Chapter 18

New problem. I have to find a place to stash my ex-con younger brother.

“How’d you find me?” I ask.

Eddie follows me to the backyard. “I asked around. When they told me Vanessa Velasco had taken in a stray dog like you, I thought they were joking.” He laughs.

I smile. “Shh. Keep it down, fucker.”

I unlock the garage and turn on the lights. It’s a completely different place from the one I moved into. The space is empty and clean, with tools hung up neatly over the workbench and only a few small boxes of photo albums on a shelf. The rollout bed is still inside, made up with clean sheets even though I haven’t slept in here for weeks.

I hand my keys to him. “Bathroom is through the back door.”

Eddie takes the keys. “It’s not the welcome-home party I expected, but I guess it’s not bad.” He puts down his duffel bag, sits on the bed, and looks at me. “So what were you doing out so late, Frankie?”

I’m confused for a second until he points to the patch on my shirt. My brain is operating in slow motion—I’m coming down from shock. My brother looks at me for an explanation, but the story seems too big and too complicated for me to tell right now. Besides, I have to get to my phone—I have to get to Ruben.

“Get some rest. I’ll tell you tomorrow,” I say. “You need anything else?”

Eddie kicks off his sneakers and leans back on the bed. “On my first night of freedom in five years? How about two dozen nymphomaniacs and a bottle of Hennessy?”

“We’re out of both, homes.”

“Well, shit.” He shrugs and tucks his hands behind his head. “Then I think I’m all good.”

In spite of everything, seeing my brother home again gives me a kick in the feels. “It’s good to have you back, Eddie.”

“Good to be back, homes,” he says.

I go inside the house and pick up my phone where it sits on the dining table next to the Candy Land board. Muñeca has left the pieces and cards where they were.

I pace the living room as I dial Ruben’s number. My heart beats itself to shit in my chest.

Four rings, then five. As usual, there’s no answer. I leave another voicemail, afraid to leave a recording of the desperation in my voice.

“Ruben,” I say, “it’s Ghost. I have to talk to you. Things went south tonight. I don’t know what you’ve heard. I want you to hear my version of things. I want to tell you the truth before…” I trail off for a second, unsure of what to say. I clear my throat. “I’ll call again in the morning. Please. I need to talk to you.”

I end the call and think of my options. I could go over to his house—no. No, I can’t do that. It’s just past eleven. And we aren’t allowed to go over to his house without an invitation—that’s been the rule for as long as I can remember.

Demon is a scary motherfucker, but he’s calculating, not crazy. I don’t think he’d go after me without Ruben’s permission. With the heat on, it doesn’t make sense he’d stick his neck out tonight.

Even after my scrub-down at the garage, I feel sticky and disgusting. I strip off all my clothes and take a hot shower in the downstairs bathroom. I find a clean pair of sweatpants in the dryer and put them on.

Carefully, I check all the windows and locks. I turn off all the lights. I walk up the stairs, keeping my feet quiet on the steps. Vanessa’s door is open a crack. I slip inside and shut it behind me.

In the moonlight, her ironed clothes hang on the closet door. Her purse and briefcase sit on the dresser, packed and zipped. Her phone is plugged in on the nightstand. She’s ready for battle tomorrow. Her exam starts at eight, but she told me she’s planning on being there an hour early, just in case something unexpected happens.

Pale light falls over the bed. In the middle of the mattress, Vanessa lies curled up under a thin blanket. Her dark hair is spread out on her pillow like a shadow. She’s asleep. Her breathing is soft and even.

I stand still for a moment, taking in her beauty.

At twenty-four, I’ve lived half my life inside a nightmare. I’ve given and taken beatings, been in and out of cuffs. I dropped five years of my life in the dark hole of the California penal system. The things I’ve seen and done would break most people in two.

The dull ache in my forearm pulses. I run my fingers over the bruise. It never fades because I never give it the chance.

I realize something.

I’ve slept alone my whole life.

The shape of my shadow curves around Vanessa’s sleeping body, as if even my shadow wants to hold her in its arms.

I lift the blanket and lie down behind her. I’m afraid to touch her, to wake her, even though every atom in my body feels her pull.

