost on command, unseated their bikes and pulled their axes. That was when Trouble heard the roaring engines of her salvation, Barrio Belvedere was coming.
 
Dreamer and the Locos fixed their motorcycles to be fast, and that made them loud, shaking windows as they flew in from the side opposite of the Blue Eyes. Swarming, they protectively wedged themselves between the homegirls and the White Knights.
 
Her big brother had come, but Trouble’s pride wasn’t going to let her call it a rescue. Riding with Dreamer were Listo, Roach, and Stretch. Already pulling their swords, Roach and Stretch started facing down the knights.
 
“They got Bashful! ” called out Listo, then running to Muñeca, “They fucked up the homegirl pretty bad, she needs help.”
 
Dreamer, off his bike, ordered, “Stretch, get Muñeca, get her out of here,”
 
“But fucking Corpses, the fucking Blue Eyes…” he started to argue but Dreamer stopped him, “I said get her and go!”
 
“Fuck it,” Stretch hated his orders but still followed them, sheathing his longsword and taking Muñeca in his arms and carrying her to his bike.
 
As Stretch and Muñeca sped off, Dreamer turned to Listo but before he could give him orders, his attention was called to Roach.
 
One of the Knights was inching their way towards Roach. Alarmed, he shifted his stance and shouted, “Get the fuck back!”
 
The White Knight, picking up on his fear, came at him with his axe. Roach carried a thin bladed rapier, failing to block, the white axe broke his sword in half and embedding in his chest in one hard chop.
 
“Roach!” yelled Listo, his homeboy falling over and bleeding out.
 
“Listo!” Dreamer got his attention, “Get my sister, and go.”
 
Trouble, her voice stricken with pain, protested “Dreamer let me fight with you.”
 
Dreamer smiled in admiration of his little sister’s courage, “Chale.”
 
“Dreamer?” It was the knight who had called Trouble’s beheading of his fellow Blue Eyes cute.
 
“I’m Dreamer from Belvedere,” he answered, placing a hand on his katana.
 
The White Knight sneered through his snow white helmet, “Known as the Sword of the East?”
 
“I am,” Dreamer followed with the unsheathing of his katana and directing it towards the knight.

Seeing the katana wielded by her brother, Trouble remembered the legends every youngster in the Chicano L.A learned coming up. Only the oldest barrios had a katana, the Belvedere katana dating all the way back to 1942, when it was used by the first vato from the barrio to learn the way of the sword. Since then Belvedere katana was always passed down to the Sword of the East.
 
“Excellent,” the condescending voice of White Knight had a piercing tone, “I’ll have them put your head on display. I’m William, Lord Percy to you and Captain of the Blue Eyes.”
 
The three Knights, including the one that killed Roach, all attacked Dreamer, thinking it by surprise, but with three strikes much faster than theirs he took them all down, their bodies piling in a heap of bleeding armor.
 
“Fools,” Lord Percy had started with a dozen Knights, eight now with those just cut down, he directed the rest to attack Dreamer all at once.
 
“Trouble, go with Listo!” Dreamer yelled to his sister as the rest of the White Knights left their motorcycles and pulled their white axes.
 
“No, don’t make me!” pleaded Trouble.
 
“Listo!”
 
Hearing his big homie, Listo grabbed Trouble, and helped by her weakness from her wound, he was able to pull her onto his motorcycle.
 
Held by Listo and speeding away, Trouble looked back and saw her brother engage the Blue Eyes. Dreamer waded into the White Knights like water, his katana dipping into the gaps in their armor and cutting them to pieces. None of the Knights made it past him, falling one by one and losing limbs and heads on their way down. What was left of them lay scattered, turning the dirt road beneath them into a blood soaked mud.
 
When Dreamer was through, only he and Lord Percy were standing. Getting smaller as Listo took her farther away, a bump made Trouble bounce and gaze further out and into the distance. There, she saw the snake of headlights slithering towards her brother from the valley. More White Knights, all of the Blue Eyes it seemed, were coming to put down the Sword of the East.
 
She couldn’t let him die, not over her, telling her homeboy, “Dispensa,” and barely hearing his confused, “What?” Trouble reverse headbutted Listo, breaking his nose, making him swerve and struggle not to crash. Letting her go, she fell from the motorcycle, rolled and felt bones break. So she crawled until she willed herself up into a limp, all to get back to her brother. But Trouble was too late.
 
Tripping, she caught herself on her knees and elbows, scraping them both. Finding the legs that tripped her she saw that they were plate armored and missing the rest of their body. Panic straightened her back and turned her melodic limp into a run, and she next found the body belonging to the legs, its armor dented and crusted with bloody dirt. A Chicano barrio warrior defeated a White Knight, and when she stumbled upon Lord Percy’s severed head, his helmet hacked off, the look on his face told her he died shocked.
 
Where was her brother? The nervous thought gripped her mind and Trouble called out, “Hugo! Dreamer!”
 
“Carmen!” She heard her brother's voice and followed it.
 
Dreamer was laying on his back, arms and legs spread like a fallen star, the blade of the White Knight’s snow-white axe broken off into his chest and stomach. Trouble ran to him, “What the fuck do I do?!”
 
“Trouble,” he started to speak but his voice failed.
 
Hearing their engines, she saw the snake of lights coming their way, “Dreamer,” she said his name like a warning then she started to drag him,
 
“Chale,” Dreamer stopped her, gripping his sword one last time, then pushing it into his sister’s hands. When Trouble took hold of it, he pulled her to him and whispered.
 
She laid her brother to rest and did as he said, taking the katana of Belvedere and running, his last words echoing to her as she made her escape, “Trouble from Belvedere must live, she’s the Sword of the East now.”

Robert “Wizard” Martin is a Chicano writer, whose work is influenced by his experiences growing up in Los Angeles and his activism. Through his stories he seeks to counter mainstream narratives and assumptions by calling into question what is “canon” or “orthodox” through the historized placement of Chicano/a/xs in roles and spaces from which they have long been erased or excluded. His themes include Chicano Noir, Chicano Futurism, and Alternative Chicano History.

by M.R. Subias

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by M.R. Subias
                                                              
The battered taxi up ahead weaves around a red mini and I know our guy’s spotted us. I stomp on the Mustang’s gas so our perp, Eddie Mears, can’t pull away from our headlights and lose us. I glance right. Kah-Haas my seven-foot-tall Slitha partner, knees jammed up under his scaly chin in a seat built for humans, calls dispatch for backup.

If our target keeps going straight, maybe some other feds will cut him off, if any are around. The local cops here in L.A. always take just a bit too long to assist. They don’t want other humans to think they’re too eager to collaborate with our alien masters. For them, there’s a fine line between doing the job and being a collaborator.                   
                                
The taxi heads straight at a slow scooter but before it hits, swerves a hairpin left. A couple holding hands in the middle of the crosswalk freezes in the headlights. The taxi fishtails on wet pavement and skids forward. A pedestrian goes down. A woman screams. Kah-Haas tells dispatch to send an ambulance. In a better world, maybe I’d stop and help, but that’s not the one I get to live in. I slow a little, barely enough to turn clean and miss the pedestrians, then pull straight again. I’ve fallen back, but still see our target.

Our perp makes a sharp right, but I’m ready and take it fast enough to keep up. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my partner’s long, green fingers on his gun, but he doesn’t draw it. These days, Kah-Haas values human life enough not to shoot from a moving car and endanger bystanders. And, if the tip we got is good, we need to take this guy alive. Seems our quarry is trying for a secret escape route for people running from the law. And the same source told us somebody skipped town that way a couple weeks ago, carrying something the Slitha badly want to get back.

We’re gaining on the taxi and our guy brakes hard. The taxi fishtails again, skids, then rear-ends a parked truck. A second later, the driver’s door flies open. I can tell from the broad shoulders the guy who jumps out is Mears. He hits the ground running, into the January darkness swallowing the UCLA campus. 

We pull up behind the dead taxi. I don’t wait for Kah-Haas, just get out and run after Mears. My partner needs extra time to pull himself out of a car made for smaller beings, but his long legs always help him catch up. I run down the walkway, trying not to lose the perp in the darkness.

A minute later, Kah-Haas’s voice crackles painfully loud from my earbud. “I see you. Do you have eyes on the suspect? Over.” 

“Roger that. Over.”  

The campus hasn’t completely shut down since the Slitha invaded fifteen years ago, but there’s more dark than light here. The glow from inside a three-story building outlines our man when he opens the door to go in. The perp ducks inside.

“Kah-Haas, I’ll go in. You go around. Over.”  

I jerk the door open and see movement at the end of the long hallway.  I run past a few humans talking. They do a double take when I run by yelling, “FBI, stop right there!”

The door at the far end of the building closes. A human leg disappears into the stairwell. I run to the end of the hallway, but Kah-Haas’s outside so I take the stairs up. I get to the second floor and draw my Glock. I see a bathroom and hear something inside. I bolt for the door, shove my way in, and raise my gun.

“FBI. Freeze!”

In front of me, the rust colored Slitha facing the mirror over the sink does just that. A couple seconds later, the loose skin under the sides of his jaw puffs out and flushes red. It turns around, slowly. The alien’s huge, yellow-green eyes with their black slit pupils look down on me.

I lower my Glock and swallow the lump in my throat. “Sorry, sir. I’m in pursuit of a criminal.” 

The alien lightly brushes long, sharp black nails down a tweed jacket tailored to his eight-foot height. “Allow me to introduce myself.” The alien speaks perfect English. “I am Professor Sath-Osh.” He sneers down at me. “And there are few crimes greater than a human threatening a Slitha with a gun.”

I pull my earbud out and crank up the volume so we can both hear Kah-Haas arresting Mears. I smile the practiced, professional smile I always use for our masters. “Please, sir, my apologies. My senior partner is of the Race and I’m only following his orders - Kah-Haas can explain why I overreacted. After all, humans must obey their Slitha superiors, and I was just doing my best.”

His smile is cruel. If Kah-Haas can’t smooth things over, being out of a job will be the least of my problems.          
​    

​
Work ends and I head home. Leticia and the boys are asleep. I grab a glass and a cheap bottle of bourbon and sit by the front window cradling my Glock.

I drink, look into the darkness, and wait. Slitha Internal Security could be here any time. I feel the cold metal in my hand and think about who I’ll shoot when they finally come for us. Or just me, if I’m lucky. Our masters would consider eating a bullet honorable compensation for failure if one of them did it. But they look down on humans, so from me it’d just be the act of a coward. And a mortal sin. At least that’s what they told me when I was a kid. I look down at the Glock, then towards the back of the house where my family sleeps. How far would I go to keep Leticia and the boys from dying by inches in a Lizard concentration camp?

I holster my Glock, fill my glass, take another drink, and wait. Dawn opens its eyes and Internal Security still isn’t here. Maybe pointing a gun at one of our conquerors hasn’t earned me an all- expense paid trip to a Slitha concentration camp. Or the security goons might just be giving me time to sweat. I leave while my family still sleeps.
​

#    ​

​                                                         
First thing that morning, Kah-Haas and I are standing in Deputy Director Curtis Booker’s office. Our boss’s snarling grimace tells me he’s furious and that his ulcer’s on fire.

“Listen up, you miserable excuse for federal agents, you caught your suspect but thanks to you, the Bureau’s in a whole new world of hurt.” He shakes his head. 

Booker rubs his temples, scowls at me, then shoots a frown up at Kah-Haas. “Let’s take this from the top. You apprehended Eddie Mears, a suspect one of our informants told us was planning on going underground. He’s our only lead in finding out where at least a dozen other fugitives have disappeared to over the last three years.”

Booker glares at me. “But you’re supposed to catch little fish like Mears with no problem – not cause new ones doing it.”   

Deputy Director Booker pulls a crusty bottle full of something pink out of his desk and takes a slug. “You clowns just had to turn a simple arrest into a train wreck.”

His hand shakes a little as he taps a form on his desk. For the first time in years, I see fear in his eyes, from a man who was still fighting against the Slitha invasion after most of the human race had laid down its guns.        

Kah-Haas nods. “You speak of Professor Sath-Osh, the Slitha at whom Agent Cortez aimed his firearm.”

The Deputy Director won’t glare at a Slitha, not even Kah-Haas, so he just winces and nods.

My partner picks up the form and reads it. “This is a serious situation, but one which may yet be weathered.”

We look at Kah-Haas, waiting for the good and the bad news. “This individual is a professor of Slitha studies. Professor Sath-Osh teaches the Slitha language, proper behavior for humans in the company of our race, and history presented in a manner suitable for earth’s inhabitants.”

The loose skin under the sides of Kah-Haas’s jaw tightens up for a couple of seconds, so I know he thinks something’s funny. “I have made inquiries with others of my kind. While Professor Sath-Osh is of The Race and thus may never be spoken of with disrespect, he was assigned his teaching position on earth due to behavior in a military campaign which ‘failed to achieve the level of valor expected of a Slitha warrior against the empire’s foes.”

Booker and I look at each other. He’s not as angry as a minute ago, but his eyes still remind me of a kid roasting ants with a magnifying glass.   

Kah-Haas’s mouth tenses again. “While no human should ever suggest that a member of my race lacks courage, were the fact that you pointed your weapon at the Professor to become common knowledge, some Slitha would speculate that Professor Sath-Osh felt considerable fear when this occurred. In fact, his complaint fails to mention a firearm at all, but insists only that Agent Cortez burst in and behaved with great disrespect toward a Slitha. It also suggests that my junior partner is a bumbling incompetent and that I have failed the Race by allowing my human underling to operate without sufficient supervision.” Kah-Haas’s eyes move back and forth, so I know he’s nervous and that the Professor’s still trouble for us.

The Deputy Director Booker nods. “I have to route this complaint up the chain, to Slitha Internal Security. Maybe it isn’t as bad as the Professor accusing Cortez of threatening him with a gun, but it’s still a time bomb. We’re all looking at demotion or worse.” My gut punches me and I almost ask Booker for a slug of that nasty, pink stuff. 

Booker looks at me, then up at Kah-Haas. He points at the complaint on his desk. “I can move this slow. Nobody who’ll give you trouble will see it in less than a week.” He nods at us. “Close this case. Do that, and things should calm down.”
He nods. “Get out of here and find out what Mears knows.”
​

# ​

Two days later I’m walking slow through a warm drizzle in Westwood. I keep my shoulders hunched and pull the old, black baseball cap’s brim down close to my face. I’ve got a small, brown suitcase, and phony papers inside my jacket that say I’m Eddie Mears. My weight and height are close to his, and my hair’s been lightened to match. Eddie’s still in solitary, in a dry cell, while I’m getting rained on. Not that I’d want to change places.  Of course, if we don’t find our missing man and whatever it is he took, I could soon be joining Mr. Mears.       
  
Every neighborhood in L.A. has gone downhill since the invasion, and with most UCLA classes closed down, Westwood’s worse than most. Student housing turned into cheap motels and seedy apartments. Crowded coffee houses and pricey stores are now mostly cheap bars and second-hand stores. Lots of storefronts stand empty, staring out at me, broken windows for eyes. Paint peels from the walls of once-prized homes. Here and there sit empty lots covered with blackened wreckage, squatter-set fires gone out of control. I’m old enough to remember a better time, when humanity thought it was alone in the universe.

I glance up at a brick wall. One of those big signs stares down at me—the alien metal glows with a rippling inner light. It shows a Lizard, one hand up, fingers spread out, holding up a tiny earth. Written above him in glowing Slitha letters and below in English, the sign says, “Peace and Order.” Our masters started putting up signs like that right after the invasion. Within a week, every one that wasn’t in a high-security area got tagged, usually with something obscene. The Slitha switched to ones with a frictionless coating. The tagging stopped. It isn’t that people like the new signs any better. Paint just doesn’t stick to them. A few rounds of public executions didn’t hurt either.         

Worn-down women with hungry eyes lean against walls. A pale blonde with a chipped tooth smiles at me. “I’ve got a place around the corner,” she says, then sneers when I shake my head. There are no Slitha around. It’s not that they’re afraid rebels might be hiding here. There’s just nothing here our alien masters want.      

Cheap Rooms is a bottom-of-the-barrel motel. I go into the office and breathe the musty carpet smell while I study the prices on the wall. I slide one night’s worth of cash across the dirty counter. I’ll pay tomorrow if I need to stay another night. The old man with dandruff-spotted, slicked-back grey hair slides over the key.

“Checkout’s at eleven and there’s no cooking in the room.”

 I frown. The idea of eating in this place makes me want to swear off food forever. I head up the badly lit stairs.

The room’s small, but the door’s solid, evidence of long-gone, better times. A solid door’s mostly why Kah-Haas and I chose this place. I lay on the bed, then pull out my half-dollar-sized comm unit and call Kah-Haas.

He picks up and I start talking. “I’m settled in and about to go out.”

He responds. “Any problems?”

I scratch a suddenly itchy scalp. “Not unless you count the valiant efforts of the bedbug resistance.”

Kah-Haas’s quiet for a couple seconds, so I can tell he liked that one. I smile before he talks again. “You’re starting with the leads we got from Mears?”

I study a vent on the wall. “Unless something changes.”    

“Let me know if you need anything. I’ll continue to find out what I can at my end and let you know what I learn.”

“Roger that. Later.”

I hang up and look at the vent again. Too obvious. I lift the bed and quietly drag it away from the wall. I draw the black-bladed folding knife I keep clipped inside my waistband, flick it open, then use the four-inch, half-serrated black blade to work the edge of the worn carpet loose from the floor. The floorboard pries up easy so I stash my holster and Glock and the comm unit in the space underneath. I open the suitcase. The cash goes in the hole, along with the collection of gleaming, pre-invasion Rolexes. The cash is almost-perfect counterfeit, but the Rolexes are real, part of Eddie Mears’ stash. Anyway, this juicy haul makes the story about being a rich criminal willing to pay to escape believable. Once everything’s hidden and the bed’s back where it belongs, I leave the room, stopping to stick a hair between the door and the jam. If it falls off, I’ll know someone’s gotten into my room. 
​  ​

​
 I walk out into the night. Light shines from scattered homes and struggling businesses and the street people’s trashcan fires. Among the clusters of people warming themselves, men and women with intelligent eyes in deeply lined faces hunch together. I wonder how many had teaching positions before the Slitha decided a new narrative needed to be taught. I look away from the lost souls. No good comes from thinking like that.
​
First stop is The Noodle Bar. I grab a little table in a corner and study the menu. A skinny waitress drags her feet over, tired as my soul. Her nametag says “Maria.” I order a cheap bowl of ramen and a beer.

