He thumbs through his messages. Furrows his brow. Nods. Grins. I don’t know what he’s up to; it’s not my place to ask.
Regardless, my imagination starts to gallop, dragging behind it jealous thoughts. Who’s Toro going to see? Melissa Chacon? Or Enrico “el Perico” Tellez? That diseased marica. Better wear two condoms when you fuck him.
I really want to ask, but asking means I care, and I don’t want Toro to think that I do. I can’t. It’s long over between us. Tears pluck at my eyes, and I focus on putting my tools away.
Just as I zip my tool bag, Toro brings coffee and a campechana. While I finish the pastry, I watch him tuck the PW-Pro into his pants and fluff the shirt over it. He poses in front of the mirror, turning this way and that, like a ruca checking her ass for panty lines.
Since he’s packing this particular gun, I figure he’s heading out to work and not play, and the jealousy fades.
My business done, I slip my books into the backpack and grab my tool bag. Standing, I gasp for breath, then square my shoulders and face Toro.
Unexpectedly, he drops a hand on my shoulder. “Change in plans, vato. Espérame.”
He walks out the front door and the dead bolt clicks. When will he return? How long am I supposed to stay here? I don’t leave, because he owes me money, and besides, when Toro tells you to stay, you better stay.
I busy myself with my phone until I toss it aside, bored. I hope for his aunt to arrive and keep me company but she never makes an appearance. Maybe she smells trouble. I click on the television and when the screen asks for the password, I click it off and drop the remote on an end table.
I pick up my books and read for a while. I daydream about being a famous author like Leonardo Padura. As he did, I’ll chronicle my life through a series of novels, make it a majestic tale. I know crime. I know survival. Hell, I even have the scars. Me, Rafael Muñoz, the bard of the barrio. Maybe that’s my ticket out of here.
Afterward, I explore the cramped living room, analyzing the various trinkets Toro has collected since I was last here. My longing for him swirls in my head. I fantasize letting myself into his bedroom, crawling onto the mattress to luxuriate in his masculine scent clinging to the bed linen. I relive every delicious minute that we’d spent here, me taking each visit for granted, thinking there would always be a next time. And then, there were no more next times.
Twilight darkens the windows. I’m hungry and rummage the kitchen. I microwave a couple of tamales and help myself to a beer.
As the evening drags on, I stretch out on the sofa. The front door bangs open and I’m suddenly alert. I expect Toro’s aunt but it’s Ysidro Bustos, one of his gamberros. “Rafael, nos vamos.”
My mind scrambles to catch up. I gather my bags.
“Leave those.” He scowls. “Where’s your phone?”
I slip it from my pocket.
“Leave it in your backpack.”
After I comply, he nods toward the door. I follow him out. He shuts the door behind us, locks it with a key, and hustles toward the stairs. While he bounds down like a goat, I clasp the handrail and ease my way, step by step. Though the night is cool, each breath burns as it wheezes through my lungs.
Ysidro yells over his shoulder, “¡Apúrate, güey!”
I do my best to match his frantic pace. My chest tightens around the knot of my scar. In the pool of amber light beneath a corner streetlamp, a black SUV waits, its tinted windows sheets of obsidian. Ysidro hustles through the rear passenger door, leaving it ajar for me.
“¿Listos?” It’s Toro, in the front passenger seat, Pacho Ortiz driving. Toro gazes through his visor mirror. “Rafael, glad you could make it, ese.”
As if I had a choice.
We drive north, circle through Thornton, buy whiskey, stop someplace else for smokes, then turn back to Globeville. We halt by the Polish church and everyone but Pacho gets out. We’re not too far from where I’d arrived on the bus. Pacho continues south on Camino. I figure the runaround is Toro leaving a false trail in the SUV’s GPS.
The church looms dark and silent like a mausoleum. Small houses clutter the neighborhood, each a compact fortress. Porch lights outline wire fences and reflect the eyes of watchdogs. The Mousetrap blots out a swath of the night sky.
Toro explains nothing about why we’re here, only walks into the construction site. Ysidro keeps at his heels, whispering. I trudge along, trying to eavesdrop, but their words are smothered by the whoosh of highway traffic.
We make our way through a gap in the temporary chain-link fence and proceed to a dirt ramp that leads into the pit. Headlamps spilling from the overpass sweep the area, backlit by construction work in the distance, creating a panorama of bizarre sculptures. Toro and Ysidro trot down the ramp but for me it’s a grueling stop and go.
Our destination is one of the holes for a footing. Another vato emerges from the gloom, Chuy. Toro’s most trusted matón.
The reason why we’re here blooms.
The hole. Me.
My heart starts to race and my breath gets thick as glue.
Why me? It doesn’t matter. Maybe Toro is simply cleaning house.
Lightheaded, I want to turn and run, but I wouldn’t get far. A pressure builds against my temples. My mind somersaults, spinning with regrets and abandoned dreams. The scar in my chest feels like Death is clawing me with a bony finger.
Feet dragging, docile as a cow on the way to the slaughterhouse, I reach the plywood formers that circumscribe the square dimensions of the hole, about three feet square. Dizzy, nauseous, I force myself to gaze into the abyss, my grave.
I expect Toro, Ysidro, and Chuy to seize me and finish this business. Toro glances to acknowledge that I’m here, then goes back to chatting with the other two. His tats shimmer blue, then green.
Bastard! What’s he waiting for? It feels as though a rope tightens around my neck and I’m about to swing.
A pair of headlamps approach. It’s a small van, a 4x4 Prowler the construction crews use to haul whatever. The Prowler hums to a halt. The headlamps click off. The darkness swallows us again. Ysidro and Chuy open the back and drag free what appears to be a rolled-up carpet. But it’s not. It’s a man wrapped in a canvas tarp.
He’s dumped on the ground as the Prowler circles and leaves. Ysidro and Chuy yank on the tarp until the man emerges, rolling like a hot dog. He flops onto his belly, hands behind his back, wrists and ankles bound with duct tape. He squirms, still alive. Ysidro uses his foot to push the man over but keeps him on the tarp.
Tape also covers his mouth. His ruddy face is flushed red and his eyes radiate terror. Sweat trickles from his hairline. He’s wearing jeans, a golf jacket, trainers.
Toro crouches and searches the man’s pockets, withdraws an ID badge and a gold shield. He peruses the badge, then flips it into the hole. The shield is passed around. It’s heavy, quality stuff, and reads, Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives. The dreaded ATF. Feds.
“Este cabrón estaba en la pista de mis negocios.”
This doomed gabacho is about to pay the price for getting too close to Toro.
Toro dumps the shield into the hole, then reaches under his shirt and pulls out the PW-Pro that I’d earlier fixed for him.
The ATF agent’s eyes latch onto the gun.
“Rafael,” Toro says.
I look at him confused.
“Dame tu mano.”
I present my hand.