But she turns around and her eyes flutter open.

“Vanessa,” I say.

She blinks slowly until she realizes I’m here, next to her. “It’s you.”

“I’m here.”

She touches my face. “What did you do, Sal?”

The weight of my actions hits me like a roof caving in. My chest cracks under the guilt.

Do I tell her the truth? Do I tell her what I did tonight?

No—I can’t.

I have to protect her. She is too good for me, too good for the ugly reality of who I am.

“I didn’t do anything,” I whisper.

Her hand on my cheek is soft and warm. “Don’t lie to me.”

The lie that I’m a good man is the only reason she allows me in this bed. I need her tonight. I need her touch. “It’s the truth.”

She embraces me and rests her head against my chest. I wrap my arms around her and pull her close.

“I was so worried,” she murmurs. “I’m glad you’re safe, baby.”

I hold on tight. If I find a way to get out of this, I’ll never let her go.

“Good night, baby.”

Sleep slides over us like another layer of moonlight, slow and silent.

The dog barks at the front door.

Broken glass.

Laughter.

I raise my head. The clock on Vanessa’s nightstand says 4:35.

Tucked up against me, Vanessa rubs her eyes. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” I mumble.

I get out of bed, clumsy with sleep. Vanessa follows me downstairs. Right when we reach the first floor, we hear more glass breaking. More laughter.

Muñeca climbs down the stairs to see what’s happening. Chinita shuffles out of her bedroom. “What is going on?” she asks.

“All of you, stay back,” I say. They retreat into the hallway, eyes on me.

Without turning on the lights, I peek between the curtains in the front window. In the driveway, six dark figures surround Vanessa’s car.

Shit.

“Throw it,” someone says. It’s Demon’s voice.

More broken glass. The interior of Vanessa’s car ignites and fills with flames.

I turn around. The three faces—Vanessa’s, Chinita’s, and Muneca’s—look back at me with fear and confusion.

“Go into the kitchen,” I say. “Stay there, as far back from the front of the house as you can. Whatever you do, don’t come outside.”

“Mommy?” the little girl says.

“What is going on?” Vanessa demands.

“I’ll take care of this.” I pick up Muñeca and hand her to Vanessa. “Go now.”

They do as I tell them. I put on my shoes, grab the doorknob, and take a breath.

I summon the gangster I used to be. Like an evil spell, he rises up from the deep shame inside me.

Do you know?

Do you know how I got my name?

They called me Ghost because I appeared and disappeared out of nowhere.

They called me Ghost because I haunted the dreams of the people I hurt.

They called me Ghost because like the dead, I feared nothing.

I burst out of the house.

Without saying anything, I grab the shadow nearest to me—it’s the kid named Lalo—and slam him against the side of the car, knocking him out on the doorframe. Two homeboys try to grab me, but I use my weight to throw them off balance. I pin the first one to the ground and whale on him with my fists. The second one tries to put his arms around me but an elbow to his temple stuns him and sends him staggering. A third homeboy runs at me, trying to knock me on my back. I dodge him and take his legs out from under him.

That’s when I hear her voice.

“Leave him alone!”

My blood goes cold. I get to my feet. “No, Vanessa! Go back inside!”

She’s got one of their crowbars in her hands. Demon tries to take it from her. She gets him in the knee before he grabs the crowbar in his fist and backhands her so hard my own ears ring.

I roar. Three sets of arms hold me back. I strain and pull, trying to get to her. Someone socks me. Warm blood fills my mouth. I surge forward and pull my right arm free.

Vanessa’s hurt—she’s hurt.

I take one heavy step, then another. Someone tackles me. As I fall, I grab one of the homeboys and take him down with me, knocking his head against the concrete driveway.

Smoke fills the air. A dozen hands drag me down into the dirt. There’s too many of them. I can’t get free.

“Vanessa!” I yell. My chest is burning. I can’t get air. I kick, I spit. Someone grabs my free arm and pins it to the ground. I can’t move. Someone kicks my side, hard. I’m overcome by the urge to vomit.

Suddenly, Demon’s face is in mine. There’s liquor on his breath. “This is what we do to little bitches in Hollenbeck, Ghost. This is what happens.”