“Anything else?” she asks.

I ask just loud enough for people at nearby tables to hear and pitch my voice just a little anxious. “Know where I can score some quality luggage? A friend of mine who passed through bought some around here.” Normally I’d be more subtle, but we’ve got to solve this mess before the Professor’s complaint makes its way to Slitha Internal Security.        

Maria flashes a bored smile. “Quality Pawn’s around the corner.” She heads off.

The beer comes. I drink and watch the customers.

The noodles aren’t bad. I take my time eating, order another beer and grab a copy of the Los Angeles Times somebody left on the next table. Newspapers made of real paper were pretty much dead when I was a kid. They’ve made a comeback since our occupiers shut down most of the Internet and new computers are rare and expensive. Tame reporters write stories about how good things are under the occupation and how they’d be even better if humans cooperated more with our masters. Still, you can find classified ads and weather forecasts and stories about what local music scene’s still around.

Somebody comes in and plays guitar for tips. I nurse my beer and work the Times’ crossword puzzle. When my drink is done, I give Maria money and ration slips, then head back to my room.

Outside, I feel eyes on me and stop at an unbroken shop window to look at the reflection, but it’s too dark to see if anyone’s following me. A car comes this way, so I move fast and cross just before it gets here. Across the street is a big dark shape. Could be a man. Could be nothing. No need to risk getting jumped to find out.
​

Next day, I check in with Kah-Haas. No new leads. I hide the comm unit under the floorboard again. I think about the dark shape and almost take the Glock but decide against it. The noodle place stays open all day, so I sit at the bar and get dishwater coffee and a dry, tasteless roll. A pale, young guy with a metallic-red ponytail works the counter. I read his nametag and meet his eye. “Morning, Roy. I’m Eddie.”
He wipes the counter. “What do you need, my man?”

“I’m taking a trip and need some high-quality luggage. You know where I can score some?”

Roy stops wiping and looks at me for a long second, then nods. He points at a cork board on the far wall with ads on it. I finish my roll and take my coffee over and look.
No one’s advertising secret escape routes for fugitives, but people are selling just about everything else. I grab a three by five card that says “Best Luggage for Sale” with a phone number, then fold it in half and stick it in Mears’ wallet by some lawyer’s business card. Another cork board ad shows a picture of a crystal ball and proclaims that Madam Sabina can provide “all life’s answers.” Don’t I wish.
​
I pull out Eddie Mears’ cheap burner phone and make the call. A mechanical voice tells me to leave a message. “A friend of mine came this way and said somebody could hook me up with quality luggage.” I pause, talk a little faster. “I want to take a trip right away and I can pay.”
​

​
It’s a slow walk down the street to Quality Pawn. I push the buzzer and an older, Asian woman in tidy jeans and a faded Metallica t-shirt comes to look.

Her sharp eyes peer through the glass and her head leans to one side. She buzzes open the door. “Good morning. Let me know if you need any help.”

I go in and look around. The place is clean and well-kept, like every store back before the invasion. A smiling, gold cat by the register waves mechanically. I browse and keep up my trying not to be afraid act. “Do you have any luggage? I’m looking for something nice.”

I say this even though I’ll look stupid, since I already saw shelves with luggage on them.  The woman looks at me like somebody must have once dropped me on the head, but I need to make sure she knows what I’m looking for. She points at the obvious row of waiting suitcases.

“Yes, but I mean something nicer.”

“Just what you see.”

I ask a few questions about the luggage and who pawned it. She brightens at the possible sale but gives me only vague answers while trying to get me to buy something. I leave empty-handed.
​

The rest of the day, I check out other places we think fugitives visited. Evening comes. I walk back to the room, go in, and lock the door.

I pull out the comm unit. “Kah-Haas, you there? Over.”   

My partner speaks with a quiet, serious voice. “I am here, agent Cortez. What have you found? Over.”    

“No breakthroughs yet. I’m waiting for a couple of leads to develop.”

Kah-Haas says nothing. I look at the time, then the power light on the comm unit. Still green. I wonder what’s causing the holdup.           

“I have called in favors and learned exactly what it is we seek.” Kah-Haas’s hissing accent lowers in pitch. “It is a journal.”

“A journal. I got it. And?”

Again, Kah-Haas keeps me waiting.       

Finally, my he speaks. “Someone stole this and passed it to a fugitive who fled two weeks ago.” He pauses. “Agent Cortez, you can never reveal to anyone what I am about to tell you.”

My hands feel damp. Kah-Haas is scared.  

“There are Slitha who keep such journals, and a senior officer of the fleet who did so was slain in battle. His possessions were recovered with the intention of delivering them to his heirs on our home world. Someone stole the journal and passed it on to one of our missing fugitives.”

That’s when I know my partner wouldn’t tell me about the journal unless he thought it was the only way to crack this case. Kah-Haas’s also warning me that learning too much about this journal could get both of us disappeared.    
 
I barely hear him speak. “This senior officer wrote extensively about the course of the war. He documented certain embarrassing defeats our fleet has suffered which have, as you humans say, been hushed up. Such details, should they come to light, could ruin the careers of several of our top political and military leaders and bring chaos to the empire.” 

No wonder the Slitha want this back. Somebody might read it and figure out how to contact the aliens the Lizards are fighting, maybe even recruit them as allies against our occupiers. This journal could be a goldmine for the resistance, maybe even give humanity the political leverage to make the Lizards stop grinding their boot on our necks. No wonder our alien masters want it back so badly.

“I have said too much, Agent Cortez. If anyone should learn what I have told you, our lives would be forfeit.”

“If anyone asks, all I know is that we’re looking for a journal written in Slitha, but that I don’t know who wrote it or what’s in it. If it comes to that, I’ll also tell them that my Slitha isn’t that good.”

Kaah-Haas responds. “You’re clever – for a human - Frank Cortez.”

“You’re not too slow for a big lizard either.”

“Goodbye, Agent Cortez. Until tomorrow.”       
          ​

#    ​

I try to sleep before going out into the night but thinking about the journal keeps me up. The rain’s ended by the time I head into the darkness. I walk to Rocco’s Tavern, a dark wood and brick bar where a now-dead informant spotted two Human Defense Force bomb makers before they disappeared. I do the same drill and ask about luggage and friends who came through here. The waiter gives the same useless answers.

I feel something in my gut and look around the room. A man walks up to the table. He limps just barely enough I can see it. He’s got coal-dark skin and a buzz cut and wears an oversized military coat. The guy sits down and pulls a plastic case out of his pocket. He opens it with gloved hands. The open cover hides its contents from passersby. Inside is what looks like a sniffer for finding bugs. Seems like leaving the comm unit in the room was a good call. He pulls an earbud out of one of his pockets and plugs it into the sniffer and his right ear.

Some kind of West Indian accent comes out. “Let’s see the phone.”

I pull Eddie Mears’ cheap, burner phone out of my pocket and slide it across the table.
“Password?”

I tell him. He uses it and hooks the phone to the sniffer. I’ve made some calls consistent with being the fugitive I’m impersonating. I watch the crowd, drink my beer, and let him work. He finishes, slides the burner back, then puts away his gear.

“Call me Sharp. You’re looking for a way out and can pay.”

I could ask how he knew, but Sharp probably wouldn’t tell. He’d probably think I was stupid for asking.

I ask a different question. “How do I know I can trust you?”

We shut up while a waiter stands by the next table for too long. Then he talks. “Lester Moore, Bill Carson, Libby Schultz, Ignacio Salazar.”

I let the smile spread out. Two of those are aliases used by the Human Defense Force explosive experts who went missing. The others were criminals who also disappeared around here. Sharp probably figures I know at least one of those names. No common thief or con artist would have that information.

Sharp pulls a shapeless dark green beanie out of a pocket. “Wait ten minutes. I’ll be out back. Keep your distance and follow me.”

His expensive gear and what he knows tells me he’s no common criminal. Just in case, I say something to protect myself. “What I have that’s valuable isn’t on me.”       
     
Stifling a laugh, Sharp gets up and leaves. Ten minutes later, I settle my tab and follow.
​

I get to the alley behind Rocco’s. There’s a human shape at the far end of my vision that looks like it’s probably Sharp. It starts moving. I follow.

I listen to night noises. A loud argument from an open window. Atonal Slitha classical music, just loud enough to hear.  A cat’s rising yowl. Something big breaks loose from the shadows.  

A fist the size of a small ham flies at my face. I drop down and raise my left arm. My forearm moves the punch off-line, just barely, but huge knuckles scrape my skull and rock my head. I drive my right fist at the center of mass. My punch lands solid, but there’s barely a grunt and my hand feels like I drove it into a side of beef. The big man steps to my right so I circle to keep us face to face, left shoulder forward. My left hand stays up while the right drifts low and close. I’ll be on the ground if this monster lands a solid punch. The big man shuffles forward, hands up like a boxer. I move back. He throws a jab, then a cross. I slip to my right, just in time to keep from ending up on the ground. He pulls back his next cross and I step in fast and whip my open left hand at his face.

One of my fingers hits his eye. The big man curses. Before he can do anything, I pull the knife from inside my waistband with my right and I flick out four inches of steel. The big man backs up a few feet and raises his hands. Smart move. I’m about to tell him to run when I hear a gun’s hammer pull back.

Behind me, I hear a slight Jamaican accent. “Drop the knife.”

I do what Sharp says, slowly, then raise my hands. The big man lifts a hand and rubs his angry eye.

Sharpe says more. “My friend and I have a proposition.”

Somehow, I don’t think they’re really giving me a choice. These guys are smart and cool-headed, and no common criminals. I’d bet my badge they’re Human Defense Force.  

The big man slides over to my side. I tense my stomach, ready for a revenge gut punch. Instead, he pulls out a little flashlight, turns it on, and gently searches my pockets. I get my first clear look at him. Male Caucasian just under six feet, huge chest, thick arms and legs, bearded blond, but bundled up too much for me to see more. He finds my fake papers, reads them, and puts them back. He digs out Mears’ wallet, takes out the business cards, looks at them, shows one to Sharp.

A deep bass rumbles. “Lawyers.”

Both men laugh.

The big man keeps looking through the wallet, “And Doctor Delaveau’s luggage.”

Silence follows. The bearded man gives me back the wallet and puts away his little light.                      

Sharp says something I half expected. “You’ve been asking around. My friend and I are also unpopular with the Lizards and need the escape route you’re looking for.”
I start to speak but one big hand grabs the back of my head and the other covers the half of my face my mouth is on. The big man squeezes, and lifts and my feet leave the ground. My head feels like it’s in a vice. The big man could break my neck without trying. I sweat, but don’t do anything stupid.       

“The man who left this card, Doctor Delaveau, he controls part of this escape route. You need to make contact and find out if he can get us out.” He pauses. “Now you can talk.”

The big man puts me down and takes his hands away.

Now I understand why these two jumped me. They needed to know how I act under pressure, if I could walk into a dangerous situation without falling apart.

“Why don’t you two just go in there yourself?”

“Things are not always what they seem. Who knows? Maybe Delaveau’s working with Lizard Internal Security and they’re sending anyone who looks for help to some concentration camp.”

I take my first relaxed breath in days. These guys have given me my big break. And if this Doctor Delaveau is a stooge for Slitha Internal Security, doing what Sharp wants is just going to help me close this case faster. The journal Kah-Haas and I need is probably still sitting on the doctor’s desk or maybe waiting to get processed in some backlogged Internal Security property room.

This wouldn’t be the first time two law enforcement agencies worked the same case from different ends without either one knowing about it. 

I make my voice tremble but add a note of defiance. “So, I could end up in a concentration camp?”

“We don’t consider it likely, but, as I said, no need to take chances… at least on our end.”

I nod, “So, how do we do this?”

Sharp’s quiet for a few seconds even though I know he already has a plan.

“My friend will walk you to your stash. Then you’ll make contact with Doctor Delaveau.”

“How do I know your big friend won’t put my head through a wall and take everything I’ve got?”           

Sharp grabs my right shoulder and turns me around. His black, snub-nosed revolver is leveled at my right eye. I take a deep breath. Sharp lowers the pistol and presses it into my hand.

He looks me straight in the eye.

I flip open the cylinder. It holds five, .357 rounds. I check them one by one. None are blanks. Sharp must think whatever valuables Eddie Mears has are worthless compared to a chance for freedom. He also believes I’m smart enough to understand that. I nod and slip the gun into my right coat pocket and pick up my knife. Of course, he and his friend might try to rob me later. But with any luck, Kah-Haas and I will arrest them first. The big man, who I’ve decided to call Silent, walks with me through the dark. We reach Cheap Rooms and head up the stairs.       
 
The fight’s adrenaline rush fades. I’m tired and my head throbs where Silent’s fist rocked my skull. I open the door and we walk in. The big man stops just inside the room and shuts the door. I put the suitcase on the floor, pull the bed from the wall, and kneel on the carpet. My body blocks Silent’s view. I glance over at him with my peripheral vision. The counterfeit bills and the Rolexes go in the case. I leave the Glock and the comm unit. I can’t talk to Kah-Haas with Silent here and, if I take it, Sharp might run another scan and figure out I’m a cop. I replace the board, carpet, and bed.

Now for my doctor’s appointment. ​

Silent walks me most of the way, but I go alone the last block to Dr. Delaveau’s house.   Homes and yards are big, though not like the Beverly Hills mansions a couple miles east. Thick-leaved trees line the street and create a sense of privacy. My head aches from when Silent hit me and my left forearm throbs where it blocked his punch. Maybe the Doctor can do something about that. 

Before I go up to Delaveau’s house, I hide the suitcase by the bottom of the stone steps leading to his door, back behind a black, wrought-iron bench mostly hidden by sweet-smelling lavender.  


I climb the steps to the two-story house. Before the invasion, doctors didn’t work from home. Now, many do. I hammer the front door with the tarnished brass knocker.
A tiny metal hatch opens near the top of the thick door. An eye examines me.  
A man speaks. “Is there an emergency?” 

“My name’s Mears. Someone said I could buy luggage here.”

A pause. The man has a slight French accent. “Do you have references?”

I name a criminal who told the real Mears about the escape route before he disappeared. I hear a bolt slide. The door swings open. Male Caucasian with a medium build, just under six feet, with swept-back iron-grey hair. He wears a loose, grey jacket and keeps his right hand in his pocket.  

Light shines from inside and he looks me up and down. “I’m Doctor Delaveau. Please come in. But don’t make any sudden moves.”

I walk in with my hands by my sides. We head down the hall to a dining room. “Please sit. Would you like coffee?”

I sit. “Sure… please.”

He returns with two cups. There’s cream and sugar on the tray, but neither of us use it. He gestures towards me. “You’re injured. Is it anything serious?”

“I wouldn’t turn down some aspirin.”

Delaveau gets up. “Please excuse me.” He leaves the room.

I look around and drink up, hoping coffee will fight my fatigue. The rich, smoky, dark-roasted flavor is like heaven. Twelve years of alien occupation and food rationing hasn’t cramped the doctor’s style. I see expensive furniture and shelves heavy with leather-bound books and beautiful crystal sculptures. If this is a Slitha sting, the doctor left to call his bosses. After they show up, I’ll identify myself. Then, maybe we can figure out where the journal went.

The doctor comes back with aspirin and an ice pack. I swallow the pills and hold the ice pack to my head. “Thanks.”

“I enjoy taking care of my guests.” He smiles. “And speaking of that…”

He takes our empty cups and comes back a few minutes later with fresh ones, and a pot on the tray. “You may wonder how I came to provide the service you seek.”

I stay quiet and drink. Delaveau’s the kind who likes to talk.  

“I lived well before the Slitha arrived, though their arrival made maintaining my lifestyle difficult. But strange as it seems, the invasion improved my life. As with others, events forced me to live by my wits in a way I never would have otherwise. Consider the black market. Everyone uses it, and by so doing, all become lawbreakers. And those who survive best are the ones who have become exceptional criminals. So, while I still practice medicine, my humanitarian sideline supports a fine lifestyle and gives me the pleasure which comes with being exceptionally clever.”

I finish my coffee. He pours me a new cup.

Delaveau talks about how humanity had become soft and how the Slitha occupation sharpened our dulled minds and put us in touch with our primal instincts. The doctor barely lifts his cup as I suck down my coffee, instead going on and on about how the invasion was some kind of great gift.

I yawn, too wide. “Can I use the bathroom?”

“Of course.” He smiles. “In the hallway.”

I nod, get up, use the bathroom, throw water on my face. I step back in the hallway, but decide to lean against the wall, just for a second. As I slide down, I think about how Doctor Delaveau kept talking and talking after he finished his first cup of coffee while I drank deep.

My head feels fuzzy when my eyes open. I see a ceiling, but not in the hallway. I try to get up but can’t. I look down. Three heavy, canvas straps pin me to a stainless-steel table with a raised metal rim. One goes across my chest, the second crosses my upper forearms and lower stomach. The third holds down my legs, just above the knees. My jacket’s gone. Shoes too. I blink and look again. My head feels fuzzy. I laugh. At least I’ve still got my socks. I shake my head and look around.

This room’s bigger than the dining room. There’s an incinerator in one corner, probably for medical waste. By that, gas cans. Between my feet, not far off, I see a metal door with a heavy bolt. I turn my head to the right. There’s a desk maybe five feet away. Spread out on the top are Eddie Mears’ identity papers, his wallet, the burner phone, and Sharp’s revolver. Other IDs sit in an “in” basket nearby. Next to that is a thick, yellow folder and a big book with the black, metallic cover Slitha like to use.

Slitha words glow in silver on the black book’s tall spine. I shake my head and make myself focus. Chronicles of a Time of War. I exhale slowly. I’ve found what Kah-Haas and I need, but I might not live long enough for it to do us any good.  
     
