“EY, YOU EAT yet, dawg?”
This is Destino’s greeting to each gangster after flashing the Salvatrucha claw.
At my right, seated, is El Noche, who shows off his new cell phone and heckles Tombo,17 a gangster from another clica who has come to bolster Guanacos Criminales Salvatrucha. At my left are Hugo and Moxy, the latter still sore from the former’s playful—but prolonged—beating. Behind us, Little Down scolds someone over the phone. Before us, Destino unpacks bags of food, and all of us, tortillas in hand, descend upon the plates. More than eat, we defile the chorizo, rice, and chicken, which are soon reduced to scraps. Little Down, despite our insistence, refuses to eat. He watches us with a paternal air, with a certain contempt. Suddenly he gets up and tosses a liter of Salva Cola at us, and human piranhas that we are, we glug it down fervently. It is the first meal of the day.
The routine is straightforward, gangsters toss in bills and coins in a pile, then send novices to get food from the outskirts of town. It is a risky job. Down at the base of the hill lives Barrio 18, and one has to cross directly in front of the police station. Soldiers, too, patrol the area. It’s a dangerous business, getting lunch. Most of all because those who get sent are the novices. However, since they are novices, they’re not recognized, they don’t have much bray.18 Neither the cops nor Barrio 18 associate them with MS. When the food arrives, it’s a party, everyone grabs a tortilla and eats what they can. It doesn’t matter how much or how many gangsters are around, everyone gets at least a bite.
Hugo looks at me with his mouth full and smiles. The plates start to empty, and the Salva Cola is replaced by loud belches. Cigarettes for the last course.
“Look, man, fuck! So a while back I dressed up as a clown, man, for a nephew’s birthday party,” says Moxy to El Noche, and begins his anecdote.
His story is good, though a little exaggerated, and he steals a chuckle from the group. But Little Down has a better story to tell.
“I dressed up like a clown once too, man. Ha! Bro, but just to kill some dumbshit. Fuckin’ face paint and all, I went, and the dude’s like, ‘Hey, look, a clown!’ Then he hesitates a sec, and looks at me, and I just tell him, ‘Later, bro,’ and BAM! BAM! BAM! He took like ten gunshots to the face. I left that dumbass in the street.”
This is how clown stories end in Mara Salvatrucha.
17 Slang for police officer.
18 A word used by gangsters to refer to those who are wanted. Also used to refer to those on the radar of police.