Chapter 6
Enzo
Have you ever had the feeling that you’re being watched?
It’s tingly in the back of your mind, or the hair rises on your neck.
That’s been me for nearly a week. I can’t shake the feeling that someone is out there, watching my every move.
It doesn’t matter if I’m at home, at the gym, or fucking grocery shopping.
I constantly feel like I’m not alone, so I’ve been having to keep a loaded gun close by at home, and a knife on me when I’m out in public.
My body itches with wariness and tension from it, and I’m still hurting over Enrique’s death.
We haven’t found Enrique’s killer yet, so now I’m beginning to believe they’re hunting me next. We don’t even know why he was taken out. I mean, his death was execution style, so it must be gang-related. It has me perpetually on high alert, on top of my grieving. It’s stressing me the fuck out.
On top of everything else, I’m getting impatient.
It’s taking too damn long to find his killer.
I’ve called Alfonzo a couple of times, but he doesn’t have any answers for me.
All my willpower to keep from calling and nagging over and over to Alfonzo is nearly depleted.
I’ve already pissed him off a couple of times, so I need to back off, as much as I hate it.
Now it’s Christmas Eve, and I’m alone. I don’t feel like celebrating the holidays without Enrique. He was truly my only family. He was my brother. It won’t ever be the same without him.
My phone suddenly rings, and I answer it. Alfonzo’s calling me. Fuck, did he finally find Enrique’s killer? Please, please, please tell me he did.
“Halcón,” I greet, out of breath and gripping my phone tightly in my hand.
“Enzo. How are you?”
“It’s an honor that you’re calling me, sir.”
And it is. It’s rare for him to call someone like me, a person lower on the rung of hierarchy, but he’d always been taken by Enrique and me.
“I unfortunately do not have the news you are seeking. I’m waiting, and there are some leads, but that is not why I’m calling.
We would like you over for dinner tonight.
I realize it is last-minute, but Marianna insists I should ask you, though I explained to my beloved wife that you are still not well. ”
My gut clenches with nerves because turning down Halcón isn’t the smartest move. But he’s also given me an out, so I take it. “Please tell your wife I am grateful to her for her kindness, but you’re right. I’m not in a good place to socialize right now.”
He’s silent for a minute before he breathes heavily, probably debating whether to convince me to change my mind on her behalf. Instead, he says, “I understand. How is your training coming for the fight? Will your face be ready after Manny bested you?”
“Yes, I’ll be ready. I’m training every day.”
“You will win, yes? I have placed a great deal of confidence and money on you.”
“Manny beat me because it was the night Enrique was found. I assure you my mind will be clear. I’ll win for you.”
I’ve been studying my opponent thoroughly. Cruz is in my weight class, and while he’s good at fighting, I’m better. And I’ve yet to lose a fight.
“Very good. I will trust you.”
“Thank you, Halcón”
“Good night then.”
Before I can say ‘bye,’ he’s hung up.
I shove my phone into the back pocket of my jeans and head outside to stand on my porch before lighting up a cigarette.
I take a drag as I stare out into the blackness.
There are some porch lights on from the other homes, but most are off.
And one solitary streetlight illuminates the block.
There are a few homes with colored Christmas lights, but this is an impoverished area, so many don’t really decorate the outside.
Usually, my house has some colored lights and a wreath on the door, but I couldn’t be bothered this year for obvious reasons.
I can afford a better home, but this is the first house I purchased after getting a job running some weapons with the Diablos Carmesí.
The pay had been enough to put down on this dump.
Eventually, I fixed it up and made the place my own after pulling in some decent money selling weapons and fighting, on top of training potential fighters at the gym.
So, I do pretty damn well. I’ve grown attached to the place and don’t feel the need for a bigger home. It’s just me, so why bother?
When I take a drag of my smoke, I get that fucking tingling again.
Someone’s watching me. Smoking in the darkness makes me a target every time I take a drag, but I don’t care.
Something pulls me out here. Something is hovering, hiding, and waiting.
I can feel it. I can sense the imaginary fingers slowly wrapping around my throat to choke the life out of me.