I notice something else. Next to the desk sits a row of mismatched suitcases. Above those, on hooks, hang backpacks, a few purses, and a single, lonely baby carrier. I fight my bonds and arch my neck. Fifteen feet from my head, I see a normal-looking door. Much closer sits a tray of medical instruments, heavy on knives and the surgical saws. Directly above my scalp, built into the table, is a drain. My throat goes dry. I know where all the fugitives have gone. Piece by piece into Doctor Delaveau’s incinerator.
I listen for an opening door but Delaveau is taking his time. When the Doctor stripped off my jacket, he pulled the bottom of my shirt loose from my pants. I reach under the loose fabric for the knife clipped in my waistband. One finger touches the handle, but the strap pinning my arms keeps me from doing more. I inhale deep, then exhale everything. The bonds still feel tight, but not as bad as before. I keep my lungs empty for a couple of seconds, just long enough to grab the bottom end of the knife handle between two fingers. I draw the folder, breathe in, get a solid grip, then flick it open with my thumb. I lay the edge under the strap holding my forearms, inhale to make a tiny bit of extra room, then saw away with the serrated half of the blade.     
          
Just when I’ve cut the strap a little over halfway, the doorknob rattles. The strap doesn’t feel as tight as before. I slip the knife inside my waistband, flip some loose fabric from my shirt over the cut I made, and move my hand back by my side. The door opens, Doctor Delaveau walks in, wearing green surgical scrubs. His medical mask is down, and he has a clear, plastic visor ready to be lowered. The final touch is a white, plastic apron.

He’s right over me and I see his quiet smirk. “My dear Mr. Mears, you had a bit of a fall, so I decided you needed to lay down.”

“Doc, I’m feeling a lot better. I think I can get up now.”

He smiles wider. “Be my guest.”

I can tell he likes the banter, so I shut up.

Doctor Delaveau frowns. “I see you’ve discovered my escape route.”

I keep quiet. His smirk turns into an icy frown. 

“I’m disappointed in you Mr. Mears. I found nothing of value on you.”

I get an idea. “I’m not a fugitive.” His frown gets bigger. I talk faster. “Just hear me out.”

He stares. “I was hired to recover an item. What you do for criminals isn’t of interest to me. There’s a big reward.”

He nods. “Go on.”

“A collector wants that black book on your desk, no questions asked.”

Delaveau purses his lips, then smiles. “Though far from fluent, I am a student of the Slitha language. Over the past weeks, I’ve had few patients, and been translating this diary in order to further my education. The contents is quite fascinating.”

He pauses, as if he wants me to say something, maybe to beg. Maybe to tell him how smart he is. I can tell Delaveau isn’t interested in my offer, so I stop talking again.
   
The doctor raises his voice. “Do you know what, Mr. Mears? Like more than a few of my clients, I believe you hid your ill-gotten wealth before you came to my door.” He watches my face. “Some who come to me in search of sweet freedom hide their valuables in one of my neighbors’ yards, or even my own.” He shakes his head and smiles again. “Please excuse me for a moment.”

Delaveau walks to the desk and picks up Sharp’s revolver. “As you’ve just learned, one can never be too careful.” He flips open the cylinder, smiles, and closes it again. “Never fear. I’ll be back soon.”  

The door closes behind him and I attack my bonds again. Seconds later, I cut through the middle one. Now my arms are free.

That’s when I hear the first gunshot. I jerk my legs, trying to pull them out from under the strap that holds them down, but it’s too tight. Two more shots go off; one close, the other farther away. I start cutting the strap over my chest. Voices echo through the house. More shots ring out. I tell myself Kah-Haas could be out there, but I’m lying to myself. None of those shots came from a Slitha weapon.  

My chest is free. I sit up, but whatever drug Delaveau gave me makes my head spin. Only the strap over my legs keeps me from falling off the table. My knife saws at the last strap. A gunshot again, just on the other side of the door. I cut too fast and slice my leg. The last bond splits. I stand up. My legs buckle. I grab the edge of the table to keep from falling.   

Another gunshot cracks down the hall. I take a breath and stumble towards the door. I reach out to lock it. Before I can, it starts to swing open. I see part of a plastic visor and red-spattered white apron. Another shot pops. A muzzle flash lights up the hallway. A dull, wet slap sounds on the other side of the door. I fall against it, turn the lock, take another deep breath. It looks like Human Defense Force has come to avenge their murdered friends.  

My legs almost feel steady. I walk to the desk fast, stuff the burner phone in one pocket and grab the journal. I rush to the back door and yank the bolt. The other door crashes wide open. A gunshot cracks and a bullet slaps the wall by my head. I shove the back door open and run into the night.

When I’m sure no one’s following, I stop, get my breath back, and flip through the journal. My fingers smooth pages passed hand to hand across years and lightyears. Flowing Slitha cursive documents fleet logistics and weapons systems. Tables list kills and casualties. Star maps show enemy positions and battles. I wish I had the time to sit down and read it. 

Finally, I use Eddie Mears’ burner phone to call Kah-Haas for backup.

I got the journal, but maybe Sharp and Silent will find Doctor Delaveau’s partial translation. They might escape before Kah-Haas arrives with reinforcements. The resistance could get the leverage it needs to become a force for real political change. And now that we’ve got the thing back, I doubt our masters will pay much attention to complaints from some puffed-up Slitha night-school teacher.  
​
I could have grabbed Delaveau’s notes when I took the journal. It would have been easy. But I didn’t. I need to return the journal to my alien masters to keep my family safe. But the Slitha don’t know about the Doctor’s notes and I don’t have to tell them. Like I always say, there’s a fine line between doing the job and being a collaborator.                                                   
​

​Long-time science fiction fan and longer-time Chicano, M.R. Subias prowls the frontiers of the imagination, seeking strange beauty. As part of the Greater Los Angeles Writers Society, he founded the speculative fiction critique group Westside Weird and ran it for more years than he can remember. He’s currently editing Intrusion Zone, a hopeful YA cosmic horror novel set at the end of the world. 

by Tommy Villalobos

Giggles walked like she was dancing to Oldies But Goodies, Volume One. But she also looked sad all the time. It was like she wanted to be sad. Her friends already had a Sad Girl so they called her Giggles.
 
People called me Gordo. I wasn’t fat. Maybe just a little.
 
But let me get back to Giggles. She was the finest one in the Projects, 1950’s.
 
One day, Lil’ Chango, skinny with a face that not even a madre could love, tried talking to her. He was barking like a seal up the wrong playa. I looked at her face when she was listening to the bato. Her lips were twisted. Like he was making funny noises with his nariz.
 
He walked away with his head looking down, like he didn’t care if a carucha hit him. She looked at me and I made a serious face. Inside, I was laughing like when I saw that cartoon where the coyote gets hit by a giant rock when he’s chasing the pájaro loco.
 
Giggles started walking again with that special wiggle. I wanted to tell her something like a priest. I walked fast.
 
“Hija, you can tell me,” I said.
 
She turned to look at me like I was a cucaracha walking around her sopa.
 
“I don’t know you.”
 
“I want you to.”
 
“I like someone.”
 
“Never saw you with someone. Never saw you with anyone.”
 
She looked at me like I was another cucaracha but this time in her sopa.
 
“Are you following me around?”
 
“Even when I sleep.” I was trying to sound romantic like in a song.
 
“Don’t!”
 
“All girls like being looked at.”
 
“Not me.”
 
“We’re meant to be.”
 
“Uh-uh.” She walked quickly away. Almost ran.
 
People could ask me why I didn’t give up. You know, chase other girls who liked gordos.
 
I would tell them that girls act in different modos. They can hate you but then you say or do something they really like, they grab you and put your arms around them. You feel like an octopus wearing a Pendleton.
 
“Where have you been, Felipe?” said my mother as soon as I walked in the door.
 
“Getting fresh air.”
 
“There isn’t any.”
 
I wanted to tell her about Giggles but she might not like her walk.
 
“Áma, I like this girl and—”
 
“She won’t be the last.”
 
“This one is the first and only. She is special.”
 
“She lives in Beverly Hills?”
 
“Huh?”
 
“Take out the garbage.”
 
I took the garbage outside. A chavalo called Freddie saw me.
 
“Hey, Phillip,” he yelled. He was the only one who called me by my name.
 
“What?” I said to the mocoso.
 
“You want to play baseball?”
 
He didn’t see that I was grown up. Baseball was for chavalos. Girls were more fun now.
 
“Freddie, I like girls now,” I said like I was confessing to a priest.
 
“What?”
 
Freddie was stunned, making a cara like I said I liked wearing dresses now.
 
“One day, you’ll throw your baseball to your sister because you won’t be able not to.”
 
I really thought of saying that because his sister Lydia was a better baseball player than him and she was only seven.
 
“You’re talking crazy, Phillip. Go get your mitt, let’s play.”
 
“Maybe later,” I said, knowing “later” really meant never.
 
He turned and walked away. He turned back to look at me as if he wasn’t sure who I was. Then he disappeared into the Projects. I felt kind of sad. Like my childhood was disappearing with him.
 
Then I thought again about Giggles and I wanted to kick Freddie and my childhood further into the Projects. God made something more fun than baseball.
 
Then my friend since I forget how long, Jimmy, saw me. We were the same age. He was more serious than me. Of course, my mother would say everyone was more serious than me.
 
Jimmy loved math and collecting baseball trading cards. His cards took up most of his life.
 
And the girls all looked at him like he was Elvis. It didn’t seem to matter to him. He spent his time with his math books and cards. Everything else was for other guys.
 
“Gordo, why are you standing there?” he said.
 
“Thinking.”
 
“About what?”
 
“Not sure. Where are you going walking all fast?”
 
“My mom needs butter.”
 
“You still run mandadas?”
 
“Sure. You don’t?”
 
I nodded slowly.
 
“Jimmy, oh, Jimmy!” said a high voice belonging to a running flaca with flying pelo.
 
It was Lorna Ritas. She was in a race for Jimmy with Sally Lomenez, Linda Mistasosa and Maria Lobermie. They had a better chance with the real Elvis. Jimmy barely said “Hi” to them but each time they took it like he wanted to make out with them at Belvedere Park.
 
Like that song, Jimmy only had eyes for Rachel Apenuz.
 
Rachel Apenuz had no personality I could see. Jimmy saw something the rest of the world didn’t, like in those spooky movies.
 
Compared to Rachel, Giggles was a shiny pair of spit-shined calcos. Rachel was like my sister’s paper dolls she used to play with. She was like cardboard. Her hair looked tired. In fact, she looked tired.
 
But I was glad Jimmy didn’t see Giggles. Then I panicked, my mouth turned dry. Maybe he hadn’t seen her glide like a lowered carucha down Brooklyn and Mednik.
 
“So, are any new girls waving at you?” I said, my mouth even drier now.
 
He looked at me like I said something in Chinese real fast.
 
“New girls?”
 
“Yeah, like hot off the comal?”
 
“What are you talking about?”
 
“Is Rachel still your, you know…?”
 
He nodded with a strange smile.
 
“I still like Rachel.”
 
I could breathe normal, again.
 
Jimmy’s sister whistled for him from away off. She had the loudest whistle in the Projects.
 
Jimmy ran off. I went back inside.
 
I played “Earth Angel” by the Penguins on my sister’s record player. I played it over and over. The title said what I wanted to sing to Giggles. Then I fell asleep on my sister’s cama. The record player needle was stuck on the end of the record.
 
“What are you doing?” my sister screamed, making me jump. My heart wanted to leave my chest and jump out the window to find somewhere better to live.
 
“Man,” I screamed back, “you nearly gave me a heart attack.”
 
“And I hate to fail. Now I’m really mad.” She got good grades in school. I think that’s why she said that. But she also had a big mouth my mother was always trying to slam shut.
 
Hearing my sister’s big mouth, my mother came running like my sister was on fire.
 
“¿Qué está pasando?” she screamed louder than even my sister.
 
“I have to wash everything,” my sister said, looking around the room like I spread pulgas all over.
 
“Don’t exaggerate,” my mother said.
 
“He’s a pestoso,” she screamed in her chavala voice so all the Projects could hear. I think all the people in the Projects were smelling the air.
 
My mother was quiet as if my sister said something like the president.
 
“I was only playing a record,” I said, explaining things to the judge, my mother.
 
Like a bailiff, my mother escorted me out of the room. My hermana had a crooked smile. The door slammed behind us. I would aim pedos into her room next time she wasn’t home.
 
To feel better, I went back outside. In the Projects you always ran into someone who either made you laugh or was madder than you.
 
Right now, it was Pete. He never made you laugh or mad. But he always had a problem to share. I tried telling him that was why he had a mother. That’s how they got gray hair.
 
But today, I think I caught him at a moment when people feel like unloading a problem on the first person they catch.
 
“Gordo,” he said, “I have a problem.”
 
“You’re the last bato I would guess had one.”
 
“What?”
 
“What happened?”
 
“I met the finest weesa ever made.”
 
“Ever?”
 
“Ever.”
 
“Why?”
 
“When you see her walk, it’s like seeing the ocean at Long Beach.”
 
“Go write a poem.” I said. It sounded like he was talking about Giggles and I didn’t want to hear.
 
“I have to win her heart first.”
 
Pete wasn’t a bad looking guy like some of the truly ugly ones around, but right now he looked like the ugliest feo of all time.
 
“I love Giggles,” he continued and I wanted to give him a Popeye-sized cachetada.
 
“Who is ‘Giggles’?” I said with a shaky voice. I was a nervous liar.
 
“She is a walking angel, like in the song, ‘Earth Angel’.” He said this with a stupid, faraway look.
 
“You okay?” he then said.
 
I felt mad then sick then mad again.
 
“Sure.”
 
“Are you sure-sure?”
 
“Sure.”
 
“My problem is that she is related to Jimmy and likes Loco.”
 
I sat on the sidewalk. I saw Loco’s crooked right eye. I think he hated the world and everyone in it because of that eye. He was born that way. God wanted him to look loco so he took the hint and became one.
 
“You look weird, man.”
 
“Why Loco?” I croaked.
 
“That’s what I want you to tell me. He is one ugly bato with an even uglier way with people.”
 
“And she is Jimmy’s cousin?”
 
He nodded weakly.
 
“How do you know that?”
 
“My sister.”
 
“Oh, yeah. Your sister Rosie talks with everyone about everyone. The Queen of Maravilla Chisme.”
 
“Hey, that’s my hermana.”
 
“Everyone knows Rosie, Pete.”
 
“Yeah, but you’re wise.”
 
All those times talking to Pete, I was mostly trying to get rid of him.
 
“So, what do you think?” he said. He wasn’t going nowhere till he got an answer.
 
“Loco has that name for a reason. Jimmy is probably thinking of a way to stop his prima from getting hooked up with him.”
 
I said that for myself.
 
“What do you mean?”
 
“He wants to stop him.”
 
“Oh.” I always liked hearing Pete say “Oh.” It meant he was accepting what I said and would go away. Not today.
 
“You know, Jimmy invited Loco to the show with Giggles?”
 
I lost my words and thinking.
 
Pete batted for me. “I saw them walking back to the Projects after they got off the Kern bus. Loco was laughing like a hyena.”
 
My mother said life has surprises. One just kicked me in the head.
 
“Should we jump him?” said Pete.
 
“He would wrap you around me like a pretzel.”
 
“So, what are you going to do?” he said.
 
What I wanted to do was pluck Loco’s good eye out and do a pachuco hop on it.
 
“It’s up to you.”
 
“Then what should I do?”
 
I felt like I was running his life when he should be running his own.
 
“Find another one.”
 
“Another what?”
 
“Chavala.”
 
“There ain’t no other around,” said Pete, looking around as if to prove it.
 
“All good times don’t lead to Giggles.”
 
At this point, I think I was again giving advice to myself.
 
“Yes they do.”
 
“What if she hates you? And your family? And your dog.”
 
“She don’t know me. Or my family. And this is the Projects, we can’t have a dog.”
 
“Maybe she has a drinking problem. She’ll start making ojitos at other batos.”
 
“How do you know she has a drinking problem?”
 
“Just looking at all angles.”
 
“She could wet her bed, chew food with her boca wide open, have a voice like Jimmy Durante, and I would still like her.”
 
“What if she has a record?”
 
“Even if she was serving life at juvie, I would still visit her every day.”
 
He was almost as crazy over her as I was.
 
“Don’t you have a girl you liked? What about Edith?”
 
“Edith was in the second grade. Her family moved out of the Projects when I was nine.”
 
“Too bad.”
 
“Huh?”

He looked at me real let down. He walked away.
 
I went and sat on my porch. I saw a girl coming toward me on the sidewalk. She was walking like a wave at Long Beach, like Pete said.
 
It was Giggles.
 
“Hello,” I said, trying to sound like some actor I heard in a movie.
 
She kept walking like I had been a squawking perico.
 
I was hoping for a “Hello” back or at least her head to turn up all conceited. But she kept walking.
 
But then for a little bit, she turned her head toward me. Not mad or happy.
 
Jimmy would make everything right. He would talk to his cousin and tell her that he and I were closer than gum under a zapato and she should grab me, crying.
 
Jimmy said that they were cousins when he came to the door.
 
“So, she just likes him like a cousin?” I said.
 
“She and Loco are closer than gum in your hair,” said Jimmy.
 
“So she likes him like a favorite cousin?”
 
“She likes him like she likes to kiss him.”
 
“That’s all?”
 
“He kisses her back.”
 
“You know Loco. You know what he’s like.”
 
“Since we were babies.”
 
I swallowed hard. Then I swallowed hard again. Then a third time and maybe a fourth.
 
“You look like you swallowed a moco,” he said.
 
“Why do you even know him?”
 
“He’s my step brother.” Jimmy didn’t even say that like he was sorry.
 
“Why?”
 
“I don’t make the rules. Loco’s dad married my mom years ago. My mom had kids. He had one, Loco.”
 
“So he can’t love Giggles?” I said.
 
“Why can’t he?”
 
“Because.”
 
“She is my cousin but she is nothing to Loco. Well, that could change, but that doesn’t keep them from liking, maybe loving each other and making a whole bunch of kids to spread around Maravilla.”
 
“That shouldn’t be allowed.”
 
“What?”
 
I walked away, stomping on the ground like it was Loco’s ugly ojo.
 
I went to Pete’s house to report.
 
He opened his door then smiled like if I was going to say that Giggles loved him.
 
