Desperados

Chapter 1

The one called Chuleta—which means pork chop in Spanish, a nickname he acquired on account of his prominent 1970s-style sideburns—says to the torturer, who’s called Nando, short for Fernando, "I want him bruised and bloody, not knocked out, pendejo. Let me see."

Nando steps aside. Chuleta sees Julio’s bloody face; he breaks an approving smile showcasing a row of gold teeth. He pushes his .45 pistol in the front of his stone-washed jeans and produces his cell phone. He proceeds to take pictures of a battered Julio.

He says, This way we can send his family pictures, a proof of life if you will.

Julio is nodding off as Chuleta says, "Hey, puto! Ready for your close-up, mi amor?"

Tied to the only chair in the living room, Julio looks up. Click-click! Goes the flash.

Julio hails from the country of Honduras, from a little town called El Paraíso, meaning the paradise. The irony is not lost on the residents of El Paraíso, where many are lucky enough to earn five or six bucks a day. Hardly enough to carve a decent living. Julio, being the proud father of two kids, had to do something because, as we all know, kids have a tendency to get hungry. At that moment, flashes of his family invade his thoughts: Flor, the love of his life, the woman who married him despite resistance from her father, the woman who bore him his firstborn, Max, short for Maximiliano in honor of his grandfather, a military man and a great leader in his day. Then there’s his pride and joy, the baby of the family, his daughter, Emilia, whom he loves dearly, and the only one who did not approve of his journey to the north.

Fifteen hundred dollars was the amount Julio had to pay to have the coyotes get him over the border to Arizona. Once there he, along with a couple of middle-aged women, was handed down to the kidnappers.

Knocked to the ground and still tied to the chair, Julio awakes to the sound of the women being raped, yet it was not the women who woke him. No, it was the rowdiness of the raping bastards that woke him. He feels helpless, but there’s nothing he can do. He’s bloody, sweaty, and thirsty. He scans the room: four dead-bolt locks on the door, wooden planks nailed across the windows.

The two men exit the bedroom. While zipping his pants, Nando begins speaking in Spanish to his comrade. Man, I haven’t seen so much hanging meat since that time I was working at that meat market. They both chuckle.

Pointing at Julio, Chuleta says, Look, Sleeping Beauty is up.

Nando grunts, smells his fingers, and heads to the bathroom. While propping Julio up from the floor, Chuleta says, Your brother Simon came up with the five thousand dollars. We’ve sent someone to pick up the money; as soon as we get it, you’ll be free to go.

Nando comes out of the bathroom. He throws a damp red handkerchief at Julio, saying, Clean yourself up, dog. You look like shit.

Simon is not Julio’s brother; in fact they’re cousins who haven’t seen each other in twelve years. Simon had boasted to Julio about his work at a tobacco plantation in a place called Macon, Georgia, saying: There’s plenty of work here, you should come up.

_

Two hours had passed since Chuleta sent his brother-in-law to pick up the money, but the man was not answering his phone. His wife—Chuleta’s sister—hasn’t heard from him either. It is as if he’s been swallowed by the ground. Nando and Chuleta are anxious, passing back and forth in front of a still-tied-up Julio.

Chuleta says, I don’t like this; I don’t like this one fucking bit.

I think you brother-in-law took the money and fled, says Nando.

No fucking way, man. Why would he do something as stupid as that, huh?

Then something’s definitely up, says Nando. Call this fucker’s brother again; ask him about the money. If he’s trying to play us for fools, we kill this little shit.

Chuleta goes to the bathroom for some privacy to make the call.

_

After Simon got the call to send the money to a Western Union, he never did. Instead he called the Arizona Police Department, giving them all pertinent information including the name of the person making the pickup and the address of the Western Union office where the pickup was supposed to take place. As soon as Chuleta’s brother-in-law showed up, he was apprehended. The fool couldn’t believe what was happening since the simple plan had worked several times before—although he’d felt kind of sorry for the kidnapped victim, as it meant he or she was going to die.

A police department is not going to go around knocking on doors and asking: Do you by any chance have a kidnapped migrant around here? Of course not. The next best thing is to drill the suspect, which is what they did to Chuleta’s brother-in-law; and being a parolee with a long rap sheet, the fool had no other choice than to drop the dime on his amigos.

A police task force by the name of Illegal Immigration Prevention Apprehension Co-Op Team (IIMPACT for short), was called in conjunction with the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), to pinpoint the house. A small SWAT team was assembled to break into the house.

_

Cousin Simon refused to answer Chuleta’s phone call. For this transgression Chuleta orders Julio’s execution. He leaves Nando to it and joins the women in the bedroom.

