IT IS NIGHTTIME, and calm reigns on the hillside. Some five minutes ago I passed a feeble checkpoint set up by police at the foot of the hill. Just a handful of scared officers who watch the cars come and go. They pace nervously.
A shadow passes me by. The street has been paved, and my bike no longer squeals over potholes every few feet. The night, however, makes the trip feel interminable. I feel something like relief when I see those first few MS murals on the walls.
On a corner is a small flashing light. An older woman slings pupusas on a hot grill, and a small crowd contemplates her wares. They are wary of anyone who would climb the hill at this time of night.
Up ahead, the motorcycle violently thuds on the ground, and the sound echoes throughout the hills. A large mound has been obscured by the new pavement. A few months ago I heard Destino inform Alicia, the woman with the serpent’s tongue, that the gang had decided to add some bumps in the road to thwart any stealthy police raids. At the time, Alicia just nodded and steered the conversation.
I thought it was Destino talking up the clica’s importance, but as my bike smacks across the pavement I realize I was wrong.
When I spoke to the Guanacos about coming up by night, they said it wouldn’t be a problem. But now it all seems different. Nighttime changes everything.
Every so often you can make out young men, phone in hand, monitoring the neighborhood. They are Little Down’s newest recruits. Some recognize me and flash me the gang salute. It’s their first mission, and they fulfil it with a military conviction. With this many watchful eyes, it would be near impossible for Barrio 18 to cause any trouble up here. Little Down’s reign is starting to be felt.
As for the others, the hill remains silent. Even the police are nowhere to be found—the station is locked up and looks abandoned.
Every so often my motorcycle headlight illuminates a group of women walking together. Their heads are covered with veils. I barely register them before they retreat to the shadows. Religious services have ended in all the churches around here, and the hill is eerily silent in the absence of the pastors’ usual cries.
At the last neighborhood on the hill, there are a few signs of life. More lights, and the last few pupusas before closing. But something else, too. The gangsters, who hide during the daylight, walk freely and proudly in their finest regalia. The smell of marijuana floods the alleys. The vatos are like walking chimneys. With night as their cover, the Mara grows stronger.
I park in front of the youth center. A group of young men watch over the place. They are gangsters from other clicas. I have never seen them before, and they have never seen me. They are taken aback. Little Down is with them; he has gone outside to yell at someone over the phone. I greet him to no response but a furious diatribe directed into the phone. The gangsters stare at him, as if to ask about me, but they too get no answer. They keep their distance, like wary street cats.
They approach ever more closely, talking among themselves and on their phones without averting their eyes for a moment. I can smell their cologne and hear their conversations, though I can’t make out a word. I realize that there are more than twenty gangsters approaching the youth center. One of them nods at me, I am not sure if in greeting or as a threat, but my heart hammers erratically.
Their stares are piercing, and just as the pack seems poised for action, I hear a familiar voice call out:
“Hey! Juan, what’s up? Come on inside, what are you doing out there?” yells Destino, and my heart slowly stops pounding.
He looks nervous, and a woman is around his arm. She is not much older than sixteen, and holds the gangster tight. Destino’s look is flinching, and I see the glare of war in his eyes. He stares at the young men defiantly. They return his gaze for a few seconds, then huddle back to their phones. Now, things are back to normal.
Destino wields his power skillfully. He gestures me inside.
“It’s going to rain, why don’t you bring your bike in so it doesn’t get wet,” he says, pointing toward a corner.
Once inside, I see the reasoning behind all the security. Other clicas are here, as is the cowboy who struck a deal with Guanacos Criminales Salvatrucha a few months back. They discuss nothing important, they’re just here. The hill is an impenetrable fortress, and in the midst of war it’s for the best. They know that Barrio 18 will soon avenge the Zacamíl killing.
El Danger, from a neighboring clica, gives me a cigarette and beckons me to join their poker game. Destino digs into the Chinese food I have bought for dinner, and the smell attracts others. In the room, too, is Dark, the ex-monarch dethroned by Little Down. He is more tattooed than when last I saw him, and it’s obvious by the way the others treat him that he has lost his power.
As we play, we hear rustling on the ceiling, soft at first and then harder. A storm has come. I ask one of them about the guys outside, and he says:
“They can suck it.”
The night is calm. The rain is rhythmic and soothing. We speak of war only when necessary. The Guanacos and the other clicas are relaxed. They tell me Barrio 18 doesn’t dare go up the hill, and for now they don’t plan to descend. They know an invasion would be suicide. They know, too, that the Zacamíl killing has put them ahead, and the ball is in their court. Echoing The Informant’s words, they tell me that several Barrio 18 clicas have come together to force Guanacos Criminales Salvatrucha off the hill. That they too are united. Several neighboring clicas have come together and, I am told, inflicted lethal wounds to their enemies throughout the town.
It is dawn and the Chinese food is long gone. Dark has made a small fortune off his poker winnings. Cigarettes are handed out and the room fills with smoke. The clica is calm. They know they run the place and don’t plan on being seen beyond the hill for some time.