“What the fuck?” he said in Spanish. “How’d you assholes get past the fucking gate?”
“Hey, brah,” Dwayne said, replying in Spanish. He was holding Gretchen’s chain leash and the German pit was sitting quietly by his leg. “My name’s Dwayne. I’m here to see Nester.”
“Nester’s in the fucking hospital with a machine breathing for him,” the kid said. “He got hit. Took two in the chest.”
“Shit, man, I’m sorry to hear that,” Dwayne said, and he meant it. The kid grunted and narrowed his eyes.
“I don’t give a fuck,” he said, his face stone, “stupid motherfucker too fucking slow to not get his ass shot, don’t mean shit to me.”
“Well, maybe I can talk to you,” Dwayne offered. The kid was having none of it. Somewhere down the hall, past Mr. Compassion, I heard male voices shouting back and forth to each other. Something about where the fuck was the milk for the Cocoa Puffs. Music started up down the hall, “Wake Up” by Immortal Technique.
“Who the fuck are you, you dog-walkin’, blasian motherfucker, come up to my house, jump my fence, don’t know you from shit! Got some junkie-looking, vieja perra blanca with you…”
“We actually wanted to share the good news of Jesus Christ with you, if you have a few moments,” I said in English. “Are your mommy and daddy home?”
“Shiiiit,” Dwayne said, his unflappable cool slipping for a second. “Ballard, shut the fuck up, man!”
“What did you just say, you maricón?” the kid sputtered, reaching for his gun. I drove a knuckle into his Adam’s apple. He gagged and gasped, grabbing instinctively for his throat. I took his gun away from him, cocked it, and aimed it at his lowered head. There was a chorus of oiled “snikts,” and we now had a half-dozen guns pointed at our heads, from a half-dozen dead-eyed, tattooed faces.
“No disrespect intended,” Dwayne said in Spanish, still sounding pretty cool. “We wanted to discuss some business with Nester.” The kid stood, glaring at me. I handed him the cocked gun back, butt first.
“Sorry,” I said in Spanish. “He dropped it, and I was just giving it back to him. I’m old; I have spasms.”
“Chinga usted!” the kid said as he aimed the gun at my face. A tattooed hand flashed out behind him and smacked his head, hard. The kid winced and looked back.
“You fucking stupid?” the older mara member said. “You know who the fuck this is you talking to? That’s Dwayne, pendejo. He’s a fucking bruja, boy, like Francisco!” The older banger looked at all his brothers. “Put those the fuck away, Dwayne’s the one that healed Nester’s mama when she was in the hospital and the insurance gave out on her, and he got Lonzo’s sister, Aleta, back from those coyotes that were going to sell her. He’s good.”
The name Francisco set off a little screaming fire alarm in my skull. Shit. Dwayne caught the shadow of recognition cross my face, but he played it cool. Guns were put away and most of the bangers drifted back inside, questing for milk for the cereal again. The kid I hit was still pissed and he wanted payback, bad. The older mara member and Dwayne gripped in a complex handshake and then embraced, slapping backs.
“Good to see you, Fabian,” Dwayne said. Fabian smiled and nodded.
“You should call first, man,” Fabian said, gesturing us inside. “Who’s your friend?” he asked as we walked down the hall; Gretchen stayed by Dwayne’s side. I could hear the silent “cop” in Fabian’s question.
“Ballard, Fabian; Fabian, Ballard,” Dwayne said. “Ballard’s cool. He needs to talk to one of your guys—no beef—just trying to reach some understanding. That’s why we came by. I’m sorry to hear about Nester, brah.”
Fabian gave me a curt nod and led us into an open and airy living room with high, wide windows giving a view of the sparsely wooded hills and canyons in the compound’s backyard. Besides the MS-13s who greeted us at the doors, there was another group in here, close to twenty in all. These guys all looked like they were on the last legs of a night of partying. Empty liquor bottles, bongs, rolling paper, and flavored cigar wrappers were everywhere. There was enough coke and marijuana residue on the faux stone Aztec coffee tables to make the DEA’s bust quota for a month.
“You guys move out here to the ’burbs for the better schools?” I asked. Fabian gave me a sidelong look.
“Who you need to see?” he asked, ducking the question. He sat down on a couch and offered us a pair of stuffed chairs.
“Luis,” I said. “Luis Demir. He’s a Blackhat identity thief. He works for your mara, among others.” Fabian nodded.
“Yeah, he’s here, got into town a few days ago. He’s got a workroom upstairs. Let me see what I can do.” Fabian stood and headed upstairs.
“This is going to go to shit,” I muttered to Dwayne. “Get ready. You too, Dragon,” I whispered to her, knowing she was listening in through the “scrywire,” the mystic equivalent of a surveillance wire, a henna tattoo that I had Dragon draw and incant on my chest.
“You’re being all kinds of negative, brah,” Dwayne said, lowering his voice. “It’s going to be fine. Fabian is righteous. Don’t lose your shit.” Two of the MS-13 members near us yawned and passed the dregs of a bottle of Jack back and forth. I wished for
