Savages

Came out, got beat into the 94s (again, cliche, stereotyped you’ve-seen-it-all-in-the-movies), thirteen years old selling dope on the corner, fucking fourteen-year-old chucha on bare mattresses in crack houses, gets caught with the crack in his hand, don’t give up nobody and he’s back in CYA, but this time he is one of the bigger boys (got thick forearms, big hands, some weight on him) and it’s him who makes the smaller boys jerk him off, suck his cock, and he looks at them with those dead eyes and they do it, do what he says.

Out again, the gang wars are on, they just shoot the shit out of each other for drug turf, for revenge, for fucking nothing, he takes a bullet in a drive-by. Just hanging out on the front lawn, smoking yerba, drinking cerveza, getting ready to tip his piton into this sweet little piece when bam he feels this pain in his thigh and the piece is screaming but not like he likes her to and there’s blood running down his leg. He finishes his beer before he goes to the hospital.

When he goes out two weeks later, still with a cane, to get a little of his own back, he has his boys drive him past a house in the Los Treintes barrio, sticks his AK out the window, and lets loose. Gets a Treinte but also gets a four-year-old nina on the rebound, but Jesus don’t care about that.

The prole don’t get him for that, but they’re laying for him because now he’s a jefe and they’re looking to put him away. He fucks up and gives them their shot, too. This lambioso takes a long look at his girl and Jesus just goes off and smashes the guy’s face and they put him away for six in the Q.

Except for the food and the lack of chucha, Jesus liked prison.

Pumping iron, hanging with the same boys he’d hang with on the corner, fighting the Aryans and the Zulus, blowing yerba, skin-popping, fucking punks, getting tatts. He killed two more men in the Q and they never got near him for it. No one was going to talk on Jesus. Ran the 94s, or what was left of them, from his cell. Ordered three more killings on the street and they got done, too.

Out again, back again to the 94s and found there wasn’t much left of them. A lot of them were dead, more in the joint, some were craquedos and junkies. The gangbanging thing was over, finito.

And he ain’t that young anymore.

The years, they slide.

The people, they don’t.

The people, they grind and scrape and it shows.

Anyway, he did his time and now he’s out and now he’s back and they say the days of the gangs are over, we all killed each other off and there’s some truth in that but there’s some false in it, too. The gangs are coming back —like they say, good taste never goes out of style—but in a different way.

A serious way.

A business way.

Making money.

The prison counselors used to yap about “making good choices.” Make good choices when you get out so you don’t come back in.

Good choices.

So you can choose to kill for pride, for some silly-ass gang colors, for territory, for drug turf, or you can choose to kill for money.

Jesus chooses to kill for money.

Like the saying goes, “Do something that you love for a living, and you’ll never work a day in your life.”

187

“What can I do for you boys?” Jesus asks.

Jesus is the jefe of the 94s, got them a little plaza in DP, looking to move into the big Mexican hood in the SJC.

But the SJC is Treinte country, so Jesus looks elsewhere for support. Has made him the big hookup with a rep of El Azul himself, because everyone knows that he’s going to come out on top, and then Jesus looks to move up with the winner. Perform for El Azul, and when he takes over, he’ll give SJC to the 94.

Sal tries to play it strong. “It’s what we can do for each other.”

Jesus laughs. “Bueno, m’ijo, what can we do for each other?”

Sal turns and waves to Jumpy, who pulls the van up.

“I don’t do cars,” Jesus says.

Not worth the risk, not worth the aggra. You steal a car, you drive all the way down to Mexico, and then they rob you on the price.

“Look inside.”

Sal opens the passenger door and beckons.

“What you ninos got in there,” Jesus smirks. “TV sets?”

Nooooo, not TV sets.

Assets.

Jesus whistles. “Where did you get this?”

Sal is pleased with the reaction. Not easy to impress Jesus. “Let’s just say we got it,” he says, pointing his first and index fingers like a pistola.

“I hope you dumped the hardware,” Jesus says.

Which is very good, because now they’re talking between men.

“Can you help us sell it?” Jumpy asks.

“For a taste,” Sal quickly adds.

Sure, Jesus answers. He can do that.

There has to be a good 200K in that van. Kick some of that up to El Azul and he gets his attention. He turns to one of his boys and says, “Get my cousins here some beers.”

Sal is happy.

Stands and drinks beer in the VIP Room.

188

Jesus goes to see a man he knows.

Who will be very happy to buy this merchandise at a good price.

Antonio Machado owns five taco stands in South Orange County, a good cash business to own, because he moves a lot more dope than chimichangas.

Jesus chose Senor Machado because the man has ties with El Azul. The jefe will get his kick-up, Jesus will make Machado look good and get favors in return, and they’ll all make a lot of money. Even better, Machado is happy to lowball his offer to Sal and Jumpy, then pay Jesus the real amount, which will cover his kick to both Machado and El Azul.

It’s good, smart business.

Would be, anyway, except—

Jesus lacks a vital piece of information.

Senor Machado has seen certain video clips. He’s had visits from Lado, who explained to him that he should know which side his tortilla is buttered on, and this El Azul business? Don’t lose your head over that.

The Queen lives, Tio.

Long live the Queen.

And he’s also received, just this morning, an Amber Alert on a certain shipment of marijuana that suffered a misfortune: in no uncertain terms, our good friend Antonio, anyone who moves that yerba puts his own cabeza on the block. Anyone who sees or even hears about that