Take Your Shot

PART ONE

Tuesday morning sunshine spreads over Los Angeles like a broken egg yolk in a pan. At 6:30 am, the streets are still quiet, the quiet undisturbed, and Mario Jr lies in bed watching slices of orange light move slowly across the wooden floor towards his mattress. His alarm clock will go off in about ten minutes, not that he needs one. He can’t remember the last time he didn’t wake up about ten minutes before he needed to.

Jaqyln or maybe it’s Jeanette lies next to him breathing softly, oddly sprawled out as if she had fallen out of a plane and landed on the bed with a splat. Streaks of black hair squiggle outwards and stream off the pillow. The blanket covers one leg, but not the other; her torso, but only up to her upper back, leaving the Asian character tattoo on her left shoulder exposed. Maybe it says easy. Mario feels a little bad thinking that. She stirs a bit and then, eyes closed, turns her head in his direction. Her hair tries not to follow, but quickly gives in. She’s reaching for something – him, probably – and muttering something something baby something baby. But he slides smoothly out of bed, narrowly avoiding her arm, and stands tall and naked in the morning sun.

Out of his window, he can see his parents’ house, a direct view into the kitchen window. Mami stands at the sink, washing the last of the breakfast dishes. She has her usual half-smile as she moves each dish from dirty to soapy to rinsed and finally to the drying rack, each movement deeply encoded in muscle memory after years honing her craft. It doesn’t seem like a job to her; she takes care of the house like a bird takes to the air.

The sound of a car starting in the background is no doubt his father leaving for work at the usual time. Gotta get in early, gotta make a good impression he always says. Los white boys expect nothing from us, so we gotta work a little bit harder. Mario shakes his head. The old man needs to get a life, he thinks. Why can’t he just be happy?

Jaqyln or Jeanette stirs again, coughs two times, and sighs deeply, her right arm still vaguely searching. He steps softly through the scattered remains of yesterday's outfits – a disbanded pair of socks, scrunched up jeans, an impossibly small thong – and into the bathroom in his tiny apartment behind the main house. Forty years ago, when the neighborhood sprung up and replaced acres and acres of orange trees, the real estate agents had the builders build a small apartment behind the model house, tucked away on the back of the narrow lot. Twenty years after that, Mario and Rosalita Perez moved in, and eighteen years later, they handed Mario Jr the keys to the back house. Mami and Papi were so excited to give their first-born child more than they themselves had ever been given.

And Mario Sr made sure everyone knew that it was all due to hard work, dedication, and his full time job. He couldn’t talk about his work much, but his pride permeated the walls of the house and saturated their little familia.

It’s a perfect set-up for Mario Jr, who needs the separation but also the cheap rent. Which, technically speaking, hasn’t been collected for a month or maybe a year because he just needed to skip one rent payment on a tighter-than-usual month and, well, he always was the good kid, the trusted kid.

Rent? It’s not like we were charging so much. It was really more of a token gesture anyway, argued Rosalita.

Mario Sr disagreed, little drops of sweat forming on his forehead as he explained the importance of work and financial independence. But then he didn’t feel like arguing anymore, and it became a quiet little cowlick that they’ve all decided to comb over.

Hot water from the shower fills the bathroom with steam as Mario washes last night out of his hair and eyes. There was dancing and drinking in a room filled with weed smoke and lights and music that pounded its way through to the marrow. Jaqyln or Jeanette (or Jeanine?) appeared, Latina through and through, all street, sexy and she fucking knew it. She found him – they all seem to just find him – and the dominoes fell from there. She pulled him onto the dance floor and attached herself to him with that stare. Diamond eyes surrounded by razor blade eyelashes, carefully laying out the path to her and guiding him through her defenses. Not that he needed much help. For all her prepping and primping, Jaqyln or Jeanette wasn’t too different from any of the others that night, or any other night. He played her game and she played his; it was fun, and now he’s washing his dick off and getting ready for another day.

His body is lean, and this pleases him – so many people have to be careful of what they eat, or take extra time to exercise – but this has never been a problem for Mario. His is the natural beauty of a body unstressed, combined with a lucky break in genetics and bone structure. Years ago his track coach had told him, with a hopeful smile and a pang of jealousy, that Mario could choose any discipline, maybe even all of them, and go as fast and as far as he wanted to. The only limiting factors would be his own drive and the usual suspects that surround a young boy growing up in LA: gangs, drugs, and pride. But if he could keep his focus and avoid distraction, Coach assured him that he had the talent to win races and beat records. What Coach didn’t tell him, and what Mario found out for himself quickly and without great effort, was that with natural athleticism also came natural beauty. And girls. And sex. And when it came to training and racing versus dancing and fucking, Mario always took the more pleasurable route.

