IN THE LAST neighborhood on the hill lived an old dog. One of those animals with no pedigree or anything. The dog was rat colored, with grayish-brownish fur, a curly tail, and a long face—as if it was specially designed to get into garbage bags. The dog watched over her house and her masters. When she wasn’t eating from some garbage can or drinking from the gutters, she would bark defiantly, alerting her owners to the presence of a stranger.
When the PNC patrols would make their way up the hill, the gangsters would run toward the canyon and the dog would go crazy. She didn’t like them running near her fortress, and the Guanacos didn’t like getting bit when it happened. Once the danger had passed, they would kick the dog and throw rocks at her. The next time, she would bite harder.
The war between the dog and the gang lasted a while, until one day she was found dead on one of the cliffs, with a broomstick shoved down her throat. The gang won.
Today, things are tense. Everyone is on edge. Yesterday a car made its way up the hill, slowly, suspiciously. It stopped in front of the school. Two guns poked out and unloaded several bullets. Then they slunk back down the hill and weren’t heard from again. Two men lay splayed out on the ground. They still wore their uniforms and backpacks, neither was even close to eighteen years old. Neither belonged to Mara Salvatrucha, at least not in any meaningful sense. The Guanacos are furious, they consider it an affront to their clica. The nerve, to go out and kill in their territory.
Everyone is fearful. Even the children in my tutoring session are tense. It’s impossible to control them. It’s as though they are possessed by some destructive force. They attack each other, cry, and yell, and it’s impossible to convince them that a soccer ball can be enjoyed by several people at a time. Cristal explains that most of these kids, including her, knew the two who were murdered. Some even had to throw themselves to the ground or hide under cars when the hail of bullets fell.
Several gangsters stand at the entrance to the youth center. El Maniaco and Little Down, but also the new recruits. One of them is named Charlie, he’s eighteen and has been deported from South America, a real rarity in these parts. He lived here growing up and has returned to find his childhood friends are now gangsters. He saw no recourse but to join MS as well. The other is a kid like Hugo, twelve or so, who looks at Little Down with profound reverence.
The youth center ever so slowly becomes a bakery, and Destino turns into something of a mentor for the kids. He spends the day working the oven and studying bread recipes. Moment by moment, this gangster loses his power. He does so willfully, subtly. But he still holds onto a bit, just enough to not get pushed around by others—and to stay safe himself. The clica respects him in their own way. Hugo sticks nearby. He knows Destino is his only shield. Otherwise, he would have to join the squadron of nervous hopefuls who follow Little Down. Going back to normal life alongside his mother is no longer an option for Hugo. He is in too deep.
Destino has been working all afternoon on this dough. As I arrive, he takes off his baker’s hat, offers me a plastic chair, and sits down in another.
“Ey! Let’s have a soda,” he says while putting a cup in my hands and calling Hugo:
“Dawg, there’s the Salva Cola truck, go get a two-liter bottle. Tell those vatos I said so.”
The boy takes off running and returns two minutes later with a plump bottle he shows us proudly. He screws the top off and chugs it down only to let loose a burp that echoes throughout the room.
“Hey, little bastard. Give some to Juan first, don’t be rude,” says Destino, and the boy pours me a thick stream of soda, which at this hour is like drinking manna.