A Gangster's Garden

EPIGRAPH

Youths…aren’t in gangs to be criminals, killers or prison inmates. For them a gang embraces who they are, gives them the incipient authority they need to eventually control their lives, the empowerment that other institutions – including schools and families – often fail to provide.

–Luis Rodriguez, Hearts & Hands

CHAPTER 1

LITTLE BANDIT

That is definitely Santos’ car, the little boy thought as he spotted the silver BMW.

Marcos Alamente, street-named Li’l Bandit, was on his first solo mission and had set out to mark the car of his rival gang’s leader. His previous ventures into enemy territory were with other members of his set, where he had been under strict orders to scout but not participate; and whatever nervousness he had at the time was overcome by pure adrenaline. But this jale was his brainchild, and venturing into enemy ‘hood by himself shook his composure. Fearing discovery, he reached down and tucked his gang colors – a blue bandana - into his right back pocket, then removed the gold earring from his right lobe. Both were signs of Dagas membership, and the discovery of either was sure death. He knew that he should have come strapped; they’d have his balls if they caught him in their ‘hood.

In the varrio you didn’t read the papers to find out what was happening, you read the walls, so Li’l Bandit ducked into an alley to target his location. Scanning the broken cement alley, he saw a red huelga bird above the words Latin Disciples Rifa!; and as he read through the placas proclaiming neighborhood sovereignty he noted gangster initials, mentally adding new members to his enemy list. He reached inside his plaid Pendleton shirt, pulled out a can of red Krylon paint, and rattled it to stir its contents. With a loud SSSSSSS he sprayed a large SD across the serpent’s head, announcing that the Sureño Daggers had momentarily invaded Disciples’ territory. As a final gesture, he sprayed the letters RIP over the largest initials on the wall.

They’d jump him in for sure after this job, he thought, swelling with pride. Painting Rest In Peace over the name of Benicio de los Santos, leader of the dreaded Latin Disciples, was sure to show heart, his willingness to put in work for the set. Surely he would get extra credit for devising his own mission because isn’t that what soldados are supposed to do? Li’l Bandit ran across the street and knelt by the BMW’s driver door, scanning the street once more before finishing. He spat on the door and wiped away the dirt, a gangster artist prepping his canvas, then sprayed a thin circle on the door, finishing it with a red dot in the middle. A fucking bull’s eye, he thought. The perfect gangster’s masterpiece.

Movement! A wrought iron door opened in the alley and sent Li’l Bandit behind cover. He saw a figure emerge from the door front: a slender male, brown hair, olive skin, about the right height. But this kid walked with the caution of one not used to the streets, his polo shirt and khaki pants too clean for the Five Points varrio. Who the hell is this dude and what’s he doing at Santos’ BMW? That wasn’t Santos.

Li’l Bandit watched the unknown male pull out keys and chirp off the BMW’s alarm system. The driver’s head spun around and surveyed the street, looking for who had marked his car. Li’l Bandit shrugged. That he’d marked the wrong car was of no real consequence: anyone driving a BMW down in the Five Points was suspicious, with or without a mark. His homeboys wouldn’t give a shit, they’d just look for the mark, hit the BMW, and be off into the night. Tough shit that this vato drove the same BMW as an enemy leader.

Looking into a trio of teenagers huddled in a brick porch front, the driver asked: Who did this to my car?

Life’s a bitch, que no? The tallest boy shrugged, then high-fived his two friends. The three boys laughed.

Li’l Bandit watched the driver quickly climb into the BMW and pull away, speeding down the length of Welton Street, rushing to escape the varrio with only his car damaged. The BMW stopped at the next intersection, but as it started to move through a black pickup swerved in, blocking its passage. Then, a red Chevy with tinted windows pulled up on the BMW’s left, trapping the car in the intersection. The BMW was surrounded. Li’l Bandit knew what was next. The Chevy’s rear passenger window cracked, and a pair of fat metal tubes emerged from behind the tinted glass.

Li’l Bandit covered his ears with his hands. He knew the last thing the driver heard was the blast of a homeboy’s shotgun.

CHAPTER 2

SIX YEARS EARLIER

Julio Rodriguez reached into his mouth and tugged at his shiny, metal braces. He hated them, and constantly rubbed his fingers underneath his teeth to check their alignment, to see how close he was to having perfect teeth. Would it really be another year before these things were off? Because his teeth felt pretty straight to him.

So don’t forget, Julio, tomorrow afternoon you have an orthodontist appointment. Dr. Datwyler at 3:30. I’ll pick you up at 3:00, Julio’s father, Miguel Rodriguez, said.

Yeah, OK, Julio said, pushing four green peas with his knife across the dinner plate. Orthodontist appointments meant brace tightening, and brace tightening meant his teeth would ache for an entire week afterward. He’d better eat up tonight, because by tomorrow he wouldn’t be able to chew.

