IN ONT OF ME stands a man with a cigar between his fingers. He sips a Coca-Cola. He is The Informant. That’s how he has asked me to refer to him. Nothing more, not his age or description, nothing. In gang territory, that’s how informants talk. He has been particularly bold, allowing me to record the conversation. But he cups his hands over the mic each time he mentions a name or date and devours my pack of cigarettes.
I met him only a few weeks ago, but he’s been watching me closely since I joined the community. On several occasions I saw his eyes follow me, as if he wanted to say something but could not. Other times, while I wandered through the neighborhood, he followed me from afar. At first I thought he was part of Guanacos Criminales Salvatrucha, and that he was instructed to spy on me. As time passed I stopped caring much, until one day after hearing me chat with some gangsters, he approached me.
“Look, don’t ask them so many questions. They’re wary, you don’t want them to think that you’re with the cops. Just let them talk, they’ll tell you plenty, but don’t push it,” he said, with a paternal tone.
From then on, each time we come across each other we speak for a bit, he asks how my research is going, cautions me again, and tells me a bit of his own story. It is a fascinating tale, but for his safety and mine it will never show up in any books. At least not in mine.
At the youth center, Destino is finishing up with the oven and Little Down meets with his troop of kids. They are planning a new strike. From what I hear, the plan is simple: send a woman to seduce the victim, sleep with him a couple of times, and deliver him into the hands of MS. Everyone throws in ideas. Little Down moderates. I jump on my bike and go in search of The Informant. Guanacos Criminales Salvatrucha are fully absorbed with their new operation.
The Informant tells me that there are several ways of killing, but that they all follow the same basic schema and have the same fundamental aim: a show of utmost brutality, to command respect and compliance. In this sense, the victim’s death is a mere means to an end.
The first step is identifying the victim. For that, they employ a complex system that could well be called espionage. On occasion they send out kids with cell phones to take pictures of their enemies. Other times it is merchants, the ones who balance their baskets on their heads. The photos are printed and given to the man in charge of the operation. If it is his initiation, he has to prove his fearlessness. On occasion, they will be given old revolvers, with a mere three shots, or even knives and single shot weapons. Armed with these tools, the novice must complete the mission and live to tell the tale.
“Here’s where you have to prove that you care about the gang. That you love the two letters. After that, when they see you got balls, you start to gain their respect. ’Cause look, if you kill an enemy who was well respected in his gang, you get that respect,” The Informant tells me, a cigarette glowing between his lips.
The photos printed by the spies give the hitman a compass to find his victim. But there’s still one fundamental problem: How do you approach the person who is set to die? It’s complicated, considering that gang territory is governed by a strict security protocol. Every stranger who enters is corralled by a group of gangsters who strip them in search of tattoos or weapons. The hitman has to get creative to avoid arousing suspicion. Some dress as pastors and, bible in hand, pass through unnoticed. Others arrive as clowns, as Little Down described a while back. The makeup covers their tattoos. Even bakers are in some neighborhoods seen as a bad omen. On several occasions a merchant will park his bike in front of a target, honk his horn a certain number of times, as if offering his wares, and then continue on his journey. Minutes later a gangster will appear and finish the job. Sometimes the fanfare is set aside, and they unload every bullet they can at the first enemy they see, like with the young men at school a month ago. Whatever the case, at the end of each mission you must make it clear who was responsible. This is usually done with a loud shout: “MS owns this shit!” for example. You don’t want to leave anyone confused.
I ask The Informant a question that I can’t get off my mind.
“How does it feel to kill?”
“Look, at first it’s scary. Think, like . . . when you’re fucking a girl and it’s your first time, you’re shaking. You’re scared, but after that it gets easy. It’s just the first time, maybe the second, then the third is easy. You don’t think about it hurting him or anything, you just do it.”
A few years ago, a pilot group of sorts was formed. They were clicas made up of children, who basically played at being gangsters. A cruel form of training, with no shortage of extortion and killing. In this area there were two, Esquina Locos Salvatrucha and Tienda Locos Salvatrucha. With the passage of time, the kids came to be initiated and joined Guanacos Criminales Salvatrucha. Among them was Little Down.
Back in the day, retirement was a feasible option. Later, things got trickier. They began to extort deserters, charging far more than these young men could afford to pay. Their options were to rejoin the clica, flee, or be killed. Some leaders would tattoo the faces of would-be deserters with the two letters.
Back to The Informant. I ask him about the present situation. How will this war end? He tells me things are complicated. Several Barrio 18 clicas have allied to push MS out of the hills. He thinks the last Guanacos strike, Little Down’s, will not go unavenged. He says I should be careful, that in wartime mere proximity is enough to make you an enemy. I finish the interview and turn off the recorder. We share a cigarette.
On a corner are a few members of Guanacos. They look like a small army.
On the way back, as I make my way down the hill, everything is still. Buildings shuttered and businesses closed. The only light comes from my bike, and it goes out with every bump.