I broke the news over his head. But it was my own cabeza that hurt.

by Jacob Teran

The block was not as active tonight. Olympic Boulevard is one of the gateways to enter our urban domain known as South Sapro Street and, on this night, it is absent of travelers and hostile combatants.
 
You can hear the last metro bus making its way down the Boulevard to the depot drop off—final destination. A long day of picking up hard workers, tweakers, cholos, and dropping them off to where they need to go.
 
Neither juras pass by with sirens, nor local tweakers roam the block looking for a potential vehicle to break into, just, the calm and quiet sound of the wind and train that makes its presence known to our barrio. These nights seldomly visit my barrio and when the sweet sound of silence makes its way to Sapro, the tranquility is always welcomed.
 
I am in my messy room of my mom’s 2-bedroom apartment that I have not cleaned for days, lying in bed. I can feel the temperature drop from my open window as the smell of rain and burnt cannabis roaches permeates my room. I slip on my already tied DVS skating shoes, grab my hoodie, and make my way out into the abyss of my barrio.
 
I head to the local Valero Gas Station to pick up a blunt wrap to indulge with my homeboy, Iggy. A light haze of cool droplets penetrates the dark sky making the lonely night that much colder. The smell of wet asphalt is refreshing with each sloshing step that I take. The local Valero was the place to buy a 3-pack of some cheap beer if no one was in the mood to go to Superior Market. The fluorescent lights beam blue and yellow, and read, “Valero Gas Station” with the “o” turned off or perhaps, dead. The people inside know me and even though I am still a minor by age, they never card me when I buy a pack of frajos, especially blunt wraps.
 
As I make my way back on the wet asphalt of the Boulevard, I can smell and hear all sorts of familiar elements that ignite my senses. Across the street from the Valero was Cedar Ave. Someone was always washing their clothes on the corner of Cedar and the Boulevard in the evening. An old steel clothesline is engulfed with colorful socks, white t-shirts, and blue jeans. Probably a small family since I always see a group of three to four kids playing in the street just before the sun sets. The scent of Suavitel Fabric Softener always reminded me of my Abuelos in Boyle Heights, as their neighbors used a similar product for their clothes.
 
The next thing I immediately notice is the fresh scent of cannabis burning nearby. It must be the homies from my block congregating at Cheddar’s pad since he lived two houses from the corner of Cedar. The thick skunky aroma of indica burning in the street at night always felt like I was home—a comforting feeling. Suavitel and marijuana were the telltale signs I am home.
 
Between Cedar and Sapro, an area on the Boulevard, is where I feel the most alone as I walk. As I walk pass Cedar, I look to the left side of the Boulevard stretches to its desolate side of abandoned buildings bathed with graffiti. To my right was a long fence of white wood that closed off the side of an apartment. This wooden canvas is marked “SLS,” for SAPRO LOCOS, the acronym for the locotes on my street. Other times, they were crossed out by the rival barrios in the surrounding area and down south of us, passing the railroad tracks, beyond the Boulevard and away from the domain of Sapro.
 
The spray on walls, scribes on windows, markings on wooden fences, trees, light posts, and curbsides, are all voices without faces that speak. A language that only people that live here understand.
 
I walk under the streetlight between Cedar and Sapro, probably the most remote section of the Boulevard where peculiar occurrences would take place. In this desolate part of the Boulevard, voices could be heard with not a single person around, tall, shadowy figures have followed people only to disappear in a blink of an eye, and the streetlight itself would flicker violently when someone walked under. I could never account for the first two things that homies and neighbors have spoken of, but the streetlight flickering, that was real. Probably some glitch with the wiring under the asphalt, but, whatever rationale could explain, it always made me feel like some ominous entity was following me.
 
I walk under it tonight. It does not flicker.
 
I pass by the streetlight and eventually the Cliff to walk across Sapro to a dark grey Astro van. I could see the radio’s light slightly brighter as I approach the van’s sliding door. I knocked on it twice before opening it to be greeted by my homeboy, Iggy,
 
“Fuckin’ Guill! Finally! Ah Ah! Ah!” Iggy’s laugh was always amusing. Iggy or Iggs, always sounded like his laugh was backwards.
 
“’Sup G, was’ crackin’?” Coming into the van, we shake hands.
 
“Nada güey, posted trying to get faded. ’Sup with you? Where da bud at?”
 
“Shit, I thought you had it.”
 
“Lying ass vato! Ah! Ah! Ah!”
 
I pop out the grape flavored swisher I bought from Valero as I come in slamming the sliding door after me.
 
“Firme! Grape will go good with this shit.”
 
Iggy starts cutting up the swisher with a dull razor as I begin to break up the sticky indica from the baggie I was clenching since the odd streetlight. Iggy hands me a ripped Home Depot cardboard he used to dump out the tobacco from the swisher. Bone Thugs’ “Resurrection” is playing in a CD player he installed for his mom’s van’s radio. The music suits the quiet night and the session we are about to have. The dank bud begins to stink up the van with a skunky aroma as I break up the sticky flower that sticks to my fingertips.
 
We start conversing about the extracurricular activities that have been making the block hot: South Siders and Veil Street have been coming through our block and hitting up their placas in our area. A few tweakers from a few blocks away stealing the vecinos’ recyclables. Really typical mamadas that occur in our barrio. Sometimes we laugh about it. Sometimes we get into heavier conversations.
 
I hand the cardboard with the potent shake I just broke up to Iggy, “Trip out G, isn’t tonight quiet as fuck?”
 
“Fuck yea, Guill…but…” Iggy licks the wrap’s end to seal the blunt, “…it’s firme, I like nights like this. Don’t you?”
 
“Yeah, it’s just trippy,” I kept looking down the Boulevard from the second-row window of the van. Usually, a suspicious car or jura patrolling would pass, but nothing.
 
Iggy hands me the lighter, “Do the honors and spark it up, Guill! Ah! Ah! Ah!”
 
I light one side of the blunt and roll it around slowly as if I’m hot roasting a pig, making sure the cherry got an even burn. I take a couple of light hits as if I was smoking a cigar to get the cherry just right. As the smoke enters my lungs, I can feel it spread throughout my chest making me want to cough. I hold it in and exhale through my nostrils, feeling the euphoria of both weed and Krayzie Bone’s lyricism.
 
Iggy is chain-hitting the blunt and seemed like he forgot I was in the session with him. He looks halfway towards me from the driver’s seat, “…Guill, I wanna tell you some shit that some OG told me a while back. This vato was a firme ass foo, a real one. The shit he said was the truth dog, palabra, and I still believe this shit to this day.”
 
I looked at Iggy thinking ahh shit, this foo is faded. “Handles, G.”
 
Iggy put the blunt down to his chest as it continues to burn, “And I don’t give a fuck what anyone says, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise either. You gotta believe this shit, Guillermo. You’re gonna have foos try to press you, call you a bitch and all that…but fuck that.”
 
I was thinking, Iggy is never going to get to the point, “Yeah Iggy, handles, I hear you foo.”
 
Iggy turns as much as he could to the seat behind him where I’m sitting, “You don’t got to be from nowhere and still be G wid’ it. A lot of foos think you gotta be from somewhere to be hard, claim a hood, get into mamadas and put in dirt, and all that bullshit, but chales, güey.” He pauses and takes another rip from the blunt.
 
“Escucha güey…Just be you dog…and that’s keeping it gangster.” A bit of mota and street wisdom Iggy shares as he takes one big rip and lets out a huge cloud of smoke that makes him start choking and laughing.
 
Iggs passed the almost finished blunt back to me as he was coughing all over the place. “Damn, foo, you aight, haha!” “Hit that shi…that shit…Mem…” Iggy kept coughing and all I could think about was why he was telling me this.
 
I sit there as Iggy is coughing his lungs out and felt this was the most genuine thing my homeboy ever told me. Growing up in the hood, I always thought I would eventually get jumped in the hood when the time came. But what Iggy just confided hit me profoundly. I couldn’t stop thinking about it during our session.
 
We kill the blunt and hear a few of Iggy’s primos coming back to interrupt our private hotbox. Fuck. Who is this? There are a chingo of us on the block and whoever comes to a session either has weed or none.
 
“Eeeeee, look at you scandolosos right here,” Iggy’s primo Fat Boy always loves putting people on blast.
 
Iggy looks up and blasts back, “fuck you dick, where were you when I hit you up earlier to blaze it?” Fat Boy smirks. “Don’t even trip, I share my shit homie, not like you assholes,” Fat Boy starts opening up a bag with his own weed that he had.
 
Looking to me, Fat Boy laughs, “’Sup Memo, where’s all da bud at? You and Iggy are straight holdouts.”
 
I smirk and laugh. “Dick, you foos had your own VIP sesh, so Iggs hit me up. Got ends? Still have some leftover yesca.” Fat Boy ignores me as his brother Scraps and Cheddar come through pushing themselves in the van talking mumbling and complaining that Iggy and I were smoking without them, although they just smoked without Iggy and me.
 
“Hey dick, my Jefa is gonna come out trippin’ with all you foos in here being all loud and shit,” Iggy always snapped when unexpected dudes came, even if they were his primos.
 
“Don’t even trip, my Tía loves me,” Fat Boy said as he was breaking up some of his bud nudging me for the cardboard with the leftover bud on it.
 
“Not you fat ass, you’re burning the spot,” Iggy capped back as he was looking for a track to play on the van’s CD player stereo. Scraps, Cheddar, and I all started busting up laughing from the exchange between Iggy and his primo, Fat Boy. DJ Quik’s “Pitch in On a Party” surrounds the van’s speakers as the van gets louder and I kept thinking about what Iggy told me.
 
Fat Boy looked back at Scraps and Cheddar, “Shut the fuck up turkey and you too cheddar.” Fat Boy’s hermano Scraps was chubby like Fat Boy, but shorter. Everyone called him “Turkey” or “Danny DeVito,” which he hated. Cheddar had pretty poor hygiene when it came to his teeth. He never brushed his teeth, and the result made his dientes look like picante corn nuts.
 
“Dick, you’re fucked up,” Cheddar shakes his head.
 
“You’re a scandalous vato too, ‘Gay-mo,’” Fat Boy looks to me. The homies would either call me “Guill” or “Memo,” short for Guillermo. Other times, “Gay-mo,” because it sounded funny to them, and I also hated it.
 
“Just be you dog,” I pat Fat Boy hard on the back of the shoulder.
 
“Fuck, let’s go finish this shit out in the front of your pad Fat Boy, you burned the spot.”
 
“Fuck it, let’s bounce then,” Fat Boy said as we all get up to leave the van.
 
We all walked to the front of Fat Boy and Scrap’s pad. Their mom was asleep, so we had to creep and crawl if we didn’t want to get kicked out of the yard. Fat Boy and Scrap’s oldest brother Beaker wasn’t home either, probably getting all pedo with some lady that he would always say he was going to marry but then break up with weeks later.
 
We all post up on the bed of Beaker’s 1987 El Camino, laughing quietly, talking about how cold the night was. We start packing bowls from Cheddar and Scrap’s weed pipes and begin a new rotation. Iggy’s stomach was bothering him, so heads to the restroom. The four of us, without Iggy, sit in the back of the El Camino getting faded as the night continues to get colder and quieter.
 
Suddenly, a car comes out the cut from the corner of the yard where we are posting up, on the Boulevard. Fat Boy and Scraps lived at the corner of our street and had thick bushes that made it hard to see who was walking or driving by, especially at night.
 
      *                              *                              *                              *
 
We then see four shadows running around the corner of Fat Boy and Scraps’ pad outside the fence. The moonlight was our only aid in seeing through the darkness. One shadow stood at the corner keeping trucha, while one other dude stood outside of the gate. The other two shadows came up to us in front of the fence where we happen to be sitting.
 
“Where the fuck you from, Ese?! This is big bad Southside Greenwood Gang! Fuck ‘Scrape’ Street!”
 
The bald shadow brandishes a .45 cuete and points it to each of our stunned skulls. All of us with our sweaty palms open, shield our chests, afraid and frozen in an already cold evening. The nefarious shadow, only three feet away from the silver diamond-shaped fence that separates us, stands fiercely. The streetlight reveals his inked face, a black spider web trapped his entire face with the center of the web starting from the shadow’s nose. Eyes as black as obsidian, stabbing us with his soulless glare, listo for anything.
 
“Hey dog…we’re from nowhere…we don’t bang. I live right here,” Fat Boy being the oldest of us speaks, shaken up, choosing his words carefully. The shadow looks at him with disdain and then all of us. He points his cuete at each of us asking us individually if we claimed Sapro Street. With our arms raised, palms open, not knowing what to think or do, we deny because we are in fact not from the hood, yet.
 
“I don’t give a fuck! You’re caught slipping out here! This is Southside Territory! Fuck Sapro Street! Bitch ass levas! The spider webbed shadow looks to his homeboy for confirmation to off us right then and there. The shadow raises his less dominant hand and cocks his cuete. Coming back from the restroom, Iggy comes out to a situation he was somewhat familiar with.
 
The second shadow by the fence gate sees Iggy and hails out, “Who the fuck are you?! Southside Greenwood Gang, ese!”
 
Iggy opens his palms towards the second shadow, “Hey, I don’t bang dog. I live right here in the back, this is my Tía’s pad. These are all my primos, we’re just right here burning some bud. My primos are kids G, they ain’t soldiers. We are family right here.” Iggy being much older than us already knew the street lingo—along with his street intellect and rhetoric, Iggy’s response disheartens the shadows.
 
Although this was a typical night in my barrio, we never had a neighboring group roll up on us like that. This night made me realize the brevity of life, the choices I make and the words I choose influence what can happen next. Iggy’s words echoed in my mind and made me realize a lot of shit—life is short and can be taken in an instant. I want to change and do better, but it’s difficult when you have no direction or positive influences. But Iggy made me think and that was perhaps one of the most impactful things someone ever told me.
 
The dude with the cuete throws up his insignia, claims his hood one last time so we could all remember it, and dashes off to the car with the other shadows and drove off into the abyss.
 
The rain never came but the smell remained…Some fuckin’ quiet night.

​Jacob “Jake” Teran is a proud Chicano living in the San Gabriel Valley, Los Angeles. Jake is a 2nd generation Chicano who was born in Montebello, Los Angeles, east of Los Angeles. He has published one short fictional story at his community college at Rio Hondo College and a master’s thesis for his graduate program, where he obtained his Masters Degree in Rhetoric and Composition. He is currently teaching composition to several departments in two colleges that include indigenous and Chicanx literature. Jake currently lives in the San Gabriel Valley where he is working on a novel based on his experiences growing up in his barrio that deals with gang lifestyle, drugs, violence, and finding one’s identity in a chaotic concrete jungle. 

I was sitting in my favorite easy chair, rocking back and forth to some firme rolas, thinking about the Dodgers, my next meal and the llantas my ’64 Chevy Impala needed. I looked over to Tío Juan who was sitting on the hardest chair in the house and in the same room, which is our sala. I share it with the old bato who helps pay la renta. I knew he saved a lot of money, only spending a lot of feria for books. In fact, he was reading one, lost in some thought from some writer who lived back before gente had TV, laptops and iPhones. Half the people now living would go crazy if they had to live only with those three toys. Me? I’m Old School. As long as I have my ranfla, the Dodgers on radio, Oldies, and decent menudo now and then, I’m happier than any one of them.
 
Tío Juan’s iPhone let out a few notes of classical music by some guy wearing a wig wrote before anyone could stop him. Tío Juan made a face because he was being taken away from his book just when he was going to make a juicy mental note, it looked like. When he said “Hello,” a voice roared from the tiny box that told me it was my Tía Rosa who talked as if she was trying to summon her dead marido, the first one, del otro lado. The viejo jumped like some malvado lit a cuete under his silla. His book flew out of his wrinkled copper-colored manos like a spooked gallina. The libro, a thick one, landed at my feet making a loud noise.
 
“It’s your Tía Rosa,” he said all serious as he walked over to hand me his phone and retrieved his fat book.
 
“Hello Tía,” I said, sounding all happy. She promised to leave me her ‘39 Packard. She hadn’t driven it since her viejo Richard died, the Indio from Washington State with the genio of a wart hog. The carrucha had under 40,000 miles. No dents or scratches. The clock even worked.
 
“You sound triste,” she shot back and I moved my ear the standard six inches when talking to the Mejicana bullhorn.
 
I had to think since I wanted to make her feel happy so she would call me her favorite sobrino y gordito.
 
“No, no, I feel happy like it’s your birthday.”
 
“Gordo, I want you to do something for me.”
 
There was a pause. I thought she would then follow through like always with her rapid fire of words like so many balas.
 
“Well?” the tía vieja then said. I guess she wanted some kind of reaction from me.
 
“Uh, what is it?” As much as I wanted to be there for her and live up to her expectations, her idea of favors tested my ‘tude.
 
“You don’t sound too enthusiastic for someone in line to inherit my rancho in El Monte and my 1939 Packard.”
 
“I’m trying to hold my ganas so I can talk.”
 
“I’ll do the talking. My brother Fulgencio’s son Candelario from El Paso is crazy over some muchacha. He is lavishing her with money he doesn’t have, buying her this and that. He’s up to his usual tonterías.”
 
“I say leave well enough alone in El Paso. They take care of their gente, we take care of ours in East Los.”
 
“Listen fat head. That other fat head, the flaco, isn’t in El Paso.”
 
“That, too, is your brother’s problem. Did he run down to Mexico?”
 
“I should disown you and then put out a contract on you, that’s what I should do. No, if you would listen, maybe you too can put your life together. That other sobrino without any common sense is in L.A.”
 
“Why?” My stomach began to churn the enchiladas Tío Juan made for dinner. He is the best cook in our familia although not officially a member but an honorary hanger-on. Showed up one day looking for yard work and sort of grew on me like a grano. But that’s for another story.
 
“For love. Or what his distorted thinking calls love. He fell for some muchacha in El Paso and proposed to her.”
 
“Another one?”
 
“Yes, he collects these females like others collect botes.”
 
“It seems like he falls in love once a month. Like a novia-of-the-month club.”
 
“So now you can see why your Tío Fulgencio is concerned about his only hijo. Candy will spend all kinds of dough on her only to see it broken off by him and/or her.”
 
Candy was the family name for Candelario. I never thought it fit him since even as a chamaco, he had a sour look on his face like he was weaned on a pickle. I guess he eventually rearranged his face in order so he could hit on all these girls.
 