Did we ever tell you what we used to do to kids with braces, Julio? Rinaldo Rodriguez asked.

No, Rinaldo, now’s not the time. Miguel interrupted.

Oh, come on – what the hell could it hurt anyway? None of this is gonna happen now. When are you gonna let my nephew understand his colorful Tío Rini?

Julio couldn’t wait to hear his uncle’s story. Uncle Rinaldo was always showing him parts of the world his father wouldn’t, like the time he pulled Julio into the basement, locked the bedroom door, and plopped Cheech & Chong’s Big Bamboo album onto the turntable. Julio still didn’t understand why Chong’s stoned insistence that Dave’s not here was so funny, but watching his uncle crack-up highlighted treasures that glowed outside his father’s stern glare. Besides, he liked how Tio Rini made his dad nervous, especially when they talked about their old neighborhood, or showed off the thick blue and red tattoos that snaked up Rini’s muscled forearms. He knew his dad hated reminders of their old life, and the more he protested the further Tio Rini bared his inked biceps. They barely looked like brothers, except for maybe that smooth way they walked, like the world owed them something. Julio thought that maybe that’s why they always argued, because they were opposite sides of the same person. But no matter. Julio settled into his familiar cocoon, the safe crevice between his father and uncle, and waited for the fireworks.

You remember Little Tilo, Mig? Rinaldo continued.

That was a long time ago, Rini, Miguel said.

Not that long ago. You can’t escape your past just by moving away and buying a shiny new house, Rinaldo said.

Maybe not, but I was never one of you anyway, Miguel said.

A lot closer than you think, my brother, a lot closer than you think. Rinaldo glared at his younger brother. He tugged at his scraggly beard and leaned in, staring Miguel down. "But your mistake is you always thought you were too good for us. Blood is blood – even you know that." He pointed a dark, gnarly finger at Miguel.

Fine, Rini, have it your way. Go ahead and tell your story – not that it’ll change anything, Carmela Rodriguez jumped in, stepping into the dining room and tossing the silverware onto the empty plates. Besides, maybe Julio doesn’t want to hear any more stories of his father and his crusty old uncle, did you ever think of that?

I do too! an anxious Julio said. Tell me! He couldn’t imagine not hearing them.

Well, I’ve heard them all already. And if you’re going to tell it, at least watch your language, Rini, Carmela said. She scooped up the empty plates and hustled off to the kitchen.

"Si, Carmen-ita. Rinaldo turned towards Julio and continued. Tilo Martinez was this little rich kid who lived over off 25th street. His dad owned a butcher shop or something, so he had some money – not like the rest of us; we were fucking poor."

Language, Rini! Carmela yelped from the kitchen. Julio could hear the sink water running.

Rinaldo shook his head and continued. Anyway, Tilo, he liked to wear all these brand new clothes: starched chinos, long-sleeve rugby shirts, these white Chuck Taylor high-tops. He used to rub that money in our face by walking around in these shiny new clothes. Used to really piss me off.

Julio watched his father interlock his fingers and rest his hands on the table. He seemed unconcerned.

So then one day he shows up at school all proud and smiley, walks right up to me and your dad and – who else was there? Rinaldo turned to Miguel.

Gilbert Moreno, Miguel answered.

Si si, Gilberto. So, Tilo walks up to us three, just stands there smiling. And I notice that he’s got these silver braces on his teeth. Tilo’s all proud of ‘em. So I say: ‘Yo, Tilo – what’s that shit you got in your mouth?’ He just smiles at me and says: Braces – they’re for straightening my teeth. So I look good.’"

"So I say: ‘What the hell you need straight teeth for, Tilo: you runnin’ for President?’ Tilo shakes his head, tells me ‘With straight teeth I won’t look like I came from the varrio. I’ll look like I belong.’ He just stands there smiling, all proud and shit." Rinaldo said, leaning into the table for emphasis.

"So I stand on Tilo, look him straight up and say ‘You think you’re too good for us, don’t you Tee? Look at you puffin’ out your chest, actin’ all sophisticated.’ So you know what I do next?" Rinaldo asked.

Julio looked over at his father, who was staring down onto the table cloth. What did you do? Julio asked.

I cracked Tilo right square on his mouth – knocked out his front four teeth! I dropped him right there! And when he went down I hit him again and again – just so he’d know not to pull that crap down there. Just so he’d know: you don’t come around actin’ like you’re better than the rest of us. ‘Cause we’ll take you down just that fast. Rinaldo snapped his fingers, ending his story with a wide, gold-toothed grin.

Julio pulled his head back as if Uncle Rinaldo hit him in the face. He moved his hand up to cover his mouth full of braces, shielding it from his uncle.

