7
The candle is almost spent. The scrawl in the junkie’s notice block becomes messier and messier with each line he writes; apparently, by now he can barely control his trembling hand.
If Sancho isn’t here soon I’ll just go and kill someone.
Maybe I should wake up Nelly, but she’s looking sweet in her sleep. Her face — so pure. But maybe she still has a shot somewhere, or a few bucks in her coat. But I can’t remove her coat. She’s sleeping in it, it’s cold in here. Is it? I try to ignore it, we burnt all the rubbish and then the old furniture we found. I need some warmth. The cold comes from inside, as if my guts were full of ice. Ice. Ice Cube. I wish I could listen to my iPod but there’s no electricity here and I can’t load the iPod with the two candles I still have. Fuck you, Apple!
At least Nelly sleeps in the only bed we have. I want to cuddle in next to her, but I could also fall asleep and miss Sancho when he comes. I can’t. After I get my fix, I’ll join Nelly.
I’ll wait ten more minutes and if that bastard doesn’t arrive, I go and kill someone for his money. Or steal something if there’s still something left worth stealing in this filthy street. I have no choice. Do I?
Five minutes. Fucking time crawls up my spine like a bug. No, it’s the cold. Time itself is cold. Freezing me to the bones.
What—what was that?
Thank goodness, it’s the stairs squeaking. Someone is coming. Sancho. It must be Sancho. He has come.
My sweet, ever sweetest friend.
The door swings open and a stout, Hispanic man in an impeccably tailored black suit appears. He switches on a torchlight and pans around the room. The sight of cockroaches running down the rotting walls, the long-extinguished fire still oozing the stench of burnt, dirty rags and garbage, the small pile of feces in a corner makes him shudder.
“¡Madre de Dios! Did someone die in here, cabrón?”
“Thank God you came, Sancho!”
The torchlight swings in the direction of the shaky, almost whining voice that now bears a little hope and fixes on an emaciated young man. His face is grayer than pale, the eyes swollen and red. He pulls up the sleeve of his filthy military jacket that bears faded letters: USMC. Then, he drags himself closer to the man called Sancho like a half-dead dog.
“Sancho! Gimme my fix. Quickly! You have no idea how much I have waited for you—”
Sancho steps back in disgust.
“First we have some finances to settle.”
If the junkie on the floor had resembled a stray dog until now, now his face turns into the snout of a rabid beast.
“My fix—gimme my fucking fix you bastard!”
He jumps at Sancho but a kick from the smartly dressed thug hits him in the chest. The junkie falls to the ground, whining.
“Sancho, please! You are my only friend!”
Two more men appear behind Sancho from the dark staircase.
“Look at this, cabrón,” Sancho says and removes a transparent plastic bag with white powder inside from his pocket. Holding it with two fingers, he shakes it tantalizingly close to the junkie’s face. He attempts to snatch it but Sancho’s companions grab his arms. While one puts his neck into a choke-hold, the other pulls back his head by his long and filthy hair. The junkie looks up to Sancho like a pig looks at the butcher before its neck will be cut.
“Is here a place where I can sit? On second thought, I better don’t touch anything in this shithole.”
Sancho puts the plastic bag away. The junkie, his mouth open and salivating, stares at the pocket where the heroin had disappeared.
“How can a human being live like this? Your father was a war hero. You were a Marine once. Now—look at you!” Sancho shakes his head. “You know, Pete, all this puts me into a philosophical mood. See, this house was built sixty years ago. Where was Mexico at that time? It was the anus of the universe. Okay, Mexico City still is. That’s why we came here. But what has become of you Americans, huh?”
One of his hitmen squeezes a cockroach with his foot.
“Exactly, Pedro! Cucarachas. This house has become a symbol of your country and you of those living in it. And who is the master now?”
“Gimme my—”
“Wrong. Keep thinking, cabrón.”
At a jerk of his head, the thug holding Pete’s head pulls on his hair. The junkie screams with pain.
“This fucking rain is so loud outside! Can’t hear you, cabrón!”
Another brutal pull on Pete’s head from behind.
“You,” he breathes.
“I have been toying with something I recently got and my hearing is still a little impaired,” Sancho says bending closer to Pete. A submachine gun appears in his hand. “It’s a bit old-fashioned but we Mexicans love classic values. See, this UZI is the epitome of classic values, except that this one fires .45 ACP rounds instead the trusty old parabellum. But you know what? Once a bullet from this piece of workmanship hits your head, you no longer worry about its slow rate of fire. Best Jewish invention since compound interest. So, Pete,” he says leaning even closer with a wide grin, “please tell me again — WHO IS NOW THE MASTER OF THE ESTADOS FUCKING UNIDOS?!”
He screams the last words into Pete’s ear.
“You are—Mexicans are.”
His words are barely more than a gasp.
“Correct. And we, Florencia own—proudly own the rest of the Mexicans. Talking about classic values, let’s get back to the time of the Founding Fathers. Do you recognize this old fart?”
Sancho flashes a 100 dollar note.
“It’s Benjamin Franklin.”
“Bingo! Now tell me, how many brothers did Benjamin Franklin have?”
“I—I don’t know.”
Another jerk of Sancho’s head is followed by the another thug punching Pete in the chest.
“That should bring back some high school memories. So?”
“Five?”
“Excellent! Just for the record, their names were Samuel, Josiah, John, Peter, and James. Now comes the big question: how many twin brothers did Benjamin Franklin have?”
“None—”
“Wrong!” Sancho shouts. He puts the 100 dollar note to Pete’s forehead where it stays sticking in the cold sweat. “¡Estúpido! Not even the Fed knows, so many! But I only care about the twelve you were supposed to deliver a week ago!” Sancho slaps the note on Pete’s forehead. “Where are my fucking little Benjamin Franklins? ¿Dónde, cabrón?”
“I—I don’t have it but—”
Pete’s words turn into a sob. With eyes wide open with dread, he sees Sancho looking at his two companions in frustration.
“Hijo de puta…Would you believe this, manos?”
“Waste of time, jefe,” the thug holding Pete’s right arm says.
“Fucking twelve hundred hundred dollars… I guess your mother spent so much on weekly make-up while she was still alive, Pete.”
“Leave my mother—”
“Cállate perro,” the man holding Pete in a choke-hold says tightening the grip.
“He’s not worth your bullet, jefe.”
“Let me just break his neck.”
Sancho looks around. “Is there someone else here?”
“Nelly,” Pete stammers, “she’s sleeping.”