El Loco, A Game of Chess, and Little Down’s Spots

SEVERAL YEARS AGO in the last neighborhood on the hill, on any old day, Little Down strolled with his black shirt down to his wrists, his amulets dangling from his neck, and a gun at his waist. From a balcony, a man peered out. The one that people say was made crazy by a witch. The man started yelling at the gangster, told him to go back to Lucifer and the Sihuanaba.²³ Little Down reached for his revolver without hesitation, closed an eye, and landed a bullet within centimeters of his head. The old man took off howling.

“See, he’s not as crazy as they say,” reflected the gangster on his experiment, and put the gun away.

Today, the heat is excessive. The sun makes everything bright and we sweat with the smallest of movements. Far away, on one of the neighboring hills, we can make out a fire. It slowly burns up the dry hill and its flames threaten to spread.

The communal house bears a sign: No tutoring today. That, and no more. It is Gustavo’s handwriting. Some kids show up, read the sign, wait around a few minutes, then run off in any direction. It never ceases to amaze me how kids manage to disappear into the neighborhood. Within a few moments, there are no signs of them. Occasionally you can make out their laughter down by the soccer field, if you make out any sign of them at all.

Before the house stands Jazmín with her juice. She is glum. She greets me then drops her eyes to the ground. It is clear she has been crying and it looks like she will resume at any minute. She tells me that the clica faces more trouble.

Yesterday, another police raid made its way through the area. They were silent, and undetected, taking Guanacos Criminales Salvatrucha entirely by surprise. The gangsters know their territory well, and managed to run for the hills or hide in the alleyways. However, El Noche did not manage to escape, and after a long public beating, they ripped off his shirt, threw him into a pickup truck, and took him down the hill. He won’t be out for some time. He told me days ago he had a warrant out for parole violations.

Jazmín doesn’t hide her distress. The other women in the community had murmured about an old relationship between her and El Noche, some years after the murder of her husband, Hugo’s father.

“That is why I tell Hugo, ‘Look, just look what happens!’ Bunch of dumbasses, getting into trouble, watch them complain later. Now he is gonna be trapped in there god knows how many years,” Jazmín says, more to herself than me.

The police are the third element in this war, a shared enemy. The police force the gangs to operate in semi-clandestine ways, and complicate their plans. Destino is convinced Barrio 18 and the cops around here have an alliance. I don’t know how much of that is true, but what is certain is that of ten PNC officers, at least eight of them were here yesterday.

Inside the youth center, Little Down paces shirtless around his disciples. As he sees me walk in, he lifts his forearm and proudly shows off his new tattoo. It is an M and an S in black ink. The two letters cover his whole outer forearm. The tattoo is fresh; the ink still looks angry, and the S still bleeds. The other young men snap pictures on their cell phones and he admires it before a small mirror. He is happy, filled with some strange euphoria.

“I just got these done. They’re for a killing, ha ha ha,” says Little Down, almost possessed.

It seems he is in the mood to tell me about his crime; he follows me around as I leave my things in the room, and he tries to give me the details of his feat. But I don’t feel like listening. His disciples have told me that he swears he’s gotten a tattoo for each member of Barrio 18 he has killed, not counting civilians, a common practice among gangsters. This tattoo marks number five.

Suddenly, Destino appears. He has been listening from the other room, where he has prepared a formidable pineapple pastry. He sets it on the table and takes off his shirt, while looking proudly at Little Down and his small troop of kids. It is hard to find a spot on Destino not covered in ink. Little Down laughs dismissively and takes his troop out to the patio.

On the patio are eight gangsters. They are euphoric, spirits are high. It seems that Little Down’s feat has obscured El Noche’s capture. Among them is El Guapo, the gangster who took me to play soccer a month ago. He listens attentively to another gangster’s story of how, in a village in Soyapango, his clica killed a Barrio 18 member with several blows to the head with a rock. Another common practice among gangsters.

They all laugh and cheer, then flash the gang sign. They look like kids celebrating getting away with mischief. Others have more stories to tell, each more grotesque than the last. The scenes are always in communities named after saints, the acts are always barbaric, and I am left feeling nauseous.

Soon, my salvation arrives. El Guapo places a chess set on the table and invites me to play.

“Ey! Juan, wanna play Ladies?”²⁴

I tell him the game is called chess, “the game that makes you smarter.”

His ears perk up when I mention it’s a game of war and strategy.

“So, like, these vatos can only move forward. Fuck ass useless,” says Guapo as I explain the pawns.

He continues: “Oh, so to fuck the king up you gotta get his girl first?”

“No, you never get the king, you just get him into checkmate, that means wherever he moves there’s a piece waiting for him,” I tell him, and he reflects on that for some time.

“OK, so the girl can move anywhere she wants and eat anyone she wants?”

“Yeah, Guapo. Except she can’t move in an L shape, like the horse.”

“Fuck! She’s good.”

Once he gets the hang of it and play a few rounds, El Guapo asserts:

“This game is crazy.”

It is getting dark, and more gangsters arrive. I don’t know most of them. El Guapo explains that they are from neighboring clicas. Allies of Guanacos Criminales Salvatrucha. I grab my things and leave the gangsters to their meeting, smoking weed and playing chess.

Little Down is still ever the hero and those who arrive hug him. I worry how Columbia Little Sycos will respond to his triumph.

As I take off, a gust of wind passes through and it is as if all the leaves on the trees try to catch it. The dust goes flying, forcing everyone to close their eyes. It feels like a deep breath, but it doesn’t last long. A moment later the heat is back, suffocating us again.

23   In Central American folklore, a shape-changing spirit that lures unfaithful men and drives them to madness.

24   Slang for chess in El Salvador.