twenty-one

Gato woke up slowly. Painfully. Waking was ugly. Took a moment to remember where he was and how he’d landed here in the shit. The room was the size of a meat locker. Almost as cold. His right eye was swollen. Jaw ached. Head pounded. He felt around the back of his head. Dried blood there. Probably when it hit the floor. That was all he could remember. Oh wait. He remembered something else: he’d broken that one motherfucker’s jaw. That was a nice kick … a nice kick? It was then he realized he had no shoes. The gun was gone. So was his shirt.

Looked around his cell. Nothing. No toilet, no nothing. That was when he spied a small hole in the corner. Just about the width of a pipe. Went over to it. Yeah, there had been a sink here at one time. Realized then he had to piss. Stood over the hole and aimed as best he could for it. It worked for a moment, but then backed up. Motherfuckers … I will kill you all and leave your homes a burning mess for this … .

Seemed the hole did drain, but slowly. Hoped he didn’t have to crap for a while. Maybe they’d let him out. As his mind began to clear he wondered what Lupe had gotten herself into. And pregnant! And his madre back at home, needing them both. He had to get the hell outta here. Who the fuck was this Mike guy, anyway? Drugs? Girls? Was he a pimp like that fucker Teddy Mac, but on a higher level? Had the look of a drug bastard. And man … Mallen didn’t even know where he was. Paced back and forth … back and forth, wondering how to handle this. Prowled the cell. They’d come for him. Of course they would. He had to be awake when they did. He’d fight his way through this. Oh yes he would.

There was the sound of heavy steps approaching the door. Two people. Heard the jangle of keys and a lock being opened on the other side of the heavy wooden door. He went and pressed his back to the wall, right behind the door. Right hand balled in a fist. If he had to die, he was going to die fighting. The door opened wide, but outward. There was a moment of quiet, then laughter.

“Come on, fuckhole,” said one of the voices from before. One of Mike’s guys. “Like you’re going to catch us unawares? You better get used to the fact that you’ll be our little doggie until that cunt hooker sister of yours squirts out that brat Mike is so up in arms about. Come on, man … don’t be a pussy about this. Take your medicine like a man, not like some little bitch.”

Gato didn’t move. Medicine? Madre de dios! No!

The two men rushed into the room fanning left and right. Gato leapt at the one with the broken jaw. Grabbed the jaw and twisted it, bones crunching. The man screamed and Gato leapt over him, bolting out the door and down the hall. Didn’t know which way was out. The walls were concrete. Got the impression he was underground. The thud of boots behind him. He kept taking lefts and then rights. Where the fuck was this place? Then there was a gunshot and his right leg shot out from under him. A ton of bricks fell on him and everything went black.

It was only dreams then. Faint images and stabbing pain as he watched from outside looking in. His jaw was broken, or so he thought. Was that drool, or blood? Tried to move. Everything was so heavy. His body, the air, even the pain was a ton of lead. A pinprick, and then the pain receded … . Was that someone talking? Something about a junk car … junk … .no?

–––––

Another period of blackness ended as he opened his eyes. Still couldn’t move. Barely registered that he was tied to a cot. A cot? Tied? Why was that? His jaw ached and he could barely see through his swollen eyes. His pants were wet, and smelled of shit and piss. Or was that shit, piss, and dried blood? What was this place?

“He’s waking up,” said someone somewhere.

A face loomed over his. Weird how the wires around the face shined like hot lead. Pain shot through his head and every fiber of him when he was slapped. It had all happened so fast. Waking was bad. Just like it had used to be. And how long ago was that since waking had been so bad. Who cared?

“Shoot him again,” said wire face. That brought him back a little to the surface. Horse. Needles. His sister. His madre … Something clamped down on his right wrist. He gazed over at his arm, and through the haze of his puffed-up eyes and drugs he watched a needle go into an arm. There was a sting, and then he realized the arm was his.