“Someone should remind him of all the other females he has gone through,” I said.
 
“His father did.”
 
“What did the loco say?”
 
“This is the one.”
 
“He said that with the first one, what’s her name?”
 
“Christina. She turned out to be married and went crying back to her husband from whom she was separated from for over two years.”
 
“Candy has that effect on women,” I said.
 
“So, I want you to track him down there in L.A. and pal around with him. Make him see he has no business chasing a woman in show biz.”
 
“Show biz?”
 
“Yes, she has aspirations of getting onto the stage or movies. I hear she is a looker.”
 
“I don’t see how I can help?”
 
“I do!” she said with a slam of the phone, a Chicana force unequaled by man or beast. I stood there, wondering what her next move would be.
 
“Did your Tía slam the phone on you again?” said Tío Juan from his silla.
 
“How can you tell?”
 
“The agitated look on your face, chubby cheeks and all. Did she say she was charging over like a mama bear after a biologist innocently swatting at butterfly specimens near her cub?”
 
“She didn’t get into that much detail. But that is usually her modus operandi. She’ll be rudely rushing into the house without a hello and a lot of do-this-and-do-that’s.”
 
“You better pull up the drawbridge because she can walk through walls by knocking them down if she is agüitada.”
 
“I can’t say no to her. I have too much invested in her being agreeable.”
 
“You can tell her that you have a bad muela that is dark, rotten and painful.”
 
“Even then, she will make my life very dark, very rotten and very painful.”
 
“What is she asking of you?”
 
“Part of my life.”
 
“She needs a transplant? One of your kidneys?”
 
“I’d take that over what she is demanding. She don’t ask. She wants me to babysit her nephew Candelario who, I hate to say, is also my primo.”
 
“Doesn’t he pass the time away in El Paso proposing to every other muchacha?”
 
“That was my reaction, a logical one. But you know Tía Rosa.”
 
“Like the bottom of my chanclas. How many names did she call you before she explained?”
 
“Just a few choice ones. She seemed in a hurry. Candelario is in L.A. chasing some loquita who thinks she is the next Eva Longoria. And, of course, he wants to marry her.”
 
“Why does your aunt care whom he marries. She don’t seem to care whom you marry, her favorite punching bag.”
 
“She says I got no worries. Women don’t like gordos who sit around listening to the radio, eating nonstop and letting out smelly pedos.”
 
“Your aunt is direct with you, isn’t she?”
 
“Yeah, but she wants me to be thin, happily casado.”
 
“Those are two demands for the ages.”
 
“Here’s the problem Tío Juan. I can’t stand being around the bato.”
 
“Why?”
 
“I knew you’d ask that.”
 
“For every action, there is a reason.”
 
“Yeah, you read all those books.”
 
“Actually, I got that from a fortune cookie at the Eternal Garden Chinese place on Soto near First. They went out of business soon after. No one cried. With good reason, like that cookie said. Their food was bound to kill their business if they didn’t kill a customer first.”
 
“I don’t like the way Candelario chews food, talks about himself and his love life nonstop, and sings those songs he claims he writes. Well, he can’t sing and he can’t write songs. And he always has something to say about the way I live, how much I eat and how much time I waste riding around and hopping my ranfla.”
 
“And he has the short list. Your Tía could give him the official list.”
 
“How come you’re always giving me patadas? You should be telling me stuff from all those books you always have your nose in. You know, how Aristotle, Casanova and them handled cosas.”
 
“I apply them and other minds I have absorbed in libraries and cantinas to your daily gripes. I guess you weren’t aware of that.”
 
“What do you say about the payaso Candelario?”
 
“An interesting case study.”
 
There was a pause. I was heaving as I inhaled and exhaled.
 
“Well, what should I do?” I said. “Should me and some homies jump him and FedEx him back to Tejas?”
 
“I take it you are trying hard at a chiste.”
 
“Not even.”
 
“Your Tía Rosa would disown you, not to mention your other tías. They work as a team during a crisis. Like a herd of elefantes protecting a valuable water hole during a draught in the Serengeti.”
 
“Then tell me the way.”
 
“That is for another counseling. I will make a suggestion regarding your current pickle after I have my Té de Canela.”
 
“Yeah, get that egghead of yours on the problem.”
 
I went outside to sit in my ranfla. I knew Tío Juan would think of something with that oblong head of his once he had his canela. He has saved me from all kinds of trouble, including girls, money, bills, stomach aches, headaches, plumbing, neighbors, and, of course, my tías who can be pushy.
 
I went back inside like I needed to get something important. I walked past him and he didn’t stop his musing, ignoring me like I was a passing mosca on a hustle.
 
I went back to my Impala to play some firme rollas, the background music to my vida. The first rolla that came on was “You’re No Good” by Betty Everett. I took it personally. Felt like she was singing to me and no one else. I could see her dedo touching my nose, making me cross-eyed right there in my driveway.
 
I was in that pickle Tío Juan talked about. I saw no way out. My Tía Rosa had heard my standard excuses, several times. I had used a dolor in every part of my body. And every part of my ranfla. I was lucky to be living with a man like Tío Juan who had the mind of a master criminal. He always found a way to cheat fate. I’d bet Candelario’s right leg he would find a way.
 
I fell asleep. Then I heard a knock on the window as “Workin’ On A Groovy Thing” by Patti Drew was playing. Tío Juan was signaling me with his arms flailing sideways. Someday I have to tell him the signal for lowering a car window is down.
 
I rolled down the window but then he again waved his hands in that sideway motion. I guess he now wanted me to lower the music. I also have to tell him that he has to point to the music with one hand and make a downward motion con la otra.
 
When I shut off the music, he cleared his garganta with a lot of noise I didn’t think could come out of the human cuerpo. He didn’t say anything so I gave him my So? mirada.
 
“I thought of something. Actually, it’s multiple choice with all the answers being right.”
 
Then came another pause. I gave him another So? mirada, this time punctuated with my hands raised to face level and to both sides of my head, palms up. He studied my gesture for a few moments, like he found the gesture amusing. I guess that’s what happens when your only entertainment is libros.
 
“Here’s the deal. Listen up.”
 
I waited this time, poker faced. He studied my face for a bit then spoke.
 
“You can introduce him to someone more feasible.”
 
“He would find any jaina feasible.”
 
“Not a problem. Your aunt is also his aunt and would probably find any girl too good for him.”
 
“You’re right. Tía Rosa is funny.”
 
“Hilarious. Okay, the second option is to introduce him to a decoy.”
 
“Like a pato?”
 
“No, too risky. He is not beyond proposing to a duck, wooden or otherwise. I mean, a real good looking female with even odds and ends of intelligence who he would propose to on first sight.”
 
“Heck with him. I’d keep her for myself.”
 
“That’s the problem I see here. You have as many character defects as Candelario and any other bato with hanging tongue in the 7.47 square miles that is East Los. And there are over 125,000 folks trotting around those square miles. A whole bunch of those guys like you and Candelario, guys getting wide-eyed and tongue dripping at the sight of any beauty who smiles momentarily at you, even by accident.”
 
I calculated that 125,000 was two fair-sized Dodger crowds. Tío Juan had slipped silently away and back into the house while I was calculating.
 
The following morning, Tía Rosa was at the foot of my bed as I opened my eyes. She was like a fantasma lleno do corajes. Before I could say, “What The Fudge!” she started to evaluate my life.
 
“You’re going to sleep right through your existence.”
 
I looked at the clock on the rickety nightstand near my pillow. It said quarter to six.
 
“Who let you in?” I said.
 
“That skinny viejo.”
 
Tío Juan rarely slept past 5 a.m. He had his morning tea and one scrambled egg burrito, chewing serenely at the kitchen table.
 
“Oh, yeah,” I said.
 
“I have a plan. Join me in the sala when you get dressed and brush your teeth. You know I don’t like bad breath.”
 
She left with a slam of my bedroom door. Where is the privacy in East L.A., I said to himself. I dressed quickly and brushed my teeth even quicker, knowing my Tía to have no patience when anyone made her wait. I guess she always had to feel like the most important person in a room.
 
I headed for the kitchen in search of coffee, but like a mama grizzly annoyed by a mocking visitor to Yellowstone, she growled then waved a paw toward a chair opposite where she was holding court. I responded submissively by sitting right away where she had pointed to.
 
She stared at me as if I was a chunk of questionable pancita de res she was going to toss into a pot of menudo.
 
“Candelario is a tonto. The only thing that keeps him fed is his good looks. His family doesn’t have the money to sponsor his viajes of tonterías. But they are proud and want us to lasso him and send him back to El Paso. When he first texted his family, they were happy. He said he finally met a girl they would love, too. He followed that with more texts. The last one said that she was going to be a movie star and was dancing to support herself. He knew that they would understand.
 
“Well, they didn’t. They called me and told me they were sure she was a stripper in some barrio who knows where. Do they have strippers around here, Gordo?”
 
“I heard they might,” I said, trying to sound like I didn’t know.
 
She looked at me as if to say, Mentiroso.
 
“I’ll bet Tío Juan knows a few,” she said.
 
“Only if they have an exceptional reading room,” Tío Juan said as he had silently appeared, as usual, like a gato sneaking up on a ratón. He sat in a corner, stirring his tea, observing me since Tía Rosa had her back to him. She kept talking to me like he had been Hip-Hop coming from a passing car.
 
“From what the familia put together from his jumbled text, much like his mumbled speech, is that the girl’s name is Latina Destiny. At least her stage name. They’ve yet to hear her Tejas name. According to Candelario, she does something called a Banana Split on a pole. What that name means, I don’t want to know. He went on in his text to say that she had them all loco at Mr. Zapp’s. Who she or Señor Zapp is I never want to find out.”
 
For a person who knows everything, I found it hard to believe she didn’t want to know those things, too.
 
“It’s messed up, huh?” I said.
 
“More than that, payaso. He would be the shame of all the familia, both sides of the frontera.”
 
“Every family has one of those. We just have to take hold of our chones and still walk proud.”
 
“No seas ridículo, Arturo.”
 
“Tía, I remember hearing that Tío Fulgencio met his wife Claudia in Nogales, Mexico. He was stationed across the border at an Army base. She was a singer in a nightclub. So Candelario might have his father’s DNA and is attracted to women on stage. He can’t help it. His father grabbed his and took her home to El Paso. The familia worked on her and she became a domesticated Mejicana stirring frijoles on the stove. You could never tell she sang and moved her hips for a living. Mejicanas go with the flow since that one who whispered in Cortez’ ear and helped him jump our people.”
 
“What are you driveling about, Gordo?”
 
“Our history according to Tío Juan. He knows all that stuff about our gente going way back.”
 
“Well, right now we’re talking current affairs. And you are part of it. So, open up those oversized ears of yours. You will come to the aid of your primo.”
 
“It may be a family disorder or whatever it’s called. Maybe his chavalos in the future will be chasing and marrying ruckas like this Latina Destiny. We shouldn’t try to stop it.”
 
“The only disorder I see, Artie, is in your thinking. Wiggling around on stage while yodeling doesn’t make a good match for a man. Do I need to whack you on your chaveta to bring you back to the problem facing the family? This is a family crisis and you’re going to find Candelario and steer him to what is right.”
 
“Why me?”
 
“Why do you even ask? You are too difficult, Arturo. What about familia? Your sangre. You are too flojo to accomplish something meaningful en esta vida. You should jump for joy to help stop Candelario from bringing shame on the family for generations to come. You will find your primo. Besides, you used to be pals when growing up. You are the only one on both sides of the family who has nothing to do but ride around in that jalopy and hang around with cholos on Whittier Boulevard.”
 
“My car is not a jalopy. It’s a classic bomba. And my friends are not cholos. Not full time, anyway. And I listen to the Dodgers on the radio. Good, clean fun.”
 
“My point. You’re just sitting around that radio, getting fat eating and doing nothing else. Besides, I’m asking you to do this as a favor from a person that can determine your future way down the line.”
 
I know she was telling me that if I didn’t go along peacefully, she would show me what a malvada she could be by messing up my life forever. Her eyes focused on me like a spider she was about to swat with a wave of her chancla. She reminded me of La Llorona on a bad day.
 
“So you will jump on this right away, right, Artie?”
 
I thought quickly.
 
“Simón.”
 
Tía Rosa left like a drill sergeant, confident her orders would be followed. I almost saluted the rucka.
 
I looked over to Tío Juan who had his nose in a book like always.
 
“Tío Juan, we have to find Candelario and tell him what’s what.”
 
“Might have to slap him around some,” he said while slowly turning a page.
 
“I will text him and tell him to meet me on the corner of Sunset and Vine, like in the movies.”
 
L.A. can be confusing and if some bato gives you an address, even with GPS, it ain’t easy. And I didn’t have GPS.
 
I did receive his address in a text on Tío Juan’s phone from Tía Rosa. It was a bungalow on a residential street on the edge of Hollywood. I rang the doorbell, knocked on the door and pleaded with Candelario to open the door because I wanted to save his life. He didn’t come to the door and it sounded like no one ever would.
 
It was a letdown. I was in a strange part of L.A. and Candelario was nowhere to nail. Walking around, away from my ranfla, I couldn’t think smoothly. My Impala and me are a team, like a charro and his horse. I didn’t know where to go. I started to walk around and something told me to go to the front bungalow. There a sign said Manager, Knock First and I guess the same thing in a list of words below that in four other languages. I rang the doorbell not once but four times. Out of habit, I thought I’d see a Chicano brown face and had to step back when the pinkest dude I had ever seen opened the door. He was also one of the skinniest dudes I’d ever seen. He was tall and looked down on me as if I was an abandoned perro.
 
He grunted something. I said, “Huh?” He cleared his throat and said, “What you need?” in some accent from somewhere. I told him and he brought me up to date regarding my person of interest, Candelario.
 
He laid out Candelario’s schedule as if he had planned it himself. He said Candelario was like a trained something—I couldn’t make out the word—and did everything at the same time every day. It was a long schedule the bony bato had memorized. I remembered that he got home at six, stayed for an hour then went out. After that, he said he got back to his bungalow at all hours, sometimes after midnight.
 
The streets around here were full of fast cars and people walking like they were going to meet someone with lots of money. The buses were packed with Raza going to work in Westside restaurants and homes, working from morning till night.
 
I felt a strange new respect for My Gente as they travelled from East Los, Maywood, Downey, and other lugares miles away to provide for their familias. I couldn’t wait to get back to Tío Juan to see what his take was on all this. He always has something to say about everything I see and do.
 
Then something hit me like an electrical shock I once got when I plugged in a lámpara while I was desnudo and wet. I felt like Dios himself was smiling down on me and everything around me. Why? Because I was safely miles away from Tía Rosa, the big mandona.
 
Back to Candelario. Reminds me like when you’re looking for something and you start getting mad at everything and everybody but yourself. It’s like Tío Juan looking for his iPhone, he doesn’t find it until someone calls him. Could be days. I was hoping for something quicker in my search. Seeing the fine jainas walking and driving around, I didn’t care if I ever found Candelario, but then I saw the bato walking in front of me at a red light.
 
I honked but he kept walking and bouncing as if he heard music no one else did. And he did. He had ear buds on. I pulled over in a red zone, the only spot nearby that was open and saw him bouncing down the boulevard like he was rengo since, like I said, he couldn’t dance. I then saw him go into an office. It took me about ten minutes to find parking a block away. I half walked and half ran toward that office.
 
I tried the door but it was locked. I called out his name. The name on the door said Alphonso Bolinso, Agent For New Talent. From the other side of the puerta, I heard all kinds of voices, some in Spanish, some in English and one in some language that I never heard in the barrio.
 
I pounded on the door. Appearing in a small window was a face I didn’t like but had to look at. It was Candelario. My suerte was kicking in, the good kind for a change.
 
He unlocked the door after several turns, the last one sounding like an industrial strength bolt lock. “Artie, what do you want? How’d you get here? Did you make a wrong turn and finally make it out of East L.A.?”
 
“I went to where you lived and the manager and all those other things gave me your schedule. I didn’t remember most of it and I didn’t expect to see you hustling across a street.”
 
“I gave him that schedule but I really don’t have one.”
 
“Why?”
 
“Well, people around here are all nosey and want to know what you’re up to. Like they’re ready to call the cops. You feel like you’re being watched all the time from behind windows and from rooftops. And I have more reasons, ese. I might tell you later. No, I’ll tell you now, Artie. I fell for a girl. It was like Canelo hit me with his left hook. She is the finest jaina in any barrio you can name.”
 
The loquito looked at me like a bato who has just lost his mind, a hideous smile on his face, waiting for me to give him un abrazo. I had to tell him all he was telling me was already family chisme flying around Texas, and that I was sent by our Tía Rosa to slap him back to his senses.
 
So, I didn’t hug him or anything, but just gave him the standard Órale.
 
“Thanks, you’re true Raza from way back,” he said. “I may be jumping the gun, pero I think it will turn out right. Come in. I’ll give you all the happy details.”
 
“What are you doing here? It looks like a dump.”
 
“It’s part of the deal. Let me tell you how it is.”
 
He opened the door and I followed. There were people packed into the room like when you go to a firme party in the Hood. But these people didn’t look like they knew how to have any fun. They talked all serious. They were talking and talking, not even paying attention that I was watching them, like they were all high on a new droga going around.
 
Candelario saw my face, probably looking all confused so he gave me some details.
 
“Performers of all kinds,” he said, “waiting to see Alphonso Bolinso. It’s summer so clubs need people with even a little talent to sell drinks and demand a big cover charge. Summer is Christmas to club entertainers. All over this city, as June sets in, standups stand up, blood gushes in the veins of dancers, and hypnotists make their eyes big to make people believe they are dogs barking in a junkyard. It’s time to book your act and people are paying tribute to the legendary Bolinso.”
 
“What’s all this have to do with you, a flojo from El Paso?”
 
“Plenty. If you see a skinny bato who looks homeless come from that office, jump him because that will be Alphonso. The more money he makes, the more he dresses like he don’t have any. Years ago, they said he was mugged because of his flashy dress. If you do corner Alphonso, he might not remember me.”
 
“You said you’d tell me about some deal that brought you here.”
 