Nando pinches the slide of his Beretta, the one with a silver crucifix affixed to the grip, the one he’d paid a priest one thousand dollars cash for the honor of having it sprinkled with holy water. He places the gun to the back of Julio’s head. Julio closes his eyes tightly; he’s perspiring, as the heat index has reached 105 degrees. His mind’s racing as fast as his heart; thoughts of never seeing his family again rush through him.

"Say your prayers, catracho, says Nando, for you’re about to meet our Lord and Savior."

Money is the root of all evil, says Julio.

The words only make Nando chuckle, he says. "No, my soon-to-be-dead friend, money is not the root of all evil. The lack of money is the root of all evil." He thumbs the hammer.

"Stop! Güey, stop," shouts Chuleta. He unties a confused Julio, who thinks that maybe his cousin Simon paid the ransom after all.

Nando wants to know what the fuck’s going on. Chuleta is mum as he takes Julio to the bedroom with the two women. A perplexed Nando follows.

Chuleta says, Cops are outside; they’re going to break in.

An incredulous Nando walks up to the window and has a look-see through the wooden planks. He says that there’s no one outside. Just then he sees three guys checking their Kevlar vests and their MP5s. Nando asks his partner what are they are going to do. Chuleta’s reptilian brain moves into gear; he has an idea. Without warning he punches Nando square in the nose.

Nando screams, What the fuck!? as blood spills out of his nose. Chuleta punches so fast that Nando has no time to recover from each punch.

The kidnap victims look at one another as if to ask what the fuck’s going on. Chuleta orders Nando to do the same to him, a whimpering and bloody Nando wants to know why.

This way we’ll look like we are also victims of some unknown kidnappers, says Chuleta, we’ll look like them. He points at their victims. Now punch me, motherfucker, do it like you mean it.

Nando gets the picture and readies to strike. But Chuleta stops him; because he remembers his gold teeth, takes them out, and pockets them.

Nando goes to town on Chuleta, like he really means it.

The last thing a bruised and bloodied Chuleta says in Spanish to the kidnapped migrants is: You all better play along. Remember we know who you are, we know your families. We’ve got phone numbers…we’re Calaveras Negras, we’re everywhere. We’ll fucking feed your heads to the fucking dogs.

_

The stench of wet dog, piss and shit greets Jeffrey’s three-man SWAT team in the dark, damp basement. Jeffrey accidentally steps on something that has the consistency of Jell-O; upon further inspection it reveals itself to be a dead, bloated rat whose orifices have become exit points for its rotten innards. Jeffrey thinks he would be better off somewhere in the Caribbean with his honey sipping radioactive-colored drinks, the ones with the little umbrellas on top of them. A buzzing school of flies brings Jeffrey back to reality.

First bedroom clear, chirps Jeffrey’s two-way radio. We’re heading to the back room, over.

Copy that, basement clear, we’re heading upstairs, answers Jeffrey. Then his little two-way chirps again; this time it’s Dixon.

We got three Jacks and two Queens. I repeat: three Jacks and two Queens, back bedroom, over.

Jeffrey is about to acknowledge the call when a shot rings out. Women are heard screaming. It quickly dies down, and only a man is heard screaming now. MP5s at the ready, Jeffrey and his team head upstairs.

_

Sunrays slash their way through the boarded-up windows of the bedroom, and an old, stained, and tattered mattress lies on the floor. Spartan for sure.

Dixon and his team have the subjects on the opposite wall with their hands locked over their heads. It all seems under control except for the guy in the middle of the room moaning like a banshee on account of his shattered right foot. Jeffrey walks up to the wounded guy to check the wound. His sneakers are all crimson, almost unrecognizable, little metatarsal bones sticking out.

Amazing what a little piece of metal traveling at a high rate of speed can do to the human body, says Jeffrey to the wounded guy. "I guess you won’t be doing el pasito duranguese anytime soon, huh, carnal?"

The guy just keeps moaning in pain.

So, Dixon, what happened?

We came in here to find that guy, says Dixon, pointing at Julio, punching the living daylights out of that one. He points at the wounded Nando.

Nando’s moaning is getting on Jeffrey’s nerves, so he takes off one of his gloves, tells Nando to say ahhhh, and shoves the thing into his mouth, which muffles the guy’s moaning. Satisfied with the result, Jeffrey tells team member Dixon to continue.

Anyway, the wounded guy pulls a gun, they both struggle for it, the gun goes off, hitting that guy in the foot and here we are. Dixon gives Jeffrey the Beretta, the one with the crucifix on it, and Chuleta’s .45, the one the kidnapper forgot to dispose of.

Tsk, tsk, tsk, says Jeffrey nodding his head, each one of these babies goes for at least two thousand bucks a pop.

He places the .45 on top of the mattress and checks the Beretta. He ejects the gun’s fully loaded magazine, and then checks the .45, which is fully loaded too.

He says, Man, there’s not enough lipstick in San Francisco to cover this pig.