The water stops and he grabs the old ratty towel and runs it from his head to his feet. Dark skin, dark eyes, dark hair. He may not feel strongly connected to his race, but his race is undeniably connected to him. And Mario Jr is fine with that, unlike his father whose constant need to prove himself seems to park the weight of an entire people on his shoulders. It is excessive at best and stifling at worst, and it’s like he’s doomed himself to a life-long drive against a river of racism that Mario Jr has never felt and sometimes doesn’t believe exists. Why create a struggle where there isn’t one? Mario Jr thinks to himself. Vida ahora. He runs his fingers through his wet hair a few times. They disappear in the depth of inky black and then reappear at the back of his head. The hair falls into place like always.

The orange light has thinned to pale yellow and made its way across the floor to the bed. Jaqyln or Jeanette has twisted herself onto her back, head cocked up and right, mouth open, snoring delicately. Whatever time she spent putting herself together less than twelve hours ago is a distant memory now. With his foot, Mario sweeps her stringy underwear, pants, top, and crazy high heels into a small pile by the corner of the bed. He puts on pants and flip flops, a dirty-but-still-clean-enough t-shirt, and grabs his wallet and a brown hoody. He kneels onto the bed, bringing his face close to hers. Her breath smells like a stubbed-out cigarette in a small puddle of tequila.

Baby, he whispers softly, baby, I gotta go to work now. She closes her mouth, swallows, tries to clear the industrial waste in the back of her throat, and smiles lightly.

Nooooooooooooo, she coos. Stay with meeeeee. Her right arm starts hunting again, and he takes evasive action.

Sorry baby. But stay as long as you like. I’ll call you later.

She pooches her lips and he kisses her forehead, before stepping quickly towards the door, where he stops to take inventory of the place. Nothing worth stealing, and she doesn’t seem like the type. He closes the door softly behind him.

###

Special Agent Mario Perez Senior is smiling on his way to the office. Traffic on Wilshire Boulevard isn’t too terrible at this early hour, and the voice of Prinz Johnstone, motivational speaker and self-proclaimed human spirit quester, is booming as best it can through the mediocre sound system inside Mario’s car.

"There’s a highly motivated, highly successful, magnificent you inside you, says Prinz. And this magnificent you wants to be found. And I know you’re ready to join me on the quest to find him or her."

I was born ready, Mario thinks.

You were born ready for this quest, says Prinz.

Damn right I was.

To everyone else on the freeway, Mario is just another guy in a suit driving just another nondescript, late model American sedan. But Mario knows otherwise. The car was issued to him by the Federal Bureau of Investigation; the suit is Armani – Rosalita found it on sale last month – and he knows that he is somebody. Somebody important. Somebody who’s moving up in the world. And Prinz Johnstone seems to agree.

So then, repeat after me, Prinz continues. I am ready to find my Magnificent Me.

Magnificent Me is the title on the cassette case lying on the center console. Mario repeats the words out loud as Prinz stares up at him with a smile – oh that smile – and sunlight glinting off of his perfect teeth. Mario looks around and thinks to himself Yeah, this does feel like a quest. He straightens his spine and relaxes his shoulders, finding a posture worthy of the journey ahead.

He pulls off the freeway and drives into the parking lot at FBI headquarters – which looks like the dullest car dealership on the planet – and parks his car between two of its identical twins. Before he makes the trip to his office on the 18th floor of the building, it’s time to execute the see-and-be-seen portion of the morning ritual.

The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf in the strip mall across the street from headquarters is the unofficial morning meeting point of the Los Angeles field office of the FBI. Most of the day, but especially at this hour, it’s full of suits; some are shiny, most are dull. Mario’s pink tie is the only splash of color in the dimly lit cafe, a calculated move on his part that is already paying off. He can feel the sideways glances from the agents like him who are bent on getting noticed and moving up the ladder.

Everyone is talking in hushed tones, keeping conversation purposely shallow with an air of depth, as per the unspoken protocol for most things FBI. Never give anything away. Never reveal weakness. Keep your cards close to your chest, even when you’re only ordering a latte and a slice of banana walnut bread.

Mario scans the space from his spot in line. No big players this morning, at least not yet. So far it’s just a sea of agents and office staff ebbing and flowing around each other. He does a quick analysis of the social hierarchy and feels confident that he is in the top thirty percent, maybe even the top twenty. The tie is helping.