Enough of that! Carmela jumped in. What good can these stories do anyway? It’s pointless!

It’s okay, Carmela, it’s all in our past. It doesn’t matter anymore. That didn’t bother you, did it Julio? Miguel asked.

Julio shook his head, his hand still covering his mouth. He scanned his uncle’s scarred knuckles and wondered which of them had carved into Tilo’s face.

And then after the orthodontist you’ve got your equestrian lessons, so make sure you bring your riding boots, Miguel continued, changing the subject.

Julio breathed out heavily, his shoulders slumping.

Something wrong with that? Miguel asked.

Julio looked over to Carmela, pleading. Answer him, mother.

Yes? Miguel asked impatiently.

Julio doesn’t want to take equestrian lessons anymore, Carmela jumped in. He’s not enjoying it.

And just when were you going to tell me about this? Miguel asked.

They just did! Rinaldo laughed. "Hoo boy, what are you making him take those horse lessons for? What good are those gonna do him?"

Stay out of this Rini – it’s not your business. Miguel stared Julio down, who just stared at the table. Well? he asked.

I don’t like caballos. They…bother me, Julio said.

"Since when don’t you like horses?" Miguel asked.

I just don’t, that’s all, Julio looked down at the table.

Since when? Miguel asked.

Julio shrugged and shuffled his feet under the table. He didn’t like it when his father stared him down; it made him feel like he was wrong, even if he hadn’t done anything wrong. He just stared at the table and kicked his feet.

Leave him alone, Mig – the boy doesn’t like horses. Hell, I don’t like ‘em either. Too big – and their shits are big as my fist! Rinaldo clenched his fist and held it up towards Miguel.

Dammit, Rinaldo, leave it! This isn’t about you! Miguel snapped, his face reddening as he swore. He took in a deep breath, blew out, then regained his composure.

Julio snuck a peek at Tio Rini, who smiled and winked when their eyes met. No worries, kid, I got your back, the look said, a warm feeling Julio liked. He swallowed a smile towards his uncle, then looked back down at the table.

Miguel turned to Carmela. Well, we’ll talk about that later I guess. Now go on, run downstairs and get to your homework. We’ll be down to check on you in an hour. Miguel said.

Julio jumped up and hugged Rinaldo. Night Tío Rini –you gonna be here Saturday? Julio asked.

You betcha, hijo. I wouldn’t miss it. Birthday fourteen, it’s a big one. You’re gonna be a man! You got any pubes yet? Rinaldo laughed, tugging at Julio’s belt.

As if! an embarrassed Julio said as he ran down the basement stairs. When he got to the bottom he opened his bedroom door, but instead of going inside he closed it with a click! and tiptoed back up towards the main floor. He knelt down onto the beige shag carpet and stuck his ear between the door and the jamb, an opening just big enough for his ear to poke through. What were they saying about him?

You don’t have to be so hard on him, Mig, Carmela said. And he’s scared to death of horses – he dreads every Tuesday. He doesn’t want to take lessons anymore.

Are they really so bad? Never mind that I’m working double-time just to pay for it, Miguel said. Hell, it’s good for him. Besides, think of the families he’ll meet: the DiMarcos, the Wellingtons. These are people who can help him later on. Miguel said.

"Help him – or help you?" Carmela asked.

Rinaldo smirked and ran a napkin across his mouth. What double-time are you talking about anyway? You damn near own the company – it’s not like you get paid time and a half, for Chrissakes!

Miguel glared at Carmela. "Help us," he finally answered, ignoring his brother.

And then, tomorrow night, we have to sign the papers. Carmen, we have to finish them, Miguel said. He pulled an official set of documents from his briefcase and slapped them down onto the table.

What papers? Rinaldo asked.

Miguel wants to change Julio’s name. Carmela said.

Change his name? What’s wrong with Julio? Rinaldo asked.

"Nothing’s wrong with Julio. But the school kids can’t pronounce it. They keep calling him Jewel-ee-oh. Julian’s an easy switch."

"His last name, Miguel. Our last name." Carmela said.

Mig, what the hell are you doing? When are you going to get past this whole damn thing? Rinaldo asked.

It’s better to go through life as Julian Ross than Julio Rodriguez, Miguel countered.

"Better for whom? Carmela asked. It’s too extreme, Miguel. I just don’t feel right about this. We liked the name Julio, don’t you remember? You really think this is going to make a difference?"

Rinaldo folded his arms across his chest, sat back and shook his head. You know what would happen to you if you were in the old neighborhood, Mig? he asked.

"We’re not in the old neighborhood, thank God. Never again, Miguel said, waving them both off. This is the only way, Carmen. We have to create a whole new world for him. It’s the only way all the changes we’ve made will stick. It’s got to be like this." Miguel said.

