“What do we do now?” Rosa asked.
Carlos moved and pulled out his gun from his pants and groaned, “Mama, Mama, get rid of this.”
Mama nudged Rosa and said, “Grab the pistola and bring it to the kitchen.”
Mama waddled down the hallway and Rosa followed her, holding the gun like it was a wild animal. Mama held out a plastic bag and Rosa dropped it in.
“Rosa, we have to stop the bleeding. Go and hold the towels to his wound till I get out there.”
“Mama, we need to get him to a hospital.”
“Hospital? That is where people go to die. My bebe no die. Not today. I know his death day. I saw it in a dream when he was two. He stays here and we take care of him. Stop the sangre. His blood has to clot. He’ll be fine. Be a good novia and help him.”
Rosa watched Mama place the gun in a drawer and then reach into one of the pockets of her red house dress and pull out two small strips of tinfoil.
“Rosa, go. Carlos has a herida de bala Stop the bleeding. Avanza.”
Rosa turned and ran down the hallway. In the living room she saw that Carlos was leaning back on the couch holding his stomach. She moved his hand and put a towel on the wound and pressed.
Carlos grimaced and turned his head. Rosa held the towel and then pulled it off when it became full of blood. She put it on the floor and picked up a clean one. She jumped when Mama silently touched her shoulder.
“Let me look.”
For a little old woman, Mama was strong. She gently moved Carlos forward and looked at his back.
“This might not be so bad. The bala went right through him. First we take away his pain. Here, Carlos, sniff.” Mama patted Carlos on the face as she held a line of white powder on her thumb.
“What’s that?” Rosa asked as Carlos took a long snort.
“Chiva… for the pain. Here, bebe, take another.”
“Heroin? You’re giving him heroin?”
“Rosa, you know what you read in your school books. Chiva is the best thing for pain and this chico is going to have pain when I clean this wound.”
Carlos leaned back on the couch and looked like he was sleeping. Mama took out some more white powder, lifted the towel, and poured it on Carlos’s stomach, inside the small hole where the bullet had entered.
“Now this, Rosa, is perico, which will freeze the nerves.”
Rosa watched with her mouth open.
“Now hold him by the shoulder.”
Rosa moved behind the couch and held onto Carlos.
“Tighter. Strong. He’s going to jump like a fish on a line.”
Rosa grabbed Carlos’s shoulder as Mama poured peroxide into the wound. Carlos’s body jolted and he screamed. He collapsed back on the couch.
“Just sit with him,” Mama said as she went into the kitchen. She came back in a moment stirring a glass of cloudy water.
“Now we use this dropper and put penicillin down his throat for infection. Hold his head back and open his mouth.”
Rosa tilted his head back, and Mama squirted the mixture from the dropper into his mouth.
“Now sit him up and hold the towel. The blood is slowing down. He’ll be fine and so will you.”
Rosa looked down at the wound and saw that the bleeding had slowed to a trickle. She sat down on the couch and gently held the towel as Mama went into the kitchen.
Rosa sat up on the couch, afraid. The room was dark. Had she slept? She blinked and saw Carlos leaning against her, breathing slowly. She heard a tapping on glass and saw the silhouette of a man trying to look into the window. The shadow moved, and then silence. She just sat there not moving — hardly breathing — when someone banged on the front door. In the hallway she could see Mama opening the door and say, “Sí?”
Then Mama flew back against the wall as a young Latino man stormed into the apartment, yelling, “Where’s that cobarde Carlos?”
The man looked down the hallway and came at her. She saw he had a gun, and Rosa closed her eyes. This is what Carlos has given me. A cheap, stupid death in a ghetto apartment. Rosa jumped as a shot rang out. She heard a moan, and then another shot. She opened her eyes and saw Mama standing over the body of the man. Mama held a black revolver in her hand.
“There, that’s for you! You come into my house to kill mi bebe You pendejo. Cheap-ass bandido…” Mama kicked the man, then smiled at Rosa. “How’s Carlos?”
“Is he dead?”
“Him, yeah. Come help me drag him into the bañera.”
“Why are you taking him to the bathtub?”
“Why you think? Think I want to clean him up? We got to get rid of this body. Come on.”
Mama grabbed the man’s feet and Rosa stood up. She stared at Mama. Mama dropped the feet and walked over and slapped Rosa in the face.
Mama yelled, “You do as I say! You hear me? You brought this here, and you will help me. Now!”
Rosa bent down robotically and took the man by his boots as Mama grabbed the arms. They dragged him down the hall, leaving a trail of blood on the linoleum. Rosa looked down into the dead face and saw he’d been no more than a boy — maybe eighteen. Why was he dead? What was she doing here?
“In here.” Mama motioned to the bathroom door. Rosa kicked it open, and with great effort she and Mama lifted the man into the tub and dropped him.
Mama smacked her hands and said, “Got to get rid of this body.”
Rosa wanted to scream and run, but she just said, “No.”
“Go and get Papa. He’s down in the bodega playing dominos. Tell him we need to turn up the furnace all the way. We have something to burn.”
Rosa didn’t move and just stared at Mama.
“Rosa, go. Now! Avanza! And come back. Don’t think of going to the cops, because you touched the gun. Your finger-prints are all over that gun. You’re one of us now. I hope mi hijo picked a good one.”
Mama reached into a hall closet and smiled when she turned. “What, you want to watch?” She had a small axe in her hand. She motioned with the hatchet for Rosa to get going. Rosa dully nodded, put on her coat, and opened the door. She moved out of the apartment and floated down the hallway. She opened the lobby door and stepped out into the cold night air and stood on the stoop staring out at the Bushwick street. A gypsy cab cruised by and the driver stared at Rosa. She turned away and saw a shadow move in the alley across the street.
Rosa let out a long sigh and walked down the block, feeling like her body and soul were dying. She would never get out of this neighborhood.
Ladies’ man
by Chris Niles
Brighton Beach
She was lush like an old-time movie star in black patent-leather shoes, fishnet stockings, and a fur coat. Her hair had been blonded, rolled, sprayed, and teased so that it stiffly circled her face like a halo on a medieval Madonna. She had Angelina Jolie lips and her heavy-lidded eyes were shaded aqua and rimmed with kohl. Crimsondipped nails grasped fake Louis Vuitton. She didn’t look anything like Ana, but that didn’t stop me staring.
The rhythm of the train tempted her to doze. Her head dipped. She woke, glanced around, trying not to look anxious, yet tightening her grip on her bag. Falling asleep on the subway. Not a good idea. It was late. The car was filled with a typical assortment of booze-and drug-fueled crazies, myself included. I’d spent the previous few hours with a couple a friends of the family — Eric Ambler and Comrade Stolichnaya.