He also notices that the girl standing two-people behind him is the new administrative assistant to the assistant director. No one knows her very well yet, as she only replaced the previous assistant a week ago. She seems young, too young for this position, but that’s probably just because Big Dick’s previous assistant Mrs. Redenbacker was in her late sixties, and after spending her entire life at the Bureau she felt about a thousand years old. She knew everyone and everything; she was everyone’s mother, and if you kissed her ass correctly, you could get almost any information you needed. But the new girl is still green and nobody knows what to make of her yet. Or more importantly, no one knows if they can get what they need from her.

Morning, partner.

Special Agent Alex Smith and his faux leather briefcase appear next to Mario. He’s wearing a double breasted gray suit, one of a seemingly endless supply, and a jaunty morning smile, also of seemingly endless supply.

Get me the usual? I’ll get you back next time.

Hey buddy. You got it, Mario nods.

For the four years they have been partnered, Alex’s coffee order – plain black drip coffee – has been as devoid of imagination as his suits. Here is a man who is either refusing to get with the times, or simply not paying attention to the times as they rush past him. Either way, Mario finds it both irritating and admirable. Alex is just so incredibly uncool, yet reliably so.

Grande two shot sugar-free vanilla latte. And a tall drip. The robot behind the counter with the pierced eyebrow and the thumb ring nods, calls out the order, and asks for the money. Then he goes back to biting his lower lip as he hands over the change. Mario and Alex step aside.

Mario hates that he sucks in his gut instinctively when he sees Special Agents Pearson and Gibson standing at the pick-up counter, arms folded, looking like two-fourths of a boy band. Their hair is so perfect it’s staggering.

Well well well, look what the cat dragged in, says Pearson in his typically smug tone. How you boys doin’ on this fine Monday morning?

Very well, thank you, says Alex.

Excellent, says Mario. You guys?

Outstanding, says Pearson.

Never better, says Gibson.

You guys put the wraps on the Bekanki case? asks Pearson, flashing a devious smile

Yeah, Mario says, hiding his irritation. Finishing up the paperwork today.

Pearson opens his eyes wider than necessary and says, Pretty awesome case. No one misses the sarcasm.

Yeah. You bet, says Mario.

A real career maker, that case, says Gibson.

It certainly is.

Mario would say more if he could. But everyone knows the protocol of silence. Plus, this is the red-headed stepchild of cases, and they’ve been on it two months – two months that felt like two years. It was handed around like a hot potato long before it was given to Mario and Alex as yet another case they could work to restore their reputation after the debacle dubbed internally as The Anderson Affair.

In the meantime, Pearson and Gibson, the two golden boys, have been working a drug trafficking case out of Columbia that actually got the CIA involved. It was the hot case of the month, and whispers around the office say it’s gotten them noticed. But they’ve still got a long way to go, Mario reminds himself. Plenty of time for them to fuck up. Or get fucked.

Well that’s great, says Pearson. And hey, when you’re done with it, maybe you can hit the gym and get to work on that Buddha belly. He leans in with a light fist bump to Mario’s swelling middle, and the flash of anger in Mario’s eyes is clear for all to see. Pearson puts his hands up and feigns fear.

Whoa, stay cool there, homie. I ain’t no domestic terrorists or nothing.

Gibson giggles. Fuckers.

With coffee in hand, and a whole day ahead, the real question is who to cross the street with on the way back to headquarters – not a trivial undertaking by anyone who wants to move up, which is pretty much everyone. Not much on offer today – as usual, Pearson and Gibson are sticking together in an attempt to maintain an air of exclusivity. Alex seems content to follow closely behind, which is reasonable considering the current distribution of cases and clout. But Mario has an idea.

Even though she started a week ago, she stands there like it’s her first day of kindergarten in a new town. I am ready to find my Magnificent Me, Mario thinks as he puts on a friendly smile, and approaches.

Hey there, you’re Dick’s new assistant, aren’t you? He holds out his hand. Special Agent Mario Perez. It’s great to meet you.

Her eyes go wide, but his smile defeats her trepidation, and the relief on her face is obvious from across the room. He takes her hand. It’s cold and thin. Getting to know Big Dick’s assistant is a shrewd, unexpected move, and Alex signals his approval with a nod.

Hi. I’m Rhonda. Assistant to Assistant Director Winter. How are you?

Never better. This is my partner Agent Smith. We work for your boss.

Of course, I’ve seen your names on the list. It’s nice to meet you both.

You too. How’s the first week so far? asks Mario.

Actually … She leans in, his warmth having penetrated her cool. I feel totally lost here!

