It's late afternoon, but the dense canopy that seems to merge above the road has plunged us into early dusk. The song that wails from the stereo is a concoction of hot electric guitar and haunting horns that feel just like the day around us. The vocals flow like a river after rain, like uncertainty and blood; this is the sound of soul-borne music. I prefer something rougher, dirtier, angrier, but my preferences mean little from the back seat of a car that's not mine.
The engine's hum comforts me, like a mix of dream and memory. Keeping the Caddy in top shape was the only thing that had ever brought me and Charlie together. I never even meant to get involved, and only accidentally divulged the versatility of my experience – my time spent under a hood – when he asked me one night to hold a light for him. He hadn't been able to see the problem from his angle, but I could see it from mine. That's when we both ended up under the car while Izzy held the light, the three of us drinking beers and making guy jokes. That evening had turned into late night, and though some would say we bonded, we never admitted it ourselves.
Either way, we became fated as the group's mechanics, and we'd see countless other nights working on this antiquated hunk of metal. Our interactions while working always depended on the dynamic of our moods. Most of the time, we didn't talk about much other than the task at hand. Sometimes we didn't talk at all. Our conversations generally stayed on safer topics, almost small talk, but there were a precarious few times when it got deeper. Usually when we were really high, or on the even rarer occasion, when we drank whiskey.
I think he wanted to like me, he just could never force it. He couldn't trust any protégé of Derrik's with former ties to Gram. I could never blame him. And now, just now, I realize that the responsibility of the Caddy has fallen to me.
I watch Maria from the safety of my shades. It's too dark for them now, but I won't give myself away. She looks small in that giant seat. If she's nervous, it doesn't show. Abuela is her biological kin, yet she is also the mysterious head of a discreet empire of Southern weed distribution, an intricate part of a dangerous network that brings the contraband across the border.
Cartel shit.
I've seen Abuela construct a huge, traditional Mexican dinner, then dole out expensive tequila to her guests. Those are the same wrinkled hands that started at the very bottom rungs of the game, and that have since orchestrated the flow of pounds upon pounds of product. They're the same hands that control the strings that supply a large stretch of the Midwest and East Coast.
No wonder Maria is such a brazen firecracker. I weaken to the way her skin glows with sweat. She was born into this life, has been cultured for it since childhood. She learned from her dad, who learned from his mom.
Her breaths are steady, too steady, as she guides us closer to the jaws of a beast with which none of us can contend, from whom none of us can protect her. I wonder if she fears anything, or is she just still numb from the events that have played out so quickly and dramatically over the past several days. If she's only desensitized, when will she wake up? And what will she do when she realizes what she's set into motion?
I escape to the view outside the window, away from everyone else and the tension that's mounting among us. She said she had nothing left to lose. I can't believe that's entirely true, because she laid her head on my shoulder. I don't believe that the souls in the car mean nothing to her, that we're simply bodyguards and grunts. She's usually not one for bluffs, but she threw that one out like nothing.
Maybe she was trying to push us away. Or maybe she believes she doesn't care, even as she has sought comfort from each of us in turn.
I was drifting when she found me, barely a year out of a botched operation that killed most of the people I considered friends, and broke the ties of loyalty I had for Derrik. As many times as he had gotten fucked up and taken the wrath of his demons out on me, the personal betrayal had never been quite enough to turn me away. I had always only been a child with no love at home, so it never seemed strange to be abused. But knowing the whole crew died because of his incompetence, and that I should have died with them, was enough to set me out into the street. Being alone was better than venturing into any relationships that were inevitably doomed to end painfully.
When I met her, I was slinging blow and low-market weaponry, working as something of a mercenary. I had managed to chill my emotional response system to the point where it was almost dead, until she walked into that damn bar on the fringe of Rue Decatur, my favorite selling spot.
She had locked eyes on me as soon as she approached the bar. How could I ignore such a gorgeous creature? I had tried so hard. How could I have known, as I sold my soul a piece at a time, that the moment she found me would someday lead me down this remote swamp road? To an even more remote fortress ruled by a soft-spoken sixty-two-year-old woman, no taller than five-foot-three, who could end my life with the snap of her fingers.
I've got a good eye and a good gut, but nothing could have readied me for the madness that follows this family.
I've been down this road twice before. When I say Charlie never