It’s ominous. Foreboding. And I can’t fucking shake it.
Once I finished my cigarette, I put it out in the ashtray sitting on an old plastic table next to two plastic chairs, just waiting for the bullet to smack me in the head.
I scan the neighborhood street one more time, looking for any sort of movement, but there’s nothing, so I turn my back and head inside, making sure to lock the front and back doors.
I really need an alarm system, and I should have already installed one, but this is the first time I’ve been nervous to live here. With the death of Enrique, I figured it’s time. I called a service yesterday to come out and install one, but they won’t be able to set it up until after the new year.
After grabbing a can of beer, I pop the tab and stare at the Advent calendar sitting on the kitchen counter. All the little ‘windows’ are open all the way through December 16th, the day before we found Enrique dead.
I take a sip of my beer and open the rest of the windows up until Christmas Eve. It’s an old-fashioned looking thing of a Victorian town covered in snow, with happy people holding presents, children running around, and Christmas carolers. Why the fuck did I get the stupid thing anyway?
I growl and shove the cardboard thing onto its face and go sit on the couch in the living room. I stare at the small wrapped box that’s been sitting on my coffee table for days now. Alfonzo gave it to me after his men spent time at Enrique’s place looking for any evidence to pinpoint his killer.
The small box is wrapped in red and white stripes with a white ribbon around it. The little white tag has my name written in Enrique’s neat print.
I also bought him a gift three weeks ago that he’ll never receive. It sits on my kitchen counter. He loved fine liquors, so I bought him a $200 bottle of Hennessy Cognac XO.
In fact, I want to open it, so I stand and head to the kitchen to unwrap the bottle. Once it’s opened, I grab a tumbler and fill it to the brim with the expensive liquor.
I raise the glass in the air and say with watering eyes, “Here’s to you, brother. Merry Christmas. I miss you so fucking much, ’Que.” The Cognac is smooth as it goes down. It’s not my thing, but it’s not bad either.
With a sigh, I head back to the living room and sit down before I pick up the gift, weighing it in my palm. It’s light, so I can only assume it’s some sort of jewelry.
I tear open the package and pry the lid of the black box open. Inside rests a gold chain necklace with a cross in the center. It has an etched pattern in gold with a diamond at each of the four ends. It gleams in the dim lighting of my living room, beckoning me to find grace where there is none.
I gave up my faith well over a decade ago, but Enrique never had, always pushing me back to loving God again, but I couldn’t.
It’s hard to believe in a God who allows so many to suffer like I have.
Eventually, I just stopped caring, rolling with life as it comes at me.
Besides, it feels hypocritical. I mean, we’re fucking criminals.
It’s not like we’ll ever have a spot in heaven anyway.
Why ask for forgiveness if I’m not going to stop what I’m doing?
It’s so like Enrique to give me such a thing.
My eyes sting and some tears spill, but a small smile plays on my lips as I take out the necklace and fasten it behind my neck.
I caress the cold metal cross and close my eyes.
I feel nothing—no love from God. Not even Enrique is present when I touch it.
I still don’t believe, but I’ll wear it for him. It’s my last gift to Enrique.
I chug back the liquor. It’s a lot, making me gag a little, and my eyes water even more.
After rinsing out my glass and emptying my full can of beer down the sink in the kitchen, I head toward the back of the house to the spare bedroom.
I open the door and stand there. The room’s walls are covered with my paintings in various stages of completion.
It’s where I do all my art. It’s my place of Zen, next to the sparring ring.
I’m hoping to find a glimmer of creativity, but there’s no flicker of the need to create. It’s dead inside me, for now at least.
When I was younger, I’d paint on buildings, train cars, or wherever the creativity led me.
The city of Chicago was my canvas. I even started to make a name for myself on the streets, but I was no Banksy.
After I’d started earning money and bought this place, and with Enrique’s encouragement, I gave real art a try.
Maybe one day I’ll have a piece in a gallery or create an entire mural on the side of a building.
Over time, most of my art has been washed away or painted over, but a few pieces linger here and there on the streets.
I smile as I imagine a train traveling across the country, showcasing my art as it goes.