“Okay, man, I got into—”
 
Suddenly, Candelario’s eyes opened as if he just saw a twenty waving at him. He jumped and sprang at this frumpy-looking dude with hair shooting here and there. Candelario got to him before the others even turned their heads. The singers, dancers, standup comics, piano players and comedy teams had the look of defeat as they saw Candelario get into the face of Alphonso Bolinso as if he wanted to kiss him. Alphonso turned and Candelario followed closely as they walked by me.
 
Mr. Bolinso lit a cigar, sat then looked at us like he wanted to throw us back into the streets. “Let me tell you something Candel” he said. “And listen.” Candelario sat, then put a fist under his chin as if to signal he was hanging on every syllable. Mr. Bolinso studied Candelario for a few seconds then shot an imaginary basketball at an imaginary hoop.
 
“Let me tell you,” he then spoke again. “I saw you do your act as I promised La Destiny. You got a hint of talent here and there. You got a long way to go but you are on the road. I can get you into a club if you accept seventy-five per cent. I don’t have to offer you even that but the young lady kept texting me. It’s yours for the taking. Do I hear a ‘sure I’ll take it’?”
 
“You sure do, I accept,” he said in the deepest voice I ever hear come out of the bato.
 
Outside on the sidewalk, Candelario laughed all crazy and waved a hand for a high-five. I waved a hand sin ganas.
 
“Oh, yeah. I was saying when Alphonso came out that L.D.’s mother used to be in entertainment. She was from back in the old days but I think I heard of her somewhere from somebody. She sang but also danced. Muy sexy. I met her and I could see she must have been fine when she was young. But she says I don’t sing and then added that it doesn’t look like I do anything. She told Destiny that I didn’t look like I could support her for a week. Said no to our joining hands like she meant business.
 
“You remember how great I sing and write songs, so Destiny got hold of the sloppy viejo Bolinso and got him to say he would spare me a few of his precious moments and put me somewhere if I showed him. She can make him listen. He then said he would get back to me. Well, today, I made him get back to me. You heard him. I get to keep seventy-five per cent of what I make and he will find a place for me to sing.”
 
“He’s taking a lot,” I said, “but that’s better than the IRS if you win the Lotto.”
 
I felt weak at the knees. I could see Tía Rosa’s cara when she heard Fulgencio’s hijo was not only still chasing the loose woman but also was going to get on stage, too. Tía Rosa felt nothing came before familia, not even someone’s happiness, including mine. She’s always telling me that our family tree goes way back on both sides of the border and that we had all kinds of history that had important people doing all kinds of things everywhere. She tells me in detail but she talks so fast that I can’t remember everything. She tells me when I do something to make her agüitada so that’s why she says the family stuff so fast. What she would say when she heard this breaking news, I don’t even want to think about.
 
“Let’s go back to East Los, Candelario,” I said. “Tío Juan can fix us some comida to make you think right. I could eat a dozen of his tacos right now. And hold on while I call somebody.” I walked a few feet away.
 
I knew at the start that Tía Rosa shouldn’t have picked me to get this tonto away from someone he wanted to marry. I needed backup. I thought of Tía Rosa herself but that was like asking for problemas on top of all the current ones. I thought things out and thought I would text Candelario’s father and tell him he needed to show up as fast as he could.
 
“Who were you texting?” asked Candelario when we got to my car.
 
“Just Tío Juan to find out what he was preparing for cena,” I said.
                                                                        ֍
On the following Tuesday, Candelario appeared at a Mexican restaurant in Pasadena that had singing on a stage right next to where people ate, which was risky for the restaurant. He had practiced in his bathroom with a neighbor banging the wall after two hours. I drove around with the ventanas all the way up so he could let out his lungs. I was encouraging him, which encouraged me since he sounded worse with every mile. I wanted his first gig to be such a relaje that he would never again try to inflict his singing on anyone; and that would end his chances of being Latina Destiny’s marido. So, I stepped to one side.
 
But the bato was determined. On Saturday and Sunday, we almost lived in my Impala as I drove around while he sang all kinds of songs, all out of tune. He had a special CD with just the background music of songs I never heard of. The bato never got tired. It was like he would die if he stopped singing.
 
Candelario makes a strange noise with his tongue, then a stranger noise with his garganta and starts:
 
“There’s a streetcar at the corner.”
CANDELARIO with a deep voice: “Why?”
CANDELARIO in a high voice: “To take me to my destiny.”
CANDELARIO with the deep voice: “To your destiny?"
CANDELARIO with the high voice (staying with his goal): “To take me to my destiny.”
CANDELARIO with the deep voice (not believing him): “No kidding?”
CANDELARIO with the high voice: “I’m from the stars.”
CANDELARIO with the deep voice: “I’m from Eagle Pass.”
 
He repeated those words over and over. I told him ya trucha, I’m going to drop you off on the corner. But the bato said this is what performers do, even in opera. This would get him Destiny. I said he needed all the getting he could get. And then the bato said to me, “So you have my back, ese!” And he sang on.
 
He then switched to some song about lovebirds. He told me that that was a song Destiny sang at a Hollywood club. It was like he was telling me a miracle performed by a saint.
 
No lie, but the restaurant expected Candelario to be there in time to start crooning at 12 noon for the lunch crowd. I said they had to be delusional since he was still snoring at that hour, but Candelario said if he was to eat while in L.A. he had to be there. I was nodding like what he said really made sense, until he made it plain that I was supposed to be there with him. I had expected just to go to his bungalow at night to see him all sad because he had bombed. But I never let a homie down. So, I had to drop plans to go to a Mexican restaurant I found on Cesar Chavez Avenue that has better corn tortillas than even Tío Juan’s. I followed Candelario, instead. They were playing soft instrumental Rancheras over an intercom for atmosphere, I guess. I sat down. It wasn’t much of a lunch crowd that ate in the atmosphere, which seemed to trigger yawns from one table to the next. I didn’t know if it was the bland décor, the food or the music. I was just going to order a taco till Candelario came on. I joined the yawns of some guy who looked like he’d rather be eating a hot dog with plenty of mustard as he forced an enchilada into his boca and down his throat. It was then that I noticed an hermosa for the ages sitting at the next table.
 
Órale. I don’t like lying. When I came in, I saw an hermosa sitting at a table, so I went a de volada to the one next to it. I began to check her out like I was shopping for hydros to put in my Impala. I wanted the lugar to have better lights so I could appreciate her curves and finish. She was small, with big Chicana eyes and the reddest lips I have ever seen. It was a wasted work of art that was sitting in the dark.
 
Then the lighting got better, and the speaker system began to blast a tune which sounded like I’d heard many times before, which I had. Then Candelario came out in a maroon coat down to his knees, pegged black pantalones tucked into high-top calcos, his chaveta topped by a burgundy Fedora hat with a white feather that nearly reached the ceiling or so it seemed to me. He bumped into a chair on stage, turned maroon himself and began to sing that destiny song.
 
It was messed up. The pobre loquito got scared that his voice came and went. Mostly went. He sounded like a bad cell phone connection going in and out.
 
I got relaxed. I saw that he was not going to be around that Destiny girl after today. I felt bad for the pobre, but it now looked like things were looking up. Nobody’s gonna pay good money or any money to see Candelario drive customers into the streets. This would be “one night only” appearance. He would have to sell chicle in the street. The vieja would say, “Lárgate and don’t think about my hija ever again.” And if things go like they’re supposed to, I could see me pushing Candelario into a Greyhound bus with the destination “El Paso Express” then getting an abrazo from Tía Rosa and then the keys to her ’39 Packard. Then I saw myself cruisin’ down Whittier Boulevard with all eyes wide, and fine jainas wanting a ride.
 
He finished his song sin ganas and dragged himself away with deafening silence, como dicen. I was hoping to see him sneak over to me, but he stepped onto the stage again.
 
I think I heard a gasp from a few people eating and that was with comida in their bocas. He started singing. I expected beer bottles and salsa to start flying. It was a normal song about walking under stars with a rucka by some river with a name that wasn’t the L.A. River, with some other words, pero Candelario sang it like it was about somebody dying and soon, leaving an esposa and all kinds of chavalos. Halfway through the song, I wanted to jump on the stage and hug the skinny tonto. It was like everything was messed up and nobody could do anything about it.
 
He got to a romantic part, then it got weird. The girl at the next table got up from her chair, stepped back, spreading her arms and began to join him. I say, “joined him,” but it really didn’t go down like that because as soon as she started Candelario stopped as if he was clotheslined.
 
I never felt so let down since I was born. I wanted to raise the collar of my Pendleton and lowride on my silla. It felt like everyone was checking me out.
 
All embarrassed and hunched in my chair, I saw Candelario. He looked different. He was standing there with an attitude. The chavala was singing pretty good, and it seemed to make Candelario stand straighter with a serious look. When she got to some words, he jumped in, and they sang the song like Johnnie and Joe. He left the stage like he was popular. The few people around told him to come back, and only quit when they piped in some girl singer like Arianna Grande or Lady Gaga.
 
I looked over to the girl but she had disappeared from my life like other girls. I sat up and made the walk toward Candelario behind a curtain. He was sitting on crate full of beer, looking like he just saw the Virgen.
 
“Isn’t she special, Artie,” he said like he was talking about the Virgen. “I didn’t think she’d be around. She has to dance this week somewhere in Montebello, so I think she will get there barely in time for her afternoon performance. She risked it all just to come and see me. She’s my special angel, Artie. My savior. If she wasn’t here, it would have been a disaster. I got rattled, I couldn’t think. I will make it through the next show easy.”
 
I was happy I had texted his father. He would come in handy. I was losing my grip on things.
                                                                        ֍
The following semana, I saw Candelario and got to meet the chavala. I also shook hands with her mother, a mean looking Mejicana of the old school. She had a real chingona look. She made sure I knew her name was “Mrs. Sanlego.” Then Candelario’s father rode into town. My Tío Fulgencio is the classiest old bato in the familia. He doesn’t have Tía Rosa’s tongue but neither does anyone else. Still, since I was a chamaco, Tío Fulgencio made me feel I was taking in too much oxygen that could better be used by moscas. He doesn’t mess with me like Tía Rosa, especially since he lives in Tejas and has his hands full with Candelario. The way they bother me is different. Tía Rosa blames all problems in the barrio and surrounding calles on me, while Tío Fulgencio just likes to blame me for being me.
 
I know for sure Tío Fulgencio sang Rancheras here and there years ago. He likes the stage himself. He couldn’t sing. So, it’s in Candelario’s blood to be on stage without a reason.
 
Tío Fulgencio is one bossy dude, always telling people to go here, do that and don’t do that. Even other people’s kids, which causes him problems in public. But he looks like a boss of something, no matter where he goes. At Walmart, they always mistake him for the manager even when he’s loading cerveza onto his cart. Still, like I said, I heard he was singing Rancheras and Norteño/Conjunto years ago in bars. They say he played the accordion sometimes but not good.
 
I can imagine a lot of things but I can’t see Tío Fulgencio singing anything in any bar.
 
I prepped for a long abrazo but he backed off as if I was the Diablo wanting his soul.
 
“What are you up to, Arturo? Why did you text me like someone was dying?”
 
“It’s complicated,” I said, “and goes on and on. Con permiso, I’ll tell you in slow, easy parts like a telenovela. Let me take you on a quick trip to a club in Montebello.”
 
The muchacha Latina Destiny was going on her second week at The Flyers club in Montebello. She was that good. And she just sang three songs while she danced around. And by dance, I mean she got a big workout matched by the men’s eyes and lungs. Her outfits and music selection were both thin. Tío Fulgencio just stared like he was watching a magic show up to the moment she dashed off the stage to whistles and howls.
 
“Han pasado muchos años desde que canté con mi grupo.”
 
That’s all he said even though he continued to stare at the stage as if he were watching himself in some kind of spooky flashback. The pariente was making me nervous.
 
Some dude then came out and asked everyone to give Latina Destiny a big applause, which they did along with the whistles and howls.
 
“What do you think, Tío?” I said.
 
He just went on staring.
 
“Muchos años. Did you say something, Arturo?”
 
“You saw her. Tell me what you think of her.”
 
“Who? Oh, the Destiny girl.”
 
“Yes. The muchacha your muchacho is engaged to marry.”
 
He looked away like he had to take in the news slowly, wearing a serious face. Like always.
 
The muchacha came out for more whistles and howls and she heard them with a big smile. The men wanted her to shake some more. Finally, she wiggled off stage and I looked at Tío Fulgencio again.
 
“What do you think?” I said.
 
“She can sing. And dance, although I don’t like the way she dances but she has the moves.”
 
“Okay, Tío, let me take you a few miles from here on the other side of East Los.”
 
I drove him in my ranfla to the restaurant where Candelario was going to get me in good with Tía Rosa after I got him back to El Paso. I could already see the `39 Convertible Coup Packard in my driveway. As soon as we sat down at a table, the bato came out.
 
“Next to solve your problem,” I said, “Candelario.”
 
I didn’t know what the uncle from El Paso was going to do, but what he did confused me—he just sat there, not saying anything. He sat there like a stuffed tío staring at Candelario as he went on about love and all its confusion. I was feeling for the old bato because it had to be a jolt shot through his cuerpo to see his only hijo in a red shirt and purple pants, but it was best he got the details of the problem with his own eyes. I didn’t want to explain to him what was happening to his son’s life and with just words and without living proof. With just words, he would just think that Candelario was marrying someone somewhere for whatever reason.
 
When Candelario shuffled out I couldn’t believe my ears. Candelario was sounding better. He found a singing voice from somewhere and was showing it off like a fine woman. It was like when he went to Garfield High and was wailing, “Let’s take a trip down Whittier Boulevard” over and over on top of the Garfield High School sign. How he got up there and back down is an East Los mystery to this día. He was using the same fuerza now.
 
After Candelario left the stage, my Tío sat squeezed into his seat like he was sitting between two fat borrachos. He then looked at me with narrow eyes like I was trying to trick him.
 
“¿Qué está pasando, Arturo?”
 
He said it in a low voice like juicy chisme, but it sounded like a threat of cachetadas if I didn’t give him the right answer.
 
“He got into show biz,” I said in a low voice, “porque, he wants to do what her mother wants him to do. He can’t marry her unless he does something on stage. Maybe you could talk to the woman. She’s old school with an attitude to match. She is more reason why you should crash this whole party. After you talk to him, I can lowride back to the Hood and let you take further action.
 
The Mother and daughter were living in a part of West L.A. in an apartment building that looked expensive but once you get to their little space in that building, you see it would be just survival space in East L.A. and with minimal rent. Here, they were paying way more than minimal anything. The madre answered the door and seeing me, she let us in, my Tío hidden behind my wide body. We only saw her back as she pointed to two wooden chairs in the middle of the room.
 
“Nice to meet up with you again, Mrs. Sanlego,” I said all convinced I was nearing the end of my journey. She turned at last and I heard a choking racket from behind me, like my Tío had a chicken bone atorado in his throat.
 
“¡Carmelita!” Tío Fulgencio said, then making a sound like air being let out of a llanta. He leaned on me like he was drowning.
 
The Sanlego woman stared at him, then she squealed and her arms went up like Fourth of July Fireworks.
 
“¡Fulgencio! You are Fulgencio, aren’t you?” she said as if she might be wrong.
 
But Tío Fulgencio himself looked like he was almost ready to cry. They hugged like they were never going to part again.
 
I need some kind of legal notice to deal with stuff like this. The look on Tío’s face made me feel like I was seeing him in some kind of altered state like you see in movies. The horror kind. He didn’t look like the all-knowing Tío Fulgencio who never said anything funny, never laughed. He was smiling and acting like a bato on a first date. I don’t mean no disrespect, but the old bato was riendo, like, for no reason. The Señora Sanlego, who always looked like she was ready to pull greñas, was now acting like a chavalita on Christmas morning.
 
“¡Fulgencio!”
 
“¡Carmelita!”
 
“¡Querido Fulgencio! I never thought I would see you again!”
 
“I thought you never left El Paso for anything.”
 
I didn’t know what was going on, but I felt left out of something.
 
“My Tío wants to tell you something, Señora Sanlego.”
 
“I knew it was you right away, Carmelita!”
 
“Ya hace muchos años since I was around you, hombre, and you look the same.”
 
“¡Hay, Carmelita! ¡Soy un viejo!”
 
“¿Why are you way over here? I guess”—Señora Sanlego’s smile disappeared—“¿tu esposa está contigo?”
 
“She died years ago, Carmelita.”
 
Señora Sanlego looked at the suelo. “You should have stuck to your own kind, Fulgencio. I don’t want to talk about the pobre who is dead, you know her name, I forget it, pero it would have been better if you had gone after a singer. I still remember you made muchachas cry when you let out a grito then sang, ‘Me cansé de rogarle, que yo sin ella de pena muero...’”
 
“Qué guapa te veías Carmelita vestida, como una charra,” Tío said like he was choking again. “Do you remember the zapateados you did on the stage? I used to say that you did the sexiest zapateados in all of Tejas.”
 
“I wouldn’t even try now. Dios mío, Fulgencio, you knocked them out when you were on stage, even the bien borrachos,” said Señora Sanlego in the saddest voice I ever heard in a Mejicana, since my abuelita’s on Arizona Avenue who was always saying that the world was pitiful and was ending, which she repeated daily.
 
“Te acuerdas Carmelita how we let them have it at the feria in Luling? The Watermelon Thump Festival? I had to sing most of the songs in English, making up lyrics to keep people’s attention. I think even Mejicanos there didn’t speak Spanish too good.”
 
“We were happy.”
 
“Tell me Carmelita, how come you left Tejas?”
 
“I wanted to watch over my mija Dolores, make sure she is safe. But I shouldn’t worry. She is a strong girl. I heard through the chisme network that your son ran off chasing a girl. Then I heard through more chisme that my girl Dolores ran off to L.A. to act. Then I heard through even more chisme that you followed your son here because he was in L.A. I lied when I asked about your wife. I knew you were single. I had hoped you would look me up but when that never happened, I saw my chance to run into you here.”
 
Tío Fulgencio was looking at her as if he was looking at someone he had never seen before. The viejo still looks pretty good. I could see the dude when he was younger would have made jainas of his time lick their chops, grab their chones and check their hair. I saw uglier batos with good looking chavalas. I figured they had the feria to do that. Tío has that wavy gray hair, trimmed mustache, just as gray, and the right wrinkles to make him look distinguished, like women say they like. And maybe with a few bucks in his pockets they can feel for.
 