The hands let go, but before I can crawl away, the vatos start kicking me, hard, all at once. Brutal blows land on my back, my stomach, and my head. Automatically, my arms go up to protect my face and I curl into a fetal position. The pain is intense. But all I can think about is fighting back. All I can think about is Vanessa.

Laughing, Demon runs his mouth while the younger homeboys do his dirty work for him.

“Hey, want to know a secret? Your dad begged for us not to shoot him. Begged, like the little bitch-ass faggot he was. Like father, like son.”

I’m gasping. I can’t get air. Every time I try to take a breath, another blow sucks it out of me. I’m getting dizzy. I squint my eyes—is Eddie carrying Vanessa into the house? I can’t see. I can’t move.

“I watched him go down, Ghost,” Demon says. “Just like I’m gonna watch you go down.”

Someone kicks me in the head.

In the dark shadow of the circle, my brain starts to wander.

I have a flashback to when I was thirteen, getting jumped in by the gang. It was just like this—me on the ground while a group of homeboys beat me up with their fists and feet. As long as I could take the pain and didn’t fight back, I was in. I made my body slack. I made my brain go blank. I took it. All of their abuse. When they stopped, they helped me to my feet and congratulated me.

That was the moment I became an official member of ESHB.

I never knew I’d be on the ground like this again.

Police sirens approach. Demon finally tells his boys to stop. The youngsters scatter. Before he disappears, Demon whispers in my ear, “All I’m waiting for is the green light. Then you’re dead, motherfucker. Dead, you hear me?”

His footsteps on the sidewalk fade as he runs away.

I lie still on the grass until I’m sure they’re gone. I feel like a bag of broken bones and torn muscles. The sirens come closer and closer until they fade again. They’re one street down, going in the direction of Hollenbeck Gardens.

Before my eyes swell shut, I see Eddie come down the steps with a fire extinguisher in his hands. He puts out the fire inside the car.

“Come on.” My brother helps me to my feet and drags me up the front porch steps. He shuts the door behind us and we stumble into the kitchen.

Chinita sits on a chair at the dining table. Muñeca sits in her lap. The little girl wails—tears stream down her frightened face. Vanessa stands by the kitchen sink. Her cheek is swollen and her eye is turning purple.

I look at all the pain I’ve caused and take an unsteady step toward Vanessa. “Baby, are you okay?”

“Don’t touch me.” Her voice is angry and hard. “You lied to me. What did you do last night? Why did they come here?”

The words get stuck in my throat. None of the people in this kitchen—not even Eddie—know the truth. If there’s an investigation into Hollenbeck Gardens, I don’t want any of them involved. I don’t want to risk any of them being questioned by the police or harassed by the gang.

I take another step toward Vanessa and touch her arm. She flinches and shakes me off. The simple motion hurts worse than the beatdown I received outside.

“What the hell did you do?” she demands. “Stop hiding things from me.”

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” I say through a mouthful of blood.

Tears well in her eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall. “No,” she says. “I’m not doing this again. I trusted you. I can’t believe I fell for your bullshit. I can’t believe I fell for you.”

Muñeca cries harder.

“Shh. Come on, let’s go.” Chinita takes her into her bedroom and shuts the door.

I can’t bear to see this. “Vanessa—”

“One gangster is another gangster is another gangster.” She’s sobbing so hard she can barely get the words out. “You’re all pieces of shit.”

I put my hands on her shoulders. I have to make her see. I have to make her understand. “Listen to me—”

She shoves me back hard enough that the backs of my knees collide with the table. The pieces on the Candy Land board fall down. “Get your hands off me.” She looks between me and Eddie. “Both of you—get your things and get out of my house.”

I’m back in my nightmare. Everything’s falling apart in my hands. “Vanessa. Please.”

“Get out of my house!”

Rage, hurt, and fear roll off her like waves. I want to take her in my arms and make her pain go away. I am desperate to make her understand.

“Just listen to me—”

“Get out!”

Eddie takes hold of my arm and pulls me toward the back door. “Come on. Let’s go.”

---

Sweat covers my body. The air is hot and still.

Where am I?

I wake up on a sofa in a small living room.

What is this place?

The walls are wood panels hung with paintings of saints. There are bundles of dried herbs hanging everywhere. A statue of Santo Niño de Atocha sits by the door next to a lit candle. Wildflowers in vases sit on every table.

Someone’s covered me with a smelly blanket. I throw it off, but I don’t feel any cooler. The room is still sweltering hot. I’m too tall for the sofa. My legs hang over the armrest.

When I yawn, I remember how bad I hurt. My head feels like it’s been stuck in a car crusher. One of my eyes is swollen shut. My whole body aches. My ribs are so sore, it’s hard to breathe.

With my one good eye, I look out the dusty window. All I can see are leaves. Everything is bright green, like a jungle. Sunshine filters through the thick trees.

What is this place?

I lie motionless, listening to the rasp of my shallow breathing.

Wait. Is the room rocking?

Am I hungover?

No—I didn’t drink last night.

I look at the shape of the room. For the first time, I realize I’m in a trailer. It’s swaying on its foundations.

Why?

And then I hear it.

“Yeah, just like that. That pussy’s so good. So good. Fuck.”

I cover my head with the blanket and groan.

My younger brother is getting laid in the back room of the trailer.

There’s a slapping sound, followed by what sounds like someone opening a closet door and slamming it a couple dozen times. A woman starts moaning.

“Harder,” she says. “Give it to me. You’re gonna make me come. I’m gonna come, I’m gonna—”

When she screams, I’m not sure who feels more relief—her, for coming, or me, for not having to listen to Eddie get his rocks off.

“Yes, yes, yes. Oh God. That is so fucking good.” There’s a deep grunt, like a troll passing a kidney stone. I wonder if I sound like that when I come. I hope not.

My head blazes with pain when I sit up. I find my shoes and put them on. I stumble out of the trailer and blink until my good eye adjusts to the sunlight.

I’m standing in a wild green garden. Rows of vegetables, tall trees, and potted plants cover every square inch of dirt. There’s hardly room to walk. Through the branches of the trees, the white walls of County General Hospital rise up beyond the garden fence.

A community garden. This must be the caretaker’s trailer.

I find an overturned plastic bucket and sit down. The wall of the run-down trailer is hot from the sun. I lean against it, close my eyes, and let the heat slowly bake the hurt out of my brain.

Jesus Christ.

What have I done?

I’ve screwed everything up.

After a few minutes, leaves rustle nearby. I automatically grab a shovel leaning against the trailer.

A little old gardener comes out of the garden. He’s wearing a white button-down short sleeve shirt and some kind of necklace made out of bone. He’s got long white hair, a white beard, and the kind face of a longtime stoner.

He sees the shovel in my hands. “Tranquilo, tranquilo,” he says. “This is my house, soldado. I’m not here to hurt you.”

He goes into the trailer. I sit still. A couple minutes pass. The sun gets hotter. The gardener comes out holding a mug full of hot, scary-looking liquid.

“For your injuries,” he says.

I’m thirsty and weak, so I take the mug and drink. It’s some kind of tea, and it tastes like shit. When I hand the mug back, the gardener says, “No, no. All of it.”

“But I don’t want—”

“You’ll feel better. I promise.” He disappears back into the garden.

I sniff the tea and take another sip. It still tastes like shit, but for some reason, my head is getting clearer. I drink it, mouthful by mouthful, until the mug is empty. The tea, plus the sun, makes me almost feel human.

My body has been broken before. I know how to fix it.

But my heart?

What can fix the empty hole in my chest?

A woman comes out of the trailer. She’s tall, dark, and skinny. Her black hair is pulled back in a messy bun. She’s wearing a chef’s outfit—white jacket, checked pants, and clogs. She looks embarrassed. Quickly, she leaves without making eye contact with me and disappears into the garden.

Now Eddie comes out of the trailer. He’s barefoot and shirtless, dressed in only a pair of basketball shorts. Tattoos cover his body—he has even more than I do. He’s even gotten tattoos to disguise the ugly scars on his chest and arms.

A fresh cigarette dangles from his lips and a copy of the LA Chronicle is tucked under his arm. He sits down next to me on an old folding chair and lights up. After his first drag, he looks like the definition of the word mellow.

“Who was that?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

“What?”

“I didn’t get her name.” Another drag. “She was in the garden this morning, picking vegetables. We had a moment.” He grins. “So I took her inside and…we partied.”

Eddie has always had this talent. One of his nicknames used to be the Pussy Whisperer.

“You look like shit,” he says. “How do you feel?”

I shrug. “Your gardener friend gave me some tea. It made me feel better. I don’t know what was in it.”

My brother laughs. “I hope you don’t have a piss test soon.”

“What? Why?”

“You feel better because that motherfucker puts weed in everything.”

Shit. “How do you know him anyway?”

“Rafa? Rafa grows the best mota. I’ve known him for years. And he lets me crash here when I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

The sun beats down on us, horrible and good at the same time. Eddie finishes his cigarette and opens the newspaper. He pulls out the local section, folds it in half and hands it to me.

“Is this what you were up to last night?”

I squint at the newspaper. The text is too small. My vision is blurry and my head aches.

“Read it to me.” I hand the paper back.

“ ‘Arson investigators are looking into an attack that occurred late Sunday in East Los Angeles. The blaze started just after ten at the Hollenbeck Gardens housing complex. A group of arsonists firebombed four separate families using Molotov cocktails. Representatives from the Los Angeles Fire Department reported that all residents were evacuated safely. The fire was put down in fifteen minutes. No injuries were reported.’ ”

I think of the woman and baby in the unit Demon set on fire. “Thank God,” I murmur.

Eddie continues, “ ‘Police officials said the attacks may have been racially motivated. All four families targeted are African American. According to witnesses, the arsonists are Latino. Investigators said race is being considered as a possible motive for the attack based on a history of racial tensions between residents and local gang members.”

“Fuck.” I drop my aching head in my hands. “I never saw who they were. They were black. That’s what connected them.”

My brother folds up the paper. “I thought Hollenbeck didn’t do shit like this anymore.”

“I thought so too.”

“So why would the big homies order this?” Eddie asks. “This kind of stuff happened, when? 1992? 1993?”

Back in the day, the Organization made it a priority to “clean up” their neighborhoods and keep them Latino. Gang members were ordered to drive out all black people by using threats, intimidation, and violence. The idea was to control the drug trade in East L.A. With this in mind, brown-on-black crime was not uncommon. Back in 1992, Hollenbeck gang members firebombed seven black families. For twenty years, black families were afraid to move into Hollenbeck Gardens. Five or six years ago, as the violence died down and gangs focused on business, things started to change. The neighborhood slowly became more integrated.

“I haven’t heard about any problems with black drug dealers in our territory. Why start up this bullshit now?” I ask.

Eddie shrugs. “Only Ruben would know.”

I need to call Ruben, but I don’t want to get his voicemail again. I suspect he’s screening me out of his calls. “You got a phone yet?” I ask.

“Yeah. First thing I did when I got out.” Eddie reaches into his pocket and takes out his burner.

I flip it open and dial Ruben’s number by memory. He answers on the first ring. “Who is this?”

I freeze, surprised to hear his voice after so many weeks.

Eddie nods at me. “Ask him,” he says quietly.

“It’s Ghost,” I say.

Ruben’s voice turns to ice. “Why are you calling me?”

Why? Where should I start? “Something happened last night between me and Demon. I want to let you know my side of the story before you decide what to do.”

“Demon was arrested. Early this morning. I haven’t talked to him.”

What? Demon’s been picked up? “You need to know, I had some problems last night. I couldn’t—”

“I don’t have time to hear this right now.” Ruben sounds like he’s driving. He’s on edge, about to hang up. So I cut to my second most important question.

“The kids shaking down Slim—shaking down the businesses along the avenue—they weren’t black. Slim said they were from Las Palmas.”

“Slim needs to keep his fat mouth shut.” Ruben’s voice is deadly. My blood goes cold. “You shouldn’t have called me. I’m getting rid of this phone after this call.”

“But how do I contact you if—”

Before I can finish my last question, Ruben hangs up.