Ah, don’t worry; I’m sure you’ll find your way. Her coffees arrive neatly organized in their paper tray and she says, Shall we head back across the street?

Mario senses the salvo of daggers that has been launched from the eyes of the golden boys and smiles. Lead the way, he says.

Rhonda steps towards the door, and Mario turns to see the big, beautiful sneer of defeat on Pearson’s face.

Nice tie, dickhead, says Pearson.

Thanks man. Just trying to set a good example for you losers, replies Mario, as he steps to the door to open it for Rhonda.

###

Rosalita Perez is everything she has ever wanted to be. She is a wife and a mother, a housekeeper, a friend, and a neighbor. If a private investigator was tasked with following Rosalita around to gather damning evidence of perversions and wrongdoings, it would be a very frustrating job indeed. Unless one considers love and devotion a vice, there just wouldn’t be much to see through the cliché telephoto lens.

On this sunny Thursday afternoon, Rosalita finds herself at the neighborhood grocery store – a gigantic Safeway where the aisles are wide to fit the oversized carts wheeled along by oversized customers. This mother of two shops here for the month, not the week or day, though it’s not uncommon to see her here three times a week. She grew up poor, but now she has the funds to provide for her family. She is a full-fledged citizen in this land of plenty, and she feels a thrill every time she pulls a shopping cart from its nesting row.

She holds her list in hand, between fingers that have changed diapers, sewn holes in jeans, cleaned out cuts and scrapes, and hit only when absolutely necessary, and then always with more bark than bite. Her reading glasses hang at the end of her nose, the beaded string hanging low on both sides of her thick neck. The man behind the meat counter has been serving her for fifteen years and can gauge the size and scope of tonight’s dinner by her order.

Buenos dias Señora Perez, what’ll it be?

One pound of hamburger darling.

Tacos for three tonight?

Si Señor Mienez, you got it!

Life has been kind to Rosalita Perez, especially in this, the second half. After years of struggling to make ends meet, Mario finally moved up from police work, through night school, and all the way to becoming an agent at the FBI. He can’t talk about what he does every day, but she knows it’s a lot of office work with a little field work here and there. Safe from the dangers of the sometimes scary streets, with a nice big paycheck every month that keeps them happily afloat.

They have lived together in the same house for twenty five years, made a family together, and over time the neighborhood has become her extended family. The Ivanezes are on one side, the Gomezes are on the other, and she has watched all the kids play together, fall down together, and then get back up together. Most of them got back up, anyway. It seems like every family had lost at least one of the kids to the drugs or the gangs. Even her. But she doesn’t want to think about that now. She has a loving husband and one son who she knows will always be okay. And that simply has to be enough.

Hola Señora Perez! Would you like paper or plastic today? Young Vivian from three doors down had grown up so tall and lovely. She’s one of the good ones. She’s always thought that.

Paper today honey. And say hello to your mama for me.

Vivian nods and smiles a smile full of braces. And Rosalita looks over her list one more time. That’s everything.

She arrives back at home as the sun begins to sink into the horizon. She carries her groceries from the minivan into the house and onto the kitchen table. Mario will be home any minute now, she reminds herself. Gotta get the meat into the pan. And if Mario Jr could join too, That would be pure heaven.

The meat hisses and sizzles and thickens the air in that old familiar way. Her mind reaches back to a different time. She is standing there in the same kitchen, but she feels lighter on her feet. One hand holds the handle of the frying pan, while the other keeps the ground beef moving. She is focused on the job in front of her. But then a muscular arm slides across her waist and another across her collar bones, pulling her away. She knows not to panic. She turns around in his embrace, and now facing him, looks deeply into her husband’s smiling eyes. He says Baby, guess who just got a big promotion. She squeals and wiggles, barely able to contain her excitement. She raises her arms in celebration, and lets them fall around his shoulders, and she kisses him. The meat will burn, but who cares? Everything else is perfect!

The front door slams and brings her back to today’s frying pan. She hears Mario Sr toss his keys in the bowl by the door. No need to turn around yet. She hears his steps through the living room. She turns around as he walks into the kitchen. They exchange an Hola and a nod. No peck on the lips this time. He must have had a tough day. He picks up the newspaper off the kitchen table and heads towards the sofa. She turns back to her pan.

###

The door to the U.S. Marine Corps recruitment center in downtown Los Angeles goes ting-a-ling and Chico enters the office with his heart in his throat. He’s been waiting for this day for four years. He’s wearing a collared shirt and jeans, and he cut his fingernails this morning. He wonders if he’ll see the same officer he spoke to last time.

Last time.

He was