Still on the basement stairwell, Julio snuck back down to his room and closed the door quietly behind him. They’re going to change my name? Why, what’s wrong with me? He clicked on his computer – as a decoy mostly, just in case his parents came in – then did what he normally did when he needed to think: he grabbed the solid black baseball bat and gripped it firmly. A Louisville Slugger model, with Reggie Jackson’s autograph burned into the barrel, he loved the feel of the hard Maplewood in his hands; he felt strong, like he was in control. Turning towards the full-length mirror, he extended his arms and pretended he was just about to connect with a Roger Clemens fastball. He stepped into the imaginary pitch – crack, it’s a home run! - and turned to the side, corkscrewing himself into his best mock home run swing. He held the pose, then checked his position in the mirror, twisting his shoulders one extra turn for maximum effect. This is going to be my trading card pic. But what name should I use: Julio Rodriguez or Julian Ross?

CHAPTER 3

PRESENT DAY, JULIAN ROSS

So have you decided which one it’s going to be? Miguel asked.

Julian dribbled the basketball once, twice, three times, then drained the foul shot. Not yet – still thinking about it, he answered.

Miguel scooped up the basketball and tossed it back to Julian. Well, you’ve only got six weeks to decide, you know. You’re going to have to make up your mind.

I know, I know, Julian said as he set his feet and drained another foul shot. Maybe if he kept shooting baskets he wouldn’t have to have the conversation.

I always thought Notre Dame would be good for you. A good Irish boy! Miguel laughed.

Julian gathered the basketball and walked off their backyard court. He reached inside a small, red cooler, pulled out a Diet Pepsi, and snapped the top. Nervous, he pushed himself up onto the redwood barbecue table and sat down, letting his legs swing off the end.

Julian’s trying to decide between Notre Dame or Princeton, Miguel said to Carmela as she stepped onto their backyard deck.

Really? Oh my – such a choice to make! Why not throw in Harvard for good measure? Carmela chuckled.

Julian chugged the Diet Pepsi and set the empty can down on the table. He’d felt the nervousness building in his stomach all morning, and despite his five-mile run and his hour long basket-tossing session he was still anxious. It shouldn’t be this hard, should it? This was something they should be proud of.

I actually thought Nebraska sounded pretty good, Julian said. At least the pictures in their brochure sure looked nice, he thought.

Nebraska? You want to be a Cornhusker? Miguel asked.

Yeah well, I hear Lincoln’s not so bad, Julian said.

If you’re a cow, Miguel said, settling into a lounge chair.

Or a baseball player, Julian answered. There, he had put it out there; he couldn’t take it back. It was a first step.

His mom seemed to sense he wasn’t kidding. Julian, what are you talking about? she asked.

Well, Julian looked straight down at the deck, his legs flailing nervously, Coach Bilford has this friend who’s a scout for the ‘Huskers. He came and watched us play Arvada a few weeks back. You remember that game? I had three hits. Julian looked up, focusing his eyes on his father.

I remember it. You played well that day. And? Miguel asked.

He came back again a couple weeks ago. I had a homer and a triple, Julian continued, letting his words hang. He thought: and they liked me.

What’s not to like? Miguel asked. He smiled, and Julian moved in for the finish.

And…he wants to offer me a scholarship. A baseball scholarship. They want me to play left field for them. Julian said. He tried to make his voice sound as proud and deep as he was.

Carmela walked over to Julian and threw her arms around him. My goodness – congratulations. That’s so incredible! When did you find out? she asked.

Last Tuesday. Coach B called me into his office and told me the good news. He bent down to meet his mother’s congratulatory hug; she was going to be the easy one. But Julian studied his father’s reaction, knowing he would be harder to convince.

Miguel’s head nodded; he seemed genuinely pleased with the news. Well, you deserve it. It’s quite an honor. Congratulations, son, he said.

Julian smiled at his father. Did he mean it?

So what’s the next step? How does it all happen? Carmela asked. She was excited, and Julian allowed her energy to feed into him.

Well, they want to come see us next week. I guess they’ll tell us what the scholarship is, what they pay for, that sort of stuff, Julian said. He shrugged to maintain his outer coolness, an athlete’s bravado, while his heart raced. Maybe it was going to be easy as this, he thought.

"So how long has this been in the works? And why didn’t they come talk to us already? I would think that they would want to at least meet the parents of a boy they’re offering a scholarship to," Miguel asked.

Julian paused, making sure he lined up the details. A twist in his father’s plans was one thing, but setting out on a completely different course without approval would have consequences. Was it betrayal if all he was doing was going after something he really wanted? Surely his father would be able to see that, wouldn’t he?

"Coach B talked with me a couple months ago and said they might come and watch me play, you know? And then when they started talking with me I didn’t actually think they were serious; I just thought they talked to a lot of guys. So I didn’t