Chapter 6 Efren
Efren
The shovel hits the dirt with a dull thud. I look up and see Esteban standing over the grave.
“I think that’s deep enough.”
I climb out and throw the shovel aside. My hands are already raw, blisters torn open, and I’m not sure what will happen now that I’ve stopped digging.
I need to keep distracted, so I don’t swing this shovel at Esteban’s head and throw him in the grave.
The black garbage bag stares up at me from the ground.
“Help me get her in there.” Esteban motions to the corpse.
“This is so fucked up,” I mutter beneath my breath.
“I told you it was a fucking accident.”
“An accident? Burning your food is an accident. Hitting the wrong number is an accident. Spilling your coffee, losing your keys, those are accidents. This wasn’t an accident.”
“I lost control,” he fires back. “I told you.”
“I’m not doing this with you again,” I warn.
I don’t even want to be doing this now, but he’d come into my room, frantic. I saw it as an opportunity to trap him if I ever needed to incriminate him or protect myself.
“Hey, I promise after this I’ll stop. I’m just going to focus on school, my family, and Alma.”
That’s the problem. I want him to stay as far a fucking way from her as possible.
“No. You need to break shit off with Alma,” I demand.
One thing about alpha-type assholes is that they hate being told what to do.
Even while you’re helping them bury a body, they think you owe them something.
He glares at me, and I glare back, the tension between us growing thicker by the minute.
He wipes his hands on his jeans, then pulls out his phone.
“You know who called me tonight? Detective Salcido. He’s trying to find out who’s the mastermind selling drugs out of the high school.”
“What the fuck’s that got to do with me?”
“Nothing yet. But I could act worried about you. Especially while you’re at school, and I happen to stumble on some bags of coke, a scale, and a pile of cash. Surely it’s my duty to do the right thing and get you help.”
My pulse spikes. “Don’t fuck with me.”
He grins venomously. He knows better than anyone where to hit me right now. If I go down for a crime I didn’t commit, it gives him free reign over her.
“Fuck you.”
We spend the rest of the night filling the shallow hole with dirt. My fists tremble as I dig into the dirt and toss it into the shallow grave. Somewhere between the dirt and this innocent girl’s body lies a decision I’ve already made.
“??Efren?! Why’d you stop?” Adrian snaps, dragging me back to reality.
I scoop the remaining dirt with the shovel and place it over the wooden square door that leads to the underground tunnels.
“How are we going to know where it’s at?” Ricky asks.
“There’s an AirTag in the bag we left behind,” Adrian explains.
Adrian’s wearing all black, a Santa Muerte chain around his neck, and sweat beads at his temples from the Texas heat. Since I got out of prison, it’s hard to look at him the same. We’ve been through so much, and yet we’re more connected than he knows. He walks to the van, Ricky and I following.
“Ricky, you got the address?” Adrian asks.
“Vidal just said the bus stop on Harrison Boulevard.”
Adrian speeds toward the Greyhound bus station, and I turn up the radio.
“Pull around to the back. Vidal said he’d be waiting for us,” Ricky says over the music when we turn onto Harrison Boulevard.
“There he is,” Adrian says when we round the corner of the bus station.
“That’s one tall motherfucker!” Ricky exclaims.
I jump out of the van and make my way to the man waiting outside with the camo duffel bag.
Ricky’s right—the dude’s tall as fuck with shoulders stacked like cinder blocks.
I don’t get the opportunity to ask if he’s the guy we were ordered to pick up.
The tall motherfucker launches his duffel bag at my chest, and I almost fall over from the impact.
“Baltasar Ríos?” I hear Ricky ask the man as he approaches the sliding van door. “I mean, Carnicero?”
El Carnicero, as we were instructed to call him by Vidal—a fact Ricky failed to remember—grunts once, then climbs into the back seat. He slides the side door closed with a hard clunk, and I take my spot in the passenger seat.
Adrian’s wearing black sunglasses, but I can still see his brows twitch behind the lenses as he takes in our newest crew member.
The man grunts again, a deep sound from the back of his throat, and Ricky pulls out the box of nut rolls we were instructed to bring.
None of us knew why, only that Vidal Montalván said bring them, so we did.
Adrian and I had pledged loyalty to the Colombian kingpin when we were in prison at the Houston Federal Detention Center. Vidal ran the yard, the guards, everything. And word is, the man behind me now, El Carnicero, is his most trusted protector. His right hand.
The same man is now chewing through a nut roll like it’s his first meal in weeks. I hear the crinkle of the wrapper first, and then… the moan. A low, guttural sound that makes me straighten in my seat uncomfortably. I immediately regret looking back at him when our eyes meet.
Ricky’s eyes flick to the side, but he doesn’t dare turn his head. Adrian starts the engine, and I turn back to the front window. None of us speak. Not even when another moan slips out of El Carnicero’s mouth. I can hear his lips smacking, the tearing of yet another candy wrapper.
“What the fuck.” Adrian mouths silently, gripping the wheel.
I don’t look back. I refuse to make eye contact with him again. Instead, I stare straight ahead and pray he runs out of nut rolls before I’m forced to jump out of this van.
We return to the construction site where Vidal is building his mansion. There’s a small house sitting at the back of the four acres where I’ve been staying with Ricky.
“Remember when you offered me your penthouse?” I ask as soon as El Carnicero gets out and walks toward the house.
There’s no fucking way in hell I’m living with that freak.
“What about me?” Ricky pleads.
“Efren can take the penthouse, but you gotta stay with Lurch.” Adrian laughs.
“Lurch?” Ricky looks back at the house then at us. “Come on, fool, don’t leave me with him.”