“Punta Madres. Go fuck yo … ur … selves … ” and then he floated above it all and went away to some corner of the darkness where there were no corners and he had to search for one and then he remembered being in jail and helping this one white dude out named Mallen and how it had been cool to be this guy’s friend but did he have any friends now … and … and … .

–––––

Gato knew he was going to die. Knew it. But every time he’d get right to the cusp where death … where dying … meant seeing God, the messengers would come in and put the chains back on his being. At one point, he finally saw his padre. After all these long years. Then he saw the Lord. Saw Jesus. Tried to cross himself but the straps, the bloodied straps, wouldn’t let him. Every time he tried to breathe, the smell of shit and piss made him vomit, but it was a dry vomit now as he no longer had a concept of water, or what it tasted like. It could’ve been a day … or a lot of days. Had no idea. All he knew was the pinprick, and how sad it made him feel. His mind traveled back in time, retreating from the present … a present that held nothing now but pain and agony. He’d been a kid at the time, maybe eight or nine. He’d tried to grow a plant for his madre. Worked and worked on it to make it grow big and strong. The leaves were large and a shiny, dark green. Then one day he’d come out to water it and the plant had been knocked over and stamped on. Some kids he knew from the next block had done it. Had laughed at him as he stood there, almost crying but trying to be strong. His padre would want him to be strong. What he’d done, if he could remember right, was to go out to meet those putas with a broom handle. They’d laughed at him … until Gato swung the broom handle against this one kid’s head who was in his gym class. Broke the kid’s nose and they all went running away.

Man, had his padre beaten the crap out of him!

But now, padre was dead and he was sad. It was then that he realized someone stood over him. At first Gato didn’t know the man, but eventually the man came into focus and it was then that he recognized Metal Mike.

Mike stood there looking down at him, his sleeve over his nose. “Can’t you at least change this fucker’s pants, you assholes?”

“We thought it more fun for him to wallow in his own shit and piss.”

“I don’t want him to die, yet. Not until after Lupe gives me my son. If she knows her brother is dead, she’ll go ape shit. She’s Catholic, but not above killing her child to stick a needle in my eye.”

“Hey, Mike … this guy broke Jessie’s jaw. Twice. He gets what he gets. And what he gets is to shit and piss on himself.”

Gato felt his right arm grabbed. Like in a dream. Pressure around his elbow. “Jesus, you guys don’t even know how to shoot up some motherfucker with dope. Clean him the fuck up. Lupe wants to see him.”

“Clean him up? Jesus, Mike … look at the spick. He looks and smells like a Port-a-John.”

“I told you two assholes to keep him locked up and quiet. You decided to treat him like a third-world political prisoner. This is your handy work so clean it the fuck up.”

Gato tried to open his eyes at the loud voices. Metal Mike was still there, looming over him like the devil looming over a broken soul. Maybe Mike had some dope? He needed some more, the need growing faster and faster. Needed more so he could go away to where the pain wasn’t. To where there was nothing. He vaguely felt a silence, then Mike said, “Clean him the fuck up, or I’ll find someone who will, and then you’ll find yourself where this piece of shit-out Chorizo is now. Are we clear on this?”

“Yeah,” came the response. Flat and dead.

“Then get the fuck to it.”

–––––

There was water. Hot. Scalding. They beat him like an animal between blasts of the water. Laughed at him as he crawled around the tiled floor in a vain attempt to get away from the water. His junk-encrusted mind no longer thought of right or wrong, or of Lupe. Or his mother. Those were thoughts for some other Eduardo. Being beaten, then being cleaned up. Words of apology for the beating while being beaten. There was one moment where he begged like a little boy for some junk to make the dark and jagged pain go away, but none came until the moment where he cried like a little coño for some. Then he was tossed to the ground, his left arm held rigid and he didn’t fight anymore … only waited for the release from all the agony.

Then it went dark again.

He was getting very used to that darkness.