Chapter 5

For the first time, a ghost of a smile touches her lips. Staring at the pictures, she slowly sinks down on the grass next to me. Her leg touches mine. I stay as still as I can.

The photo on top is the one of her in the green dress. “So how long ago was that?” I ask.

Vanessa picks up the photo and looks at it closely. “Junior year, I think.” She names her friends in the photo, one by one, half to herself and half to me. I look at her face. Her eyes change. They grow softer. Sweeter.

The words come out on their own. “You’re really pretty,” I say.

“I was seventeen.” Her eyes are still on the photo. “Everyone is pretty when they’re seventeen.”

I didn’t mean in the photo, but I don’t want to scare her away. “You look like you were having fun.”

“I never had fun,” she says. “I was really hard on myself. I never went out, never let myself have fun. So the few times I did…” She trails off.

“You made sure to have as much fun as possible.”

“Exactly.” A pause. “Maybe too much fun.”

I wonder about the kind of fun she would get up to at seventeen. Running away with a homeboy. Giving it up to him. I’m daydreaming a little bit, wishing I were that kid, taking her out in a borrowed car, holding her close. She squints at the picture and I notice fine lines at the corners of her eyes. Her cheekbones are sharper. She’s far more beautiful now than she was at seventeen.

“So when did you leave Roosevelt?” she asks.

“You mean drop out?”

She shrugs. “ ‘Leave’ seemed more polite.”

“Tenth grade.” I was able to keep my family together for three years following the accident. And then it all went to hell. “I left right before the end of sophomore year.”

“And you went to…?”

“California Youth Authority. Chino.” I had gotten into a street fight with a member of Las Palmas. The kid came after me with a knife. I broke his jaw with a brick and sent him to the hospital. That plus my gang affiliation and record of stealing cars got me a one-way ticket to the state’s largest youth prison. I stayed there until I turned eighteen. The beatings I got back then—that’s where I got my bad knee. I still can’t hear so great out of my left ear. My front teeth got knocked out. Luckily, Ruben hooked me up with his dentist when I got out. “When did you start going with Sleepy?” I ask.

She gives me a slow blink, as if she can’t believe I just brought him up. She looks back down at the photos and gently closes the lid. The ghost of a smile evaporates. “Not long after this dance.” She stands up with the box, and I fight the fear I’ve scared her off.

“Are you going to throw them away?” I ask in disbelief. No pictures exist of me when I was younger. The prints, the digital cameras, the old phones that had any photos of me are long gone. It’s like I’m a real ghost. Erased. “Don’t.”

Challenge flashes in her eyes. I like her fire, but I’m not sure why she’s on the defensive when it comes to me. It’s not like we didn’t grow up in the same hood. It’s not like she hasn’t lived around gangsters her whole life. I wonder for a moment if she faces off with strangers like this. If so, I know that feeling. It’s a fire that burns hot, but it’s all show. The appearance of defiance, something you use when you’re crumbling behind your mask. It’s a fire that’ll burn you from the inside out.

“Don’t throw them away,” I say. “You’ll regret it.”

“Why do you care what I regret and what I don’t?”

In the old days, I would’ve said, “I don’t give a shit what you regret.” But today is today. So I say what’s in my heart. “Because you don’t deserve to regret anything.”

She has one hell of a poker face. “Who are you to decide what I deserve?”

“You deserve more than what you’ve got.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“No.”

From the expression on her face, I know she’d be folding her arms if she wasn’t holding the box of photos in her hand. Her voice is calm. This doesn’t feel like arguing. She’s feeling me out. Testing me. “Who do you think you are, telling me what I deserve? Why should I listen to you?”

“Me? I’m no one. But I’m here. And it would be a shame if I let you throw your old photos away, knowing that you’d regret it.”

“You talk like you can tell the future.” Her voice is softer.

“I wish I could.”

She’s quiet for a moment, but not still—she fidgets, shifting her weight back and forth from foot to foot. “So what’s your plan, Ghost? Other than to pay me money for the pleasure of cleaning out my garage?”

I shrug. “Stay out of trouble. Keep working until I have enough money for a place.”

“A place of your own? So that you can party or what?” She’s teasing me. Teasing—that I can work with.

“My brother is out in two months. I have only a few more weeks to save for a new apartment. He’ll need a place to stay too. Somewhere he can stay out of trouble. I’m more worried about him than me.”

