Capone’s arms were covered in tattoos. On his right forearm, close to his elbow, were the masks of comedy and tragedy, both crying large white tears. Just below was a fat, green, faded crucifix. And then at his wrist, where Chuey was searching, the word AMOR was written in Old English script.
“Can you do something, Jesse?” Brenda asked. She used Chuey’s real name. No one ever used Chuey’s real name, not even his family. I wanted to correct her.
Chuey sighed. “An hour max,” he said. “Easy death, no violence. We’ll take care of it.”
I looked to Alfonzo and Marcus. They both looked at me. Chuey had never sounded so official.
Chuey reached into his pocket and pulled out a penlight. He pried open one of Capone’s eyelids and then shined the light in. He pulled the light away and brought it back quickly. He did this two or three times for each eye. With each flash he gave a small grunt as if whatever he was looking for wasn’t there.
Capone’s pants were stiff and crusty. They were blue but hazy, spotted with dirt and grease. They looked like the pants of an alley auto mechanic. Capone’s socks had been white at some point. Now they were black at the soles, lighter shades of gray toward his ankles. I couldn’t believe Capone was on the floor, dead. I felt a sense of satisfaction. I felt like cursing him, talking to the dead body, making up for all those times he’d hassled me on the streets of our neighborhood. Serves you right, motherfucker. I felt like kicking him.
Chuey continued with his examination. He wiped Capone’s chin and neck with an edge of bedsheet, then felt under Capone’s jaw the way a doctor does, lightly, gently.
I thought to remind Chuey of that time Capone had punched him in the chest. I thought to remind Chuey of what he’d said back then: “It’s not like that fucker will ever learn.” Then suddenly I remembered what Chuey’s great-grandfather had said way back in January, how the power was to be respected, how it could be used only for the common good. We weren’t supposed to bring Capone back. Our job was to bring back harmless things, cats, birds, dogs, goldfish, a decent human being — not Capone. I opened my mouth to say something, but then I saw Chuey look up to Brenda. He smiled and nodded with confidence, reassurance. He was going to bring Capone back, common good or not.
“Qué van hacer con mi niño?” Brenda’s mother asked.
“Mom,” Brenda answered in English. “Just let him be. He knows what he’s doing.”
On a bedside table a burnt-out glass tube sat looking like it was about to roll off and shatter on the concrete floor. In the center of the table a tiny Bic lighter, blue, just like the one Marcus carried, was standing upright.
“You guys let him smoke in here?” Alfonzo asked.
“He just does it,” Brenda said. “I tell her all the time.” She turned to her mother. “But she won’t just kick him out.” She said this last piece forcefully. Her mother didn’t bother to look.
“We’re going to have to lay him down,” I said to Chuey.
Chuey gave a nod.
“They like to kick,” Marcus said to Brenda. He smiled like an apology.
I reached down and started to pull at Capone’s arm. The closer I got the more I picked up his odor. He was sour. I didn’t know if it was the drugs, the death, the filth, or all of the above. Alfonzo and Marcus went for Capone’s legs. I could see the looks on their faces as they pulled at his ankles.
Chuey was on his knees. He started to rub his hands together.
“Qué van hacer?” Brenda’s mother asked.
“It’s okay, Señora,” I said to her. “Somos professionales.”
She was holding her hand up near her mouth. She was leaning to one side, watching us, waiting for what we were going to do next.
“Okay,” Marcus said. “Ready.” He grabbed Capone’s left leg. Alfonzo grabbed the right.
Chuey was breathing deep now. His eyes were closed. He looked like he was preparing for a dive, like I’d seen competition divers do once on a National Geographic special. Then he started humming.
Brenda’s mother turned to her.
“Mom,” Brenda said. “He’s an Indian. This is a ritual.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Does anyone else know we’re here?” I asked Brenda.
“No,” Brenda said.
“You didn’t call the police?” I asked.
“No,” she said again. “We found him and I just called Jesse. I know what you guys do for a living.”
There was a pause. Even Chuey stopped humming. I expected him to open his eyes, to look at me, to us, for our reaction. He began humming again.
“What’s his name?” Alfonzo asked Brenda.
“Leo,” she responded.
And then, as I waited for Chuey to give his gift, for some reason I began to feel close to Capone. I’d seen him around for so many years, spoken to him so often, said what’s up in hopes of avoiding confrontation. I’d even run from him a couple of times, when my appeals to his human side failed. As I stood there looking at his limp body, things started to make sense. I could see him growing up in the tiny basement apartment. I could see him in Cooper Elementary, where I had gone. I could see him making friends, hanging out with the Latin Ambrose, until suddenly, almost unexpectedly, he couldn’t turn back. I felt sure Capone was a father. Maybe his girlfriend was one of the young mothers, the gangbanger girls I’d seen walking their babies on Saturday afternoons. I looked to his mother. She was old and tired, like my mother, like all our mothers. She still had her hand up near her mouth, hiding it, as if her lips might reveal more than she wanted to. Without me realizing it, Capone began to seem normal. I felt like we were all in the same boat, like our neighborhood, Pilsen, was just a rut people fell into. I began to think we were doing the right thing. That maybe Capone had seen God, or someone, or something, and was going to come back a new man, reborn. Maybe he’d seen the other side. I studied his tattoos, the upturned spear, the name CAPONE written in script on his neck, under his ear. Maybe this was what the gift was meant for, second chances, or even a chance at all.
Finally Chuey stopped humming. He opened his eyes and nodded to Alfonzo. I tightened my grip.
“May the holy ghost follow you through your new life,” Alfonzo said. “May you hold dear this blessing from God’s Country.”
And then Chuey tapped Capone’s ankle.
Like always at night, it happened slow. First his right foot twitched, then his left. Then there was nothing. Seconds passed. Two or three minutes even. Then his fingers twitched. Then his whole body snapped, for just an instant, like his muscles, his veins, had suddenly inflated. Capone wheezed, a breathless, flat wheeze, barely audible, but it was noise, and Capone had made it.
“Dios bendiga,” Brenda’s mother said. She dropped to her knees. “Mijo!”
Capone growled. His chest heaved. It wasn’t breath — breathing hadn’t started yet, but Capone’s lungs swelled, then emptied. Brenda’s mother reached for Capone.
“Don’t!” Chuey barked.
Brenda’s mother snapped back, startled.
Then real breath started. It was obvious. Capone’s chest rose and fell, slowly at first, then quickly, then regular, like his lungs had found a rhythm, had caught up to the beating of his heart. He was mumbling, every breath seemed to carry a sentence
“Mijo!” his mother called out. “Aqui estoy, mijo,” she said.