“Hey, fool, talk to your tio, not us.” I chuckle.
Adrian’s phone rings, and his expression hardens.
“Get the fuck out of my van, Ricky.”
Ricky slowly gets out and approaches the passenger window.
“Come on, Efren. Why can’t I move in with you?”
“Cause someone has to be here to help unload the eighteen wheeler of nut rolls being delivered tomorrow,” I say, rolling up the window and flipping him off.
“Come on man! You can’t be serious.”
“Deadass,” I reply from behind the glass, laughing.
Ricky’s eyes widen as Adrian takes off, leaving him in the dust.
“That dude was fucking weird,” I say, but Adrian doesn’t respond. “Why do you think they call him ‘El Carnicero’?” I ask a few minutes later. Still no response.
He’s typing away on his phone, barely watching the road as he swerves all over the place.
“Well fuck my safety.”
“Sorry, fool, Mireya isn’t answering my texts.” He finally puts the phone away.
Mireya is his soon-to-be wife and the mother of his three-month-old son. I’m not sure what her pussy is laced with, but whatever it is has my boy hooked.
“I never thought I’d see the day.” I laugh to myself, but Adrian just stares me down.
“One day, when you’re a big boy, you’ll get it.” He smirks.
“Nah. I’m good not having to wonder what someone’s doing every five minutes.”
It’s a lie though. Even now as we make our way to the compound where Adrian stays, I’m thinking about big brown eyes and stripper heels. Tonight, I’m gonna let her know she can never escape me.
_______
Turns out the one thing El Carnicero loves more than nut rolls are big ol’ titties in his face.
He watches intently with the smile of a serial killer as a woman dances on top of the table we reserved at La Cuevita.
I convinced Ricky and him to come with me to pick up Vidal’s monthly pay cut.
This is one of many establishments where he cleans money on the outside.
The place I first saw her again while I was tucked into this corner booth.
It’s dim and disorienting. Red lights blink overhead like hazard signs, and the air smells like cheap cologne. Claudi, the owner, is more than eager to serve us, providing us with free drinks, cigars, and women. But my eyes are only searching for one woman.
“Have you always dressed like that?” Ricky asks, nodding at me.
He’s talking about my affinity for tailored trousers and a retro polo.
I can admit my obsession with ironing makes me stick out in a generation that fails to care about their appearance.
But my style is a political reflection of my support to the Chicano Movement, and a reminder of what many people, Bud included, lost during the Zoot Suit Riots.
“Always,” I reply, flicking the ash from my cigarette into a glass meant for whiskey.
So I stick out a bit looking like I’m headed to a 1970’s jazz club instead of a place where glitter sticks to the soles of your shoes.
Tonight it’s rust colored slacks, high-waisted, tapering sharply at the ankle.
Ironed with the crease down the middle, the way Bud had shown me.
The patterned polo shirt is tucked in neat, not a wrinkle in sight, sleeves cuffed, just once.
Gold rings on my fingers, a slim gold chain around my neck, hair slicked back, and my shoes freshly polished.
I spent most of my time in prison educating myself on Chicano history, reading books and connecting with the older generations locked up inside.
Bud had been a trusted coyote and old school Chicano.
His first-hand accounts of Mexican-American culture and injustices became stories he repeated to us after a six-pack of beer.
Stories his own father and grandfather had passed down to him.
I debate giving Ricky my TED Talk on the dying culture, but decide against it. Besides, people like me who are often anti-social in nature hyperfixate on certain topics, and this isn’t the time or place. I have something else I want to hyperfixate on.
The night drags on. Another girl. Another dance.
Same shit. Ricky’s drunk off his ass by midnight.
Probably something to do with the pain meds he’s mixing with his liquor.
He’s already taken off his shirt to boast to the two strippers sitting at his side about the large scar on his stomach.
His arm is draped over them, and one whispers in his ear while the others rub his belly where there’d once been a bullet hole.
Ricky had been shot trying to rescue Thalia Consuelo’s daughter.
I was there because Silas and her were friends of mine.
When I was released, I thought I’d walk away freely, but then I was dropped off in the middle of Juarez with no family or money.
Bud and Angela had lied about my legal status, and Silas was there to help me.
When the lights cut and a new song starts, I sit up in my seat. Claudi walks up to the table, handing me the glass of Mezcal I’d requested.
“This is one of my best dancers coming up. La Hada Mala.” He nods to the stage.
I know it’s her the moment I see her silhouette. Alma steps out from behind the translucent screen, wearing a long black wig that covers her natural curls. The ones my fingers had run through. The ones I want to wrap in my fist.
The crowd whistles and cheers as my grip tightens around the glass.
I take a drink and let the smooth velvet slide down my throat.
The song is Loco by Neton Vega, a slower melody she takes her time with, walking slowly to the stage.
It’s like she has nowhere to be but in my fucking reocurring nightmares.
She has on the same knee-high boots she wore the other night and a black leather body suit, her fat ass bare and on display.
I love her fuller body. The thick curves are meant to be adored. Even if I hate the way she’s being ogled, there’s something that makes my cock twitch to know all these men want what belongs to me.
She walks to the pole and claims it. Her hand wraps around it, and my mind thinks of that hand tight on my cock. Her skin glistens under the strobe lights. Climbing the pole slowly, she swings around, letting her legs spread out. I’m intrigued by the way she moves.
Legs spread.
Back arched.
Toes pointed.
She spins around the pole. Her body hangs midair as dollar bills fly to the stage.
Ricky lets out a low whistle next to me.
I don’t look at him. I can’t. Not the way my blood is boiling at the way the men are watching her.
They can have their fun, and she can make her money, but tonight I’ll make it very clear who she belongs to.