Vanessa has nothing to say about that. She looks at me, frowning a little as if she’s trying to figure me out. “I can’t tell if you’re lying to make yourself look like a good guy.”

I laugh. “Not even lying would make me look like a good guy, Vanessa.”

Her frown disappears, but she’s still not smiling. Right then and there, I make it my mission to make this woman smile.

“Two months,” she says. “Then out. Understand?”

“Two months. Yup. Got it.”

She stares at me a little while longer. Up close, she’s not exactly pretty. Big dark eyes, suspicious. A big nose, if we’re being honest. And a big mouth with full lips. Her front teeth are slightly crooked, with a little gap in between. A thirst grabs me and I wonder what it would feel like to kiss her, to run the tip of my tongue over that space, back and forth.

Great. Something else to fucking fantasize about.

Invisible heat rolls over me like a wave. I stay still, trying not to show it.

“You’re working tonight, right?” she asks.

I nod. “Every night.”

“Don’t forget to lock the gates when you leave.”

“I won’t.”

She turns around and heads toward the back door with the box under her arm. A new understanding plants itself in my head. When people are nice to me, I’m immediately suspicious. When people are mean to me, I think, “There, that’s more like it.” When people are half-cold and half-hot to me, like Vanessa is, I think, “I have to know more.”

I watch her as she walks her fine ass back into the house.

That evening, I wake up with a pounding headache.

Yup.

I know what the problem is.

The windows of the house are dark. No one is home. I walk in through the back door and step into the bathroom. I lock the bathroom door behind me, run the shower, and strip. When the water is hot, I step inside the small blue-tiled stall. There’s a bar of soap and a bottle of cheap shampoo. I’m the only one who uses this bathroom.

I wash my hair and rub the bar of soap over my face, neck, and arms. I lather up my torso and the suds get thick in my chest hair. My hands still haven’t gotten used to this strange new body. There’s so much more of me now—I’ve put on lots of muscle since prison. Abs, pecs, obliques. My workouts are paying off. Everything is hard and tight.

My hands slip downward. I rub soap on my balls. They ache. When I close my eyes and think about Vanessa, my dick twitches.

I put soap in my palm and give myself two slow, slippery strokes. My shaft thickens. Two more strokes and I’m hard as a baseball bat.

After five years in prison, you bet your ass I know how to touch myself. I’m not ashamed. I admit it.

I am good at jacking off.

Shit, I better be.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath of steamy air. In my mind, I paint the blue sky, the avocado tree, the sunshine, the grass. When there’s a lazy sketch of the backyard, it’s time for the star of the show—Vanessa, standing there with the garden hose in her hand, her dark hair loose over her shoulders, a big smile on her face. This is definitely a fantasy because she’s happy to be here. The real Vanessa would lose her shit if she knew I had deposited her in my spank bank.

Okay, concentrate.

Details, now.

Pearl necklace. Red lipstick. I like the black skirt, but let’s make it three inches higher. The blouse is good, but how about we lose those top buttons? Yes. Better. I can see the lace bra through the fabric. Let’s lose that too. But we can do even better than that, can’t we?

Vanessa holds the hose to her chest and sprays cold water on herself. Goosebumps rise on her skin. Under the wet cotton, her dark nipples harden. With her free hand, she slowly undoes the remaining buttons on her blouse and peels the cotton away from her skin. Her big tits spring free, round and wet.

Excellent.

“I want you, Sal,” she says.

No, no—we can do even better than that.

“I need you, Sal,” she says.

Perfect.

I grip the head of my dick with my thumb, index finger, and middle finger. Quickly, I begin to jack the head, concentrating on the sensitive point where the head connects to the underside of my shaft.

Vanessa drops the hose, gets down on her knees on the wet grass, and takes my dick in her pretty hands.

“You’re so big,” she whispers.

I watch as her red lips take me in. She sucks enthusiastically on the head, keeping her dark eyes on me. Her tongue wiggles against my sweet spot.

“Yes,” I murmur. “Now take it all.”

I close my fist around my cock and jack myself off hard and slow.

There on her knees, Vanessa sucks me deep into her hot mouth. Her lips seal tightly over me. She leaves a red smear of lipstick on my shaft as she bobs her head back and forth. Her tongue slithers along the tendon at the base of my dick. Her cool hands cup my balls, massaging them tenderly while hot come swirls inside, ready to blow.