“You mean you had the hots for me, like I did for you?” he said.
 
“Por supuesto. Why do you think I let you sing most of the Ranchera and Norteño tunes? I was always around the stage even when I wasn’t doing any dancing or singing just to be near you. ¿Recuerdas how I often had a bag of pan dulce for you after a show? And I always bought extra puerquitos because I found out they were your favoritos.”
 
“Pero—”
 
“And remember when I gave you my half of a burrito at the San Antonio Fair when we only had enough money for one. We performed there but they didn’t pay us right away.”
 
“¡Carmelita!”
 
“And don’t forget the Tlayudas I made you from my family recipe from Oaxaca. Do you think I just did that because you looked hungry? I was working on your estómago until that hip-shaking chavala took you from right under my clay comal. That’s why I wouldn’t let Dolores marry a joven called Candelario, till he went on stage somewhere, anywhere. She’s a rising star—”
 
“Estoy en acuerdo, Carmelita. She has what it takes.”
 
“You mean, you saw her somewhere?”
 
“At the place in Montebello. Gordo there (pointing to me like a witness identifying the alleged criminal), I mean Arturo, drove me there. But if he loves her, Carmelita, you should let him love her. He is singing now just for her.”
 
“Mija tells me he sings at a restaurant that’s not very good with just a few people clapping for him.”
 
“We went through that, Carmelita, remember? We sang at a bar with only two pool players who never looked up from their game then there was pedo between them and they both got tossed. After that, we had no audience. So, don’t make Candelario feel like a pestoso. I can understand you feeling like your mija is going to marry an obstacle—”
 
“How come you want this Candelario sinvergüenza, to go after Dolores?”
 
“He’s my hijo.”
 
“¿No?” she said, sounding like a gato someone was choking.
 
“Así es, Carmelita. I just heard him sing. ¡Carmelita, me dio mucho gusto! He has what it takes. It was meant to be. He’s my son and could one day be singing the old Rancheras. He’s been a cabrón up to now. I really worked hard, almost breaking my back on some jobs. I did it so I had money to invest in him, so he could become something. I wanted to be an example to him. The hours were long and the sudor was constant. I had to eat right, cut out the cerveza, or at least drink less of it, and I was afraid to lose it on a job and be laid up for good. I did it for him so he would work hard, seeing how good we lived, but I, myself, really wanted to be singing on stages everywhere. That’s where I belonged.”
 
Señora Carmelita, not a spring chicken, leaped at him and fell into his arms like he had just won the lotería.
 
“Let’s get back together, like it’s supposed to be!” she whimpered. “Your esposa is buried and gone, your hijo might have some talent. Dolores’s father left one day and never came back. Return to me! Too many years have been wasted, so I am ready to jump back on stages donde sea. I still want to be with you like before as if no time has gone by. Like we’re still young and reckless. We belong singing and bailando together till we reach our sunsets.”
 
Tío Fulgencio made a weird noise with his throat or nose, I couldn’t tell which one, then stared at her.
 
He whispered something that wasn’t her name but something in Spanish that sounded like a pet name.
 
“Estás aquí, muchacho,” said the rucka like a girl. “You returned to me after all these years!...You are here. I’m not going to let you wander off this time!”
 
He fell forward and they fell into another major abrazo. I’m not sure if he was ready to faint or he just lunged at her because he got all worked up. “Ay, Carmelita, mi Carmelita, sweet Carmelita! Squeeze me tight. Tighter. Let me watch over you from now on.”
 
I moved slowly toward the door and snuck out. I felt funny. I can deal with a lot of things, but this was different. It was at another level. I walked like a buzzed bato to my ranfla.
 
Candelario called me at home while I was eating Tío Juan’s specialty, Pozole de Guajolote. Candelario sounded like he was now Number One on the Billboard’s Hot 10.
 
“Artie,” he said, “I’m going to be a big star.”
 
“We all feel that way, sometimes,” I said, and looked at a text message that had arrived ten minutes before from Tía Rosa. I had been reading it then re-reading it since it arrived.
 
“Destiny and me got to her apartment tonight. Guess who we found there? Apá! He was holding hands with Señora Sanlego.”
 
“¿De veras?”
 
“Simón. They were sitting close.”
 
“No lie?”
 
“He is going to marry her.”
 
“Not surprised.”
 
“I’m going to marry Destiny.”
 
“No surprise there either.”
 
“Artie, foo, I feel like un hombre reborn. The fates are working overtime. Apá is twenty years older than her. He and Señora Sanlego want to get back together to sing and dance like they used to, even going all over Texas again with their act.”
 
I stopped chewing.
 
“Candy, ese,” I swallowed then said, “lemme think. I need my space. I think my brain is shorting.”
 
“Sorry, man. So, you are now going to lowride into the sunset?”
 
I looked down at Tía Rosa’s text.
 
“Not even.”
 
He hung up and I read the text again.
 
“What have you done? I should go see you.” And she added a skull emoji that made me sit up, all three-hundred pounds of me.
 
I grabbed a Squeeze Ball in the shape of an aguacate Tío Juan bought me on his last trip to Tijuana, knowing I hate aguacates because I can’t eat them. They give me chorro. I then texted back. I didn’t know what I was going to say but the words came. Maybe that has happened to you, I don’t know. “No,” I texted, “don’t move. Everyone here is singing their cabezas off.” 

hTommy Villalobos  was born in East L.A. and also raised there. He thinks of the lugar daily and love the memories while remembering the tragedies of his neighbors and of his madre. Tommy’s mother had a great sense of humor and he inherited about ten per cent of it. She had a quick wit and response to all verbal attacks, whether to herself personally or to her Catholic religion that she loved. Tommy dedicates all his works to her, knowing she had him when she had no idea how she was going to feed him and his four siblings. She was a single mom until the day she died. He lives in a boring suburb now, outside of Sacramento, but his heart and soul will always be in East Los Angeles where his mother was always by his side to protect him. 

She turned and left, her high heels calling me a heel all the way down the stairs. To tell you the truth, I didn’t know what to think. Was I losing a well-off client or a bien loca?
I spent the next week thinking of her. But it went from wondering about a questionable client now gone to wondering about what a beautiful doll had come and gone. The only other person to visit me was George Itazmo, detective, Los Angeles Police and former partner of mine. George was one of those personas Jung referred to as petrified pillars of the past. George will be trying to solve a crime his last day, his last moment on earth with no change in method or approach.
“You’ll be crying to come back soon,” he said as he sat on the same chair the angel had occupied. He didn’t fill it nearly as well. Still, I listened to what he had to say. “You gave up a pension for this?”
He waved his hand around the room, his face frozen in a tragic grimace, much like the mask of Melpomene, the Greek Muse of tragedy as he tossed his Fedora on my desk as if to emphasize my sad state.
“It takes a while to get rolling. Word of mouth, you know.”
“Word of mouth is that you soon will be begging to be reinstated.”
“No, I like being free.”
“Free? Looks like you’re a slave. To poverty,” he said, now looking around the office just like…then it hit me like a sack of frijoles to the head. I didn’t know the dazzling woman’s name. I have to ask for names. Names are important in my business.
“I didn’t get her name,” I cried to the world, which happened to be represented by police detective George I. at the moment.
“Who is that?” he asked, ever the detective.
“My first client.”
“You have one?”
“Can you blame me?”
“Did her husband get himself lost and now she wants you to bring him back hog tied?”
“No.”
“Her daughter ran away con un mariachi sin vergüenza?”
“No.”
“She is a missing person but can’t remember who she belongs to?”
“To whom she belongs. No.”
“She found a man’s cold body in her bedroom and wants you to justify it being in her bedroom?”
“Close. She doesn’t want to be a cold body in her bedroom.”
George looked at me and I could hear the rusty tornillos turning in his head, rusted from all that Kentucky bourbon he had downed over the years. Then the light turned on in his alcohol-soaked head.
“You mean, someone tried to kill her?”
“No. He just whispered in one of her pretty ears that he would love to do that.”
“Subtle approach.”
“Very.”
“I have to get back. Still trying to nail a bartender and his pal who pushed some wanna-be-actress over a cliff at the end of Franklin in Hollywood. All because she didn’t want to do a romantic scene with one of them in the back seat of a car. But first, I’m going to get me a big ham sandwich at the Grand Central Market. Come along, I’ll buy.” He said this while again examining my surroundings.
“Thanks but I have to find clients. Tell you what, once I’m on my feet, we’ll go get some Barbacoa at the Azteca Restaurant on Main Street. It’s been a couple of years since I been there. And I’ll buy.”
He got up, paused then he looked at me with what looked like disenchantment. He then put on his Fedora and headed for the door then turned for a postscript.
“Be careful.”
“Why?”
He left without telling me why.
So, here I was once more alone with my problema. Should I treat this spooky woman as a victim or vampire? I needed a drink. I put on my own Fedora, grabbed my coat and headed for the door. Standing there as if materializing upon demand was the victim. Or vampire.
She, framed by the doorway again, looked at me with a smirk. Ordinarily, smirks count a lot from a wonderful-looking gal, but at the moment, I got nervous. Her smirk shot out from under another wide-brimmed hat, this one pink.
“You’re back,” I croaked in uncertain complaint.
“I came back to see if you wanted me.”
She said this while repeating her walk toward me wherein she unloaded all her sex had to offer in a walk. Her hips moved from north to south and back, while the black dress she had on was doing a dance of its own.
“It’s not a question of possessing,” I said in a fatherly tone, “it’s a question if I can help you.”
“Sure you can. Someone from long ago has come back and for some silly reason is trying to kill me.”
She stared at me as if expecting an answer quickly and expecting it to be the right one. I was at a loss. Then it hit me like the sweet aroma of a Banana Daiquiri. I could just tell her my fees, ask her name, address and anything else that came to mind. That would call her bluff. I put on my own smirk before I spoke then I proceeded to do so.
“By the way, what is your name?”
“Carmen Fiolencia,” she shot back without hesitation.
“Oh, yeah?” I said with a frown, wondering if it was her name or one she had just pulled out of the city air.
“What’s wrong with it? You don’t seem to like it.”
“I think it’s a swell name, but—“
She laid her purse on my desk with a thud and sat down empathically on my one client chair. I accepted her challenge and sat with a firm thump on my own chair. She pulled out a utility bill and handed it to me. It reflected her name and her address on Lorena Street. She then pulled out her driver’s license which also reflected the same name and address. I tried to look at the birth date but she pulled it away before I could. None of these documents had her photograph so I could not match her face to any of them.
The brim of her pink hat now shadowed her eyes but their brilliance shot out like two rounds from a .38 Special.
Okay,” I said, trying to regain control, “there is the question of money.”
“Money?” she said as if it were a new concept she had to familiarize herself with. The two blazing bolts from under her hat went dark. I assumed she had her eyes down in shame for being broke. I began to feel sorry for her, thinking of a way to tell her that she would have to move to another part of the planet to avoid being murdered, which would be cheaper than hiring me.

For Installment 1, click: Tommy-WhisperofDeath

​Tommy Villalobos, an inveterate serial thriller writer, regales us with another of his novel affairs, set as usual in Los Angeles and its environs, filled with characters larger and funnier than life drawn from the streets and callejones of the City of Angels (and Devils). His first of five novels, Lipstick con Chorizo, was serialized in Somos en escrito ala Carlos Dickens. He lives incognito in northern Califas.

​Excerpt from Outline for Love, a novel

By Tommy Villalobos

Chapter One

Mona Rinistor stepped out of her office for a breath of fresh air. Chava Absuena, likewise, stepped out of her office for one reason or another. She was not sure. Mona had been in the same office complex for several years, although it felt like only a few months. Chava had been working in her office for several hours, and it seemed like several years. The offices opened out into the second floor balcony and city smells and ruidos.
Mona walked toward Chava. Chava, in turn, wanted to turn and dart back into her office. She thought Mona was some kind of dueña, for Chava had bad experiences with bosses and landladies. Her first job was at an ice cream parlor in Nogales, Méjico. Then a beauty parlor in Juarez. Then a poker parlor in Amarillo. Then the Sunshine Tattoo Lounge in San Diego. She also had to stretch her paychecks. When a landlady was close at her heels, Chava, a quick packer, hopped on a bus.
Now Chava Absuena worked in a fashion parlor in Los Angeles. This time her dueña was a dueño, Max Lipiz.
                           

A few writers in the past, Thomas Hardy dancing among them, have pointed the ironies of life. Here was one. Max was a barrio sort who, for some reason (his Tía Minstra Telamacundra said it was due to a good kick to the head he suffered when a boy at the hands of some primo), decided one beer-soaked evening at The Green Bar to become a women's fashion consultant.
His friends said it was just to get girls. He said it was simply his chosen career path. His Tía Minstra reminded him that his whole family from his father's side going way back before the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo was a family of contented carpenters. The fact did not move him.
“Hello,” said Mona, sticking a hand toward Chava before she could close the door.
“Hi,” said Chava defensively, hesitating before sticking out her hand from the small space left by a nearly closed puerta. Mona had to reach for it and their fingers barely made contact before Chava withdrew hers behind her back as if to prevent Mona from grabbing it again.
“Do you work for the Women's Fashion Consultant?” asked Mona looking at the sign on the door.
Chava followed her eyes to the sign on the door as if to confirm that Mona had correctly defined the sign.
“Yes,” she said with hesitation as she looked back to Mona.
“Are you her?”
“Not even.”
“Where is she?”
“She ain't anywhere.”
“We all gotta be somewhere.”
“Not her.”
“Huh?”

​“My boss is some guy.”
“Now is he?”
Chava nodded vigorously as if to latch on to stark reality.
“Interesting.”
Chava drew a blank. She then tried to phantom in her mind what was interesting.
“So you just started working for him?” said Mona.
“Uh-huh.”
“How many people work here?”
“Just me.”
“Are you his partner?” she said while appraising Chava's purple abstract printed tunic and faded denim leggings.
“No. I just answer phones.”
“Oh.”
On cue, the telephone rang.
Chava stared at Mona as if wanting direction.
“I better let you answer that,” said Mona, giving her some.
Chava closed the door.
Mona slowly walked back to her office, the office of a thriving accountant. Mona thought. Rules change. I deal with cold numbers and here's a homey who deals with warm figures. Go figure.
Mona had spent her early life in and around East Los Angeles since birth. Her brain then took her to Villanova then to various parts of the world, including Houston where she obtained her first employment with an accounting firm that accounted for big perfume, little diapers and mediocre law firms. Tiring of endless parties and shopping sprees, she decided to come back home and account in L.A.
“Welcome home, mija,” her mother had declared when Mona returned home. “We have your room ready and your father is inviting his best friend's hijo to meet you. He is a metal polisher and makes good money to support you and all the chavalos you're going to push out.”
Mona had already secured a condominium along the beach at a good price. How does one tell amá and apá that the nest is even a tighter fit than before?
Way Numero 1: Mom, dad, I have been to three colleges, two countries, four states and several republics of various political persuasions, if one interprets that word loosely, so home would be a lame environment.
Way Numero 2: There are not too many big accounting firms in our Hood.
Way Numero 3: I need my space which apá considers met by an 8 by 8 foot bedroom, dinner and a sala with plenty of boxeo and one or two telenovelas.
Way Numero 4: One outing a year to visit parientes in San Fernando is not the social life I envision lasting until my dotage.
Way Numero 5: I like my privacy, which is nearly non-existent with family, neighbors, and dad's ne'er-do-well amigos parading through the house at all hours.
Mona, with a frowning father and a disappointed mother, set up homemaking by herself—and eventually one aquarium fish—in a roomy place with a great view of Pacific sunsets. The life of a successful accountant, certified, and daughter, not certified, pleased her.
Therefore, Mona floated into her office every weekday morning, gathering accounting accounts as little girls gather daisies. She had a knack for selling her skills that she developed at nine when she made Christmas ornaments and sold them outside of supermarkets. From there, she began making little trinkets and selling them outside of bars where men snapped them up to give to girlfriends and even wives. Then she washed perros but no gatas because of one scratch she got on her forehead, which, to this day, she claims is a scar she will carry forever. No one has ever seen the scar but she claims, nonetheless, it is there.
Back in her office, Mona went to her desktop and began in earnest an accounting services proposal for one women's fashion consultant. He has one employee, one office and seems to have no clientele in sight. She was witness to one phone call, which could have been a wrong number, or worse, from family.
At the same moment, Max Lipiz was in front of his cracked mirror in a trailer he rented. The old, rusty trailer sat behind an iron works shop, which sat behind an auto paint shop that sat behind a pickle factory. This made for absorbing and enchanting noises and odors that floated into his trailer round the clock.

He dressed meticulously, spending nearly all his money on clothes and accessories that make the man, for who wanted an unkempt slouch advising them on fashion, especially women. His rent was minimal as well as his eating. He was slim, neat and eager. Only his nose gave away his gaunt figure as it protruded dramatically from the rest of him.
Max's Smartphone let out a tune, “Sabor A Mi.” This was his only other luxury. “This is Max,” he said into the phone.
“Maximiliano Rudolfo, this is your Tía,” said his Tía Minstra, her voice a foghorn of robustness.
“Yes, Tia,” said Max with all due respect to the tía who looked over him like a guardian angel, who had slipped in other duties and, therefore, as punishment, had been given the assignment of watching Max.
“Come over and eat. I made huevos con chilaquiles. You used to like them.”
“I still do, Tía, but I've got to get to the office and make money.”
“Money can wait. Chilaquiles can't.”
Silence.
“¿Me estás oyendo?” she then said as if Max were a fair piece down a country road. He moved the phone nearly half a foot from his ear.
“I have to make a living. I'll eat them next time I'm there.”
“It's been a week. My brother, your Tío George, offered you a good job in his landscaping business. He has clients from Beverly Hills to Thousand Oaks.”
“I have my own business, Tía.”
“Advising women how to put on and wear a dress? Men want to undress women, not dress them.”
“I'm flexible.”

​“Dresses and men don't go together.”
The conversation ended because his aunt ended it with a slam of the phone.
And Max took that slam with ringing ear to his office. Mona jumped out of her office to intercept him.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hi,” he said, rushing past.
“Are you the fashion guy?”
“Yes,” he said as he turned and stopped.
“Funny.”
“Sure is,” he began to turn and walk again.
“No, I mean, you being a fashion advisor for women?”
“Yeah, my aunt thinks it's hilarious.”
“Does she?”
“Reminds me constantly how silly I am.” He then took a few more steps and reached for the doorknob to his office.
“I'd like to talk to you,” she said in her never-ending search for accounting clients.
“Sure,” he smiled, looking for his first fashion client. “We'll be talking, I'm sure.”
He disappeared. Then Mona did. The walkway was at rest once more, void of accounting and fashion folks.
So went the days, then weeks. Mona did obtain two clients during this period. Max received phone calls but only two made appointments and only one showed up. She was a council member from a small city somewhere.
When Lora Milinda wearing two-inch, black opened toed wedge heels walked through the door, Chava was going to tell her that the accounting office was next door, for she was dressed to kill men or numbers.
Her outfit consisted of a black and white plaid knee-length body hugging dress, and a blue long sleeve tailored blazer that accentuated her small waste. Her dark brown shoulder length hair curled outward on the sides as if she had just stepped out of the celebrated Grove Salon. Her makeup had a professional touch. There was nothing wrong with her that Chava could see. Nevertheless, before she could tell her, in so many words, Lora Milinda, used to beating fellow politicians to the punch, spoke.
“I have an appointment to see the fashion person.”
“No kidding?” said Chava with genuine wonderment in her voice.
“Is he ready for me?”
“I'll check,” said Chava without taking her eyes off the woman while getting up.
She walked over to Max's office and peeked in. Before she could say anything, Max also beat her to the punch by waving an arm from the direction where the female voice had entered his ears to the chair stationed in front of his desk.
Chava turned around from where she stood and mimicked Max's wave, waving from Lora to the chair in front of Max's desk. Lora quickly and obediently followed the waving Chava to the chair.
Max stood and extended a hand toward her. Lora touched it with three fingers then sat.
Max, too, was impressed with her trappings, so much so that he, like Chava, stared.
“I'm Lora Milinda.”
“Hello. I'm Max. How can I help you?” A standard greeting for any business, but in Max's case, he meant it. He actually was wondering how he could help the woman who already looked much like the After photograph of any Before photo anyone could come up with.
“It's not me. It is my niece. She is nineteen. She also has been hit by that worm that hits many chavalas in the barrio—she fantasies herself a Chola. She dresses more like one than acts like one. That's one saving grace.”
“I see,” he said, without seeing.
“I've taken her to beauty parlors and she looks okay for a day then back to the slouch look with a hairdo that maybe lasts another day. Can you do something?”
“Something?”
“Well, anything?”
“Anything?”
“For a poor soul who will never have a good man kiss her.”

​“Good man kiss her?”
“Can you say anything on your own?”
Max considered.
“Sure,” he said with delight, like a pupil answering a tough question from a tough teacher.
“Go ahead then.”
“How come you didn't bring her?”
“I had planned to but she must have got wind of it and went to her welding class.”
“She welds?”
“Like a boilermaker. And she likes caballos. And baseball. And I mean, hardball with the guys. See, we're dealing with someone that if she doesn't watch it, will end up slugging beers with old veterano cholos in some dive, unmarried, unloved, smelly and unattractive. I want to make a grand lady. You know, a woman you guys can't help but want to carry off and spend your lives going broke over.”
“I got the broke part down.”
“What?”
“I wish I could see her.”
“Here she is,” said Lora while whipping out a photograph of a girl, a little one.
“How can I work with this? She's little here.”
“Picture her a few feet taller with the latest chola hairstyle, the same scowl, but stylin' like only cholas can.”

​Tommy Villalobos, who lives somewhere in Northern California, has several e-books out, Lipstick con Chorizo, the story we serialized ala Carlos Dickens in Somos en escrito a few years ago, Love thy neighbor, Oro and Elo were Buddies, and Unos Marranos Plus Una Vibora Equals Romance. This excerpt is from his latest novel, a love story laced with his droll Chicano humor, Outline for Love. Look for this and his other works among the e-book sellers.


The cover illustration is by Helene Thomas.

​Excerpt with illustrations from the 2018 new edition of 
Smoking Mirror Blues

By Ernest Hogan

​"Oh, Caldonia, look over there!  Such a cute guy!" said Phoebe.
It was Tezcatlipoca.
"Yeah, I guess he is."  Caldonia pouted.  "For a guy.  Chingow! Why do you always want to talk about guys?  I'm certainly not in the mood for guys – not tonight!  I was hoping you wouldn't be either, especially after the way that xau-xau Beto treated you."
"Oh, Caldonia!"  Phoebe took her friend's hand.  "You know I love you.  I guess you're right.  That guy is probably xau-xau too. He even looks a little like Beto."
"Yuck!"
The two women kissed, and walked back to the scooter with their arms around each other.
                                                                                    *
The ghosts carried Xochitl through the streets of University City. Two figures in ragged costumes through which body armor could be seen carrying a kicking and screaming, nightgown-clad woman just wasn't anything unusual.
A lot of the National Autonomous University of Mexico students were getting into the Dead Daze phenomenon.  They were out in force in an array of bizarre costumes: jackal-headed cowboys, chicken-footed dancing devils, ambulatory mermaids, heroic masked wrestlers in artificial muscle suits, women with five serpent heads each, Aztec warriors in animal-head helmets, people of all ages and sexes in skirts that looked like they were made of living snakes, life-sized papier-mâché skeletons in all manner of attire, Art Deco robots, antique sci-fi space creatures, Hollywood horror apparitions and things spawned of unique imaginations.  It looked as if Hell and several Aztec heavens had broken loose.
It did make getting to wherever the ghosts wanted to take Xochitl difficult.  A crowd like a giant amoeba dancing to the frenetic beat of Xuxo Ben-Xuxa's "Macumba Mutation Mambo" flowed around them and pulled them against their path as it digested them.  When the ghosts tried to force their way against the flow, the members of the crowd reacted as if it was the latest type of roughhouse, martial-arts dancing.
The force of the "Macumba Mutation Mambo"-driven crowd was overwhelming.
                                                                                 *
Follow the group – the ones dressed like some kind of ghosts with robot-type paraphernalia underneath – you know, the ones carrying the girl who's doing a good job of acting like she's trying to get away from them.  There.  Good.  The big crowd collided with them.  Some bashada dancing has broken out.  Excellent!  I was hoping to catch some of that.  Bashada is very popular right now; could be a selling point for this mondomentary.  "Bashada on the Day of the Dead" – could make a good title.  Anyway, stay with the ghosts and the girl, and try to get some closeups – she doesn't have any underwear on and there may be the chance for some nudity, which always ups the salability.  Ah, yes, one of her breasts has popped out – be sure to get as close as you can, and in focus!  Oh, the ghosts have lost their grip and she's running away, out of the crowd.  How dramatic!  This will really be a hit at the Lasha Mondo Festival!
                                                                                 *
Tezcatlipoca was seeing and being seen as he strutted down Hollywood Boulevard.  He liked it.  It was overwhelming.  Now and then he had to check with the phone on his wrist to find out something that wasn't directly accessible through Beto's mind – all he had to do was look and his soul made the computer flash the desired information at the speed of light.
He soon felt that he should be doing more than just walking along as part of the parade.  He was a god – the Great Trickster who dared go beyond anything the ancient coyote god ever dreamed of.  He was new, now – not at the beginning of time!  He was young manhood riding at the peak of its powers on hormones and black magic.
His fingers tapped the teponaxtle, and the wooden drum with the strange electronic attachments made pleasing sounds.  His feet turned his strut into a dance.  Music – it was in him, and now he had to let it out: some wild, magical Tezcatlipoca/trickster music that would allow him to take this world for his own.
He walked out to the middle of the street that Beto's mind associated with vehicles that breathed poisonous fire, but that was now filled with pedestrians.  It seemed that the machines, automobiles, cars were destroying the very sky – how his brother Quetzalcoatl in his Ehécatl, God of the Winds, guise would have hated that! – so they weren't allowed in the heart of this city that spilled over the horizon.  He sat down, placed the teponaxtle down in front of him, realized that he had to turn it on and did so, took the sticks in hand and started beating out the feelings that were writhing around in his borrowed heart and computerized soul.
The electronic accent that the drum put on its wooden sound took a little getting used to, but as a trickster and wizard he was used to adjusting to new things.  Soon it became his new accent, the way Beto's voice became his voice.  His music became the music of this place  –  Hollywood, Los Angeles/El Lay, SoCal; a place with many names, names with many places.  It mixed with and infected the musics that other people carried with them.  All those marching, strolling feet began to dance to Tezcatlipoca's driving beat.
                                                                               *
Ralph didn't realize he was dreaming.  He thought he was still in the throws of insomnia, so he got up, and drifted toward his workstation.  Suddenly there was a frantic pounding on the front door, which burst open, revealing blinding, Phoenician mid-day sun, even though it was night inside, just like a Magritte painting.  Beto staggered through the door, his clothes were ripped to shreds, and his body was covered with black, swollen welts that gave off blue smoke.  He had something in his hands that he gave to Ralph, just before falling to the hardwood flood and disintegrating into a pile of black goo that gave off more blue smoke.  What he had handed to Ralph was a human heart that didn't have a speck of blood on it – yet it was still beating.  Ralph put it down next to his computer.  Blood-red wires wormed out of the heart's venal and arterial openings and, with crackling sparks on contact, worked their way into Ralph's computer.  The monitor flickered, then flashed with the detonation of a nuclear blast.
He whimpered as the image of a mushroom cloud the size of the Arizona sky filled his brain.
His wife, Norma, her blonde hair mussed from sleep, shook him awake.
"Wake up, dear," she said, "you're having a nightmare."
"I was dreaming about Beto," he said.
"It figures."  She smirked, and got that familiar look of disgust in her blue eyes.
                                                                               *

​"Oh look Caldonia," Phoebe said as the motorcycle came to a stop.  "That cute guy – the one that looks a little like Beto – he sat right down in the middle of the street and he's playing music.  Hey, I think Beto has a drum like that . . ."
"Don't be xau-xau, Phoebe.  He's just like all the rest, and you really don't want to pay any attention to him if he reminds you of Beto.  You should have some fun with me."
Phoebe squeezed Caldonia's hand.  "But I am having fun with you."
Caldonia pulled something out of one of her bandoliers and slipped it into Phoebe's hand.  "I mean have Fun with me, Phoebe-babe."
Phoebe looked at the stubby Fun stick in her hand.  "Oh!  Have Fun with you!  How sumato!  You mean right here on the street?"
"It's Dead Daze, we can get away with anything."  Caldonia put a Fun stick between her lips, flicked it on, and sucked it off.  Phoebe opened the mouth of her mask and did the same.
                                                                                  *
Hey!  Two girls sucking Fun at five o'clock!  Zoom in.  Good.  Our viewers love glimpses of blatant illegality.  Uh-oh.  Time for a station I.D.
(The Sumato Channel logo slides across the screen.)
                                                                                  *
"Oh!" said Phoebe.  "Feels so good and sumato!"
Caldonia smiled, put an arm around Phoebe, and grabbed one of her breasts.  "Now that we've had some Fun, maybe we can go back to my place and have fun."
                                                                                  *
You get the best Dead Daze coverage on the Sumato Channel, so stay tuned for more!
                                                                                  *

​"Oh look Caldonia," Phoebe said as the motorcycle came to a stop.  "That cute guy – the one that looks a little like Beto – he sat right down in the middle of the street and he's playing music.  Hey, I think Beto has a drum like that . . ."
"Don't be xau-xau, Phoebe.  He's just like all the rest, and you really don't want to pay any attention to him if he reminds you of Beto.  You should have some fun with me."
Phoebe squeezed Caldonia's hand.  "But I am having fun with you."
Caldonia pulled something out of one of her bandoliers and slipped it into Phoebe's hand.  "I mean have Fun with me, Phoebe-babe."
Phoebe looked at the stubby Fun stick in her hand.  "Oh!  Have Fun with you!  How sumato!  You mean right here on the street?"
"It's Dead Daze, we can get away with anything."  Caldonia put a Fun stick between her lips, flicked it on, and sucked it off.  Phoebe opened the mouth of her mask and did the same.
                                                                                    *
Hey!  Two girls sucking Fun at five o'clock!  Zoom in.  Good.  Our viewers love glimpses of blatant illegality.  Uh-oh.  Time for a station I.D.
(The Sumato Channel logo slides across the screen.)
                                                                                   *
"Oh!" said Phoebe.  "Feels so good and sumato!"
Caldonia smiled, put an arm around Phoebe, and grabbed one of her breasts.  "Now that we've had some Fun, maybe we can go back to my place and have fun."
                                                                                   *
You get the best Dead Daze coverage on the Sumato Channel, so stay tuned for more!
                                                                                   *

​Did you get that?  In closeup?  Great!  Of all the sumato luck!  I can't chingow believe this!  It's great!  We caught a SoCal citizen exercising his legal right to kill a certified gangster in self-defense!  Every network on the planet will want it!  We gotta move fast – plug into the mediasphere, let the world know what we got and start taking bids . . .
                                                                                  *
Tezcatlipoca licked the blood off the drumsticks and didn't flinch from the mild electric shock.  The crowd went wild.  Soon he was riding its many shoulders down Hollywood Boulevard.
                                                                                  *
Phoebe looked over at Tezcatlipoca riding the crowd.  "He sure is sumato, even if he does look like Beto," she said, then kissed Caldonia before she could react.
                                                                                  *
Eventually, Xochitl made her way to her father's house.
"My daughter," the bespectacled, grey-haired man asked, "what happened?"
"All Hell's breaking loose, Papa.  Evil spirits are coming to get me through my computer.  My work has gotten me into big trouble."
He looked confused.
"The god-simulating program, Papa."
He shook his head.  "I didn't think it was possible."
"It may not be – I haven't worked out all the details yet, but that doesn't seem to matter to all the crazy people in the world."
"Let me get you something to wear.  Sit down, my daughter."  He pointed her to a chair and walked over to the closet.
"No, Papa, I think I need to use your phone.  Who knows what they did to my place."
She punched in her number, then the code to play her messages, hoping to find a clue to what was going on.  The first few were of the "Miss Echaurren, we want to talk to you about the program you have been working on," variety; whoever wanted the program, they were willing to go to extremes to get it.  Then Beto's voice came in through some long distance static, singing, in English:
"Oh, Mama, can this really be the end?
to be stuck outside Tenochtitlán,
with the Tezcatlipoca blues, again!"
Then he switched to his heavily accented Spanish: 
"Well, maybe not the end, Xochitlita.  Maybe it's the beginning, a new beginning, far from Tenochtitlán, where we're going to be singing a brand new kind of Tezcatlipoca blues as soon as I run through the program of yours that I just had to make an unauthorized clone of.  Sorry I couldn't come out and ask you for it, baby, but you were being so xau-xau cautious, worrying about all those control elements.  You can't control gods, Xochitl; if you could, they wouldn't be gods.  Zero hour will be when Dead Daze kicks off.  I'll let you know what happens, or maybe the world will tell you first.  Later, baby."
Xochitl said, "Oh my God!" and didn't listen through the next three renditions of "Miss Echaurren, we want to talk to you about the program . . ."
                                                                                  *
Tezcatlipoca saw Phoebe in the distance.  Recognizing her caused a violent reaction in Beto's mind.  Beto was repulsed.  This interested Tezcatlipoca.  It was a chance to see who was the master here.
"That metal-faced woman!"  Tezcatlipoca pointed to Phoebe.  "I want her!"
                                                                                  *
Xochitl's father brought a large bathrobe.  "Here, my daughter, put this on."
She did.  Like a glass-eyed zombie.
"Could it possibly be that bad?" he asked.
"Worse than I thought.  Not only are some fanatics after the program, but that North American I met a few months ago, Beto . . ."
"The one from California."  He shook his head, sorrowfully.
"Yes, he's trying to use the program to evoke Tezcatlipoca.  And the version he cloned doesn't have any of my control elements."
"Why, if it works it could be a catastrophe."
"It may have already happened!"
"Well, don't worry, my daughter, you can stay here as long as you need to."
"Ay!  I can't do that!  I called my place on your phone!  They could have traced it!  They might be on their way here already!  How could I have been so stupid?"
He put his arms around her.  "So, where can you go to be safe, Xochitlita?  I'll do whatever I can to help you."
"Oh – I don't know.  There may not be any safe place."
"Then sit down.  Relax.  Think."  He led her back to the chair.
                                                                              *
Phoebe broke the kiss, and pushed Caldonia away.
"That cute guy," Phoebe said, "I think he means me."
She looked.  Tezcatlipoca was grinning at her.
"He does mean me!"  She pushed her way to him.
Caldonia growled.
                                                                              *
Xochitl jumped up.  "I've got to leave the country!  Now.  Tonight.  Can you lend me some clothes and money?"
"Of course, but the program, is it where the fanatics can get it?"

​She reached into the bodice of her nightgown.  "I hope it didn't fall out.  No, here it is.  I jammed it into a seam."  She pulled out an ant-sized nanochip.  "They saw me dressed like this and didn't think to search me – not very imaginative, I guess.  If they had just pointed their software sniffers at me . . ."
"I'll do what I can to help you.  Where do you think you should go?"
"Los Angeles."
He frowned.  "California?  Where that Beto fellow lives."
"I know, I know, it's crazy – almost as crazy as he is, but I have to.  And at least it will get me out of here, away from whoever it is that's after me, and allow me to stop him, or try to undo any damage he's done."

​Ernest Hogan, a six-foot tall Aztec leprechaun, was born in East L.A. and he grew up in West Covina, which he considered one of the most boring places in California. Monster movies, comic books, and science fiction, he says, saved his life. The author of High Aztech, Smoking Mirror Blues, and Cortez on Jupiter, he is considered the Father of Chicano Science Fiction, though there hasn’t been any kind of DNA test. His short fiction has appeared in Amazing Stories, Analog, Science Fiction Age, and many other publications. Recently discovered by academia, his “Chicanonautica Manifesto” appeared in Aztlan: A Journal of Chicano Studies.

Illustrations by Ernest Hogan