Jeffrey pulls Julio and the frightened women to the living room. Turning to Julio, in perfect Spanish, he orders him to take off his shirt, because he wants to see if he has any tattoos. He is looking specifically for one Jesus Malverde, patron saint of all drug peddlers and their ilk. Disappointingly, Julio has no tattoos; however, he does have about five scars of healed wounds around his torso. Jeffrey ignores that and asks the bunch about their families—that always gets a reaction. Yet this time nobody says a word. He then tells the women to take off their shirts, and they do so reluctantly. Once Jeffrey is sure that they are in fact victims and not criminals, he slides a deal on the table, saying that if they are willing to testify against the two gun-toting kidnappers in there, he might be able to help get permits for them to stay and work in the country legally. Julio likes the idea. The two women, however, ain’t buying it. They keep saying that the "negrito, meaning the black kid" a word Jeffrey understands clearly, doesn’t have the authority to give papers to people left and right because he’s only a cop. Julio is having a hard time convincing the two women to take the deal. Jeffrey insists that he needs all three on board in order to get a conviction. He assures them than even though he’s only a cop, he can still negotiate with ICE on their behalf.

Reassuring them that he’s done this before, he says, "But it will be best if the three of you, los très, get on board."

The women are hesitant because they know all too well about the reputation of the fearsome cartel known as Calaveras Negras or Black Skulls. After mulling it over between themselves and thinking about the future of their respective families, they agree to do it.

In accented English, Julio agrees and says they’ll do it.

How did you learn to speak English? asks Jeffrey.

From listening to rock and roll, says Julio. Metallica, AC/DC, Mötley Crüe…

Ah, white boy music, says Jeffrey.

Julio doesn’t get the racial reference. Both men shake hands.

My name’s Jeffrey Covington.

My name’s Julio Antonio Roman.

Jeffrey orders Dixon to call ICE. Tell them fools to come join the party, tell ’em to bring a bunch of maxi pads for our bleeding friend, or better yet make it tampons, the real absorbent kind. ‘Cause believe you me—there ain’t no amount of cocoa butter that’s going to heal that shit.

Chapter 2

The Arizona State Prison in Yuma County is comprised of three levels. Levels 2 and 3 are called Cheyenne and Dakota; it house high-risk inmates. Cocopah is for low-risk inmates, which is where Julio ends up for testifying against his captors, with the promise that his case will come to an agreeable conclusion in a period of two weeks. Two weeks turn into a month, a month turns into three. First chance he gets, he calls his wife; needless to say the poor woman was worried sick, thinking that perhaps her beloved husband had run off with a gringa sidosa, meaning an AIDS-ridden gringa. He manages to calm her down by telling her what had transpired, saying that God willing he will be back on track, with a good job and the money they need to start a little business just like they’ve planned. He also has a chance to talk with his son and daughter for the first time in a long time.

Julio’s cellmate is an old man by the name of David, who hails from the state of Tamaulipas, Mexico, and got pinched by ICE for the third time. The man has ample access to entertainment, such as a healthy collection of comic books featuring the amusing anthropomorphic Chilean character known as Condorito, ten comic books featuring the Mexican duffus character by the name of Capulina, and a dozen old Wild West pulp novels from Marcial La Fuente Estephania, stories that for the most part take place in the American Southwest. He’s also the proud owner of a battered Playboy from December 1993, the one featuring Erika Eleniak on it. Decorating the cell is a huge poster tacked to the wall of Danny Trejo from the Robert Rodriguez flick Machete.

For the most part Julio lets the old man do the talking, as he is quite the raconteur, although he did tell him about his plans of going to the state of Georgia in the hopes of working in the tobacco fields, a type of work that David finds awful, akin to slave labor. He tries to convince Julio that a young man like him should go to a big city like New York, saying that he once lived there for a while and he knows a guy with a fleet of taxis who can give him a job. Julio says he will think about it because he doesn’t know anyone in the Big Apple. And if he decides to go there, where is he going to live? David says that he shouldn’t worry about that because he can help with that too.

How is New York anyway? asks Julio.

Torching a Marlboro Red, David says, It’s a fucking cesspool. It’s gotten better over the years, but it’s the loneliest place in the world.

How so? asks Julio.

There are millions of people there, yet they all mistrust each other, says David as he sucks on his ciggie. Rightfully so I suppose, because you don’t know what or how crazy people can be, and you don’t really know what kind of shit the other person might be involved in. For the most part people just keep their distance from each other. Yet, the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen live in New York and a variety too, from all corners of the world. Good luck getting them in the sack though, especially the white ones.

Is that so?

"Yeah, those güeritas are strange. See they’ll be quick to fuck a black guy at the drop of a hat, but us Indians don’t even get the time of day from them. Very strange broads.