In the shower, I lean into the stream of water. With my right hand, I’m stroking my cock furiously. My left hand rubs my chest and swirls my nipples. The water, the heat, my own touch—I’m going to come soon. It’s going to be good.

“Take it deeper,” I whisper.

Vanessa puts her hands on my hips and impales herself. She begins fucking my dick with the back of her throat. Her mascara runs. I feel her soft, hot tits bouncing against my thighs. She looks up at me, seeking my approval.

“Yes, good girl.” I run my hands through her hair and pull it gently. “Such a good girl.”

In the shower, I close my left hand over my right, tightening my fist. I take a deep breath and stop stroking. With a grunt, I brace my hands against the tile wall of the shower and thrust my hips like I’m fucking the hell out of Vanessa’s mouth.

What would she do if she knew I was thinking about her right now, like this?

Throw me out of her house, that’s what.

When those red lips touch the base of my cock, I press on the back of her head and pin her there. She swallows, and her throat muscles clamp down on the swollen head of my dick.

“Fuck,” I whisper. “Yes.”

Hot come fills my hands, mixing with the water from the shower. I squeeze my eyes shut, swallow my grunts and climax in silence. I’m gasping, drowning, and twisting in my fantasy of Vanessa. In my mind, white come spills out of her mouth, wets her pearl necklace, and drips down between her breasts in a long, lazy trail.

God, I’m such a fucking pervert.

I shudder through the last of the spasms. Still high, I rinse myself and wipe down the shower stall. I turn off the taps and dry off. My tender dick, still hard, weeps at the tip. I glance at the clock on the wall. This whole operation from start to finish has taken five minutes.

Okay, wait up. Don’t get the wrong idea.

When I’m with a woman, for the record, I take a hell of a lot longer than five minutes.

But this? This is maintenance. Batting practice before the game.

Refreshed by my climax, my body is less tense. My headache is gone. I get dressed, grab my backpack, and head out into the night.

---

After a hard night’s work and a long rest, I wake up and realize something—I’ve got an errand to run.

It’s a lazy Sunday afternoon. Panaderia La Golondrina is on the same block where I grew up. I pass my family’s old house on the way there and scope it out. It’s been painted green. The old TV antenna on the roof is gone and all the long-broken parts of the house—the rain gutters, the busted screen door—have been replaced. The yard is kind of a mess, but there are toys everywhere and there’s a soccer ball on the roof. Someone new is growing up here, which is nice, but my mom’s hanging flowerpots are all gone. She was so proud of those. Without them hanging on the porch, this looks like a different house completely—and I know, in my heart, not even the ghosts of my family live here now.

I walk the familiar sidewalk to the corner bakery. It looks exactly the same. The same open sign in the door, the same painting of a golondrina—the bird from tattoos, a swallow—on the front window, the same faded Lady of Guadalupe mural on the side wall. Growing up, the smell of fresh bread was the smell of home. Twice a day. Once in the early morning, and once before noon. You could set your watch to it.

I open the door and walk in. There’s one other person in the bakery, a middle-aged lady piling her tray high. I grab my own tray and tongs and head over to the glass case where I see the little brown sweet rolls shaped like pigs. There are two left. I grab them and bring them to the front to pay.

“Salvador, long time no see,” says the old guy behind the counter. Everyone calls him Slim. He’s about five feet tall and two hundred and fifty pounds. His family has owned and operated this bakery since Cesar Chavez Avenue was Brooklyn Avenue and the neighborhood was full of Jewish and Japanese families. Which is to say, a long, long time.

“Slim,” I say, shaking his hand. “How’s the family?”

He’s like a big cartoon character. His eyebrows go up as he closes his eyes and frowns. There are four lines across his forehead. “Good, good. Carmen graduated last year.”

His oldest daughter. “From high school? That’s great.”

“No, Sal. Culinary school. She’s a chef now, downtown. High-class stuff.”

As he bags up my bread, I think about what a little bitch time is. We all get the same amount and once it’s up, it’s up. Slim’s daughter knew this and used her time well. Me? Well, you know how I spent my time.

I take out my wallet to pay when the other customer comes up behind me. I’m surprised when Slim waves her over ahead of me. “Señora Bustamante, let me ring you up right now.”

The lady has two dozen pieces of bread. All kinds. Conchas, pink and white and brown buns covered in cracked sugar. They look like seashells. She’s got thick slices of cake covered in butter and sugar. Big cookies covered in rainbow sprinkles. And the old-school stuff: more puerquitos like the ones I’m buying, some elotitos, small loaves of yellow bread shaped like corncobs. She asks for more—now she wants the sandwich bread behind the counter—but only if it’s fresh, she says. How about elephant ears—does Slim have any orejas in the back? She wants some of those too. She and Slim have a long chat about her grandchildren and the weather and the carnival coming up at the church this weekend. I’m standing there with my two dollars in my hand feeling like an idiot as the lady grabs her big paper bag and slowly shuffles out the door.

Now there’s no one else in the bakery. I look at Slim, confused. “What’s up?”

Slim gives his head a slow shake and lowers his voice. “I got a big problem, Sal. I need your help.”

I know that look. I don’t like this. This is my old life. This is the shit I’m not supposed to do anymore. But I’ve known Slim forever, so I gotta listen. “Tell me.”

“There’s a new crew. Crossing the avenue. Young kids. The main one, he calls himself Creeper. They’re demanding taxes for Las Palmas. I told them, ‘You’re crazy. Everyone knows this is varrio Hollenbeck.’ They don’t care. Disrespectful little shits. Threatened me and the wife. They scared her, Sal. Can you please talk to Ruben? Let him know? Tell him this is happening to me, to Perez, to las viejas tambien.”

Bad news. These new kids are shaking down Slim, plus the liquor store owner and the old women who run the dry cleaner’s. This street forms the southern edge of Hollenbeck territory, but other gangs rarely step to us. Something has changed on the ground since I’ve been gone.

Slim is looking at me like I can protect him. Like I’m strong. After five years in prison and six months trying to be as invisible as I can be, the expression on his face makes me feel high.

Like I really am strong.

Like I really am the soldier I once was.

I feel myself getting dragged back, back to the life that was so easy, so clear to me. I knew the game back then. I knew the score.

I shake off the feeling as best as I can and take another look at Slim’s worried face. All he wants me to do is pass on a message. I’m on parole. I’m not supposed to associate with known gang members. But I owe Slim this. I’ve known him since I was a little mocoso bothering him for free candy.

“All right,” I say. “I’ll go see him.”

“Tell him to send some help. Please, Sal.”

Ruben will do more than make sure homeboys are posted up on this block. If gangsters from Las Palmas are harassing people from our hood, this guy Creeper and his friends’ days are numbered.

Blood.

I promised myself I’d never see blood on my hands again.

I’m just the messenger, I tell myself. Just the messenger.

“It’s okay, Slim,” I say. “I’ll go see him.”

Slim gives me the bread for free and throws in a half dozen rolls even though I tell him no. I’m torn by this. I used to get free stuff all the time when I was active in the gang. It made me feel powerful—who doesn’t like special treatment?—but as I grew older, I learned the truth.

Nothing is ever free. Not a single goddamn thing.

You will pay for it. Maybe not today, but you will.

I shake Slim’s chubby hand, put the bread in my backpack, and book it to the bus stop. The bus is about to leave when I flag the driver in the mirror. She stops and I hop on, panting. As I settle into my seat and slowly catch my breath, anxiety tightens like a screw in my gut. Slim has just put me on a path I’ve been trying to avoid for the past six months.

“Shit,” I whisper.

Later that evening, Alan greets me like an old buddy when I walk into his place. Only a few people are sitting at the bar, chatting with the bartender. Alan grabs my hand and pulls me into a half hug. I know we’re not really homies but Barry’s hospital incident was a bonding experience for us, and I have to admit it’s kind of nice to have a new friend.

I sound like a little kid sometimes, don’t I? You don’t understand. I never make new friends.

Alan hops behind the bar. “Do you have time for a quick drink with me?”

I check the clock on the wall. I’ve got two hours before my shift at Defiance starts. I have ten dollars left before I get paid tomorrow, so I think I can afford one beer. “Yeah. Sure. A quick one.”

“You want something to eat?”

When I hesitate, he says, “On me?” He senses my reluctance and makes the choice for me. “I skipped lunch, so I’m hungry myself. We’ll share a few things.” He leans over to the bartender. “Hey, can you order up a couple slider plates. Brussels sprouts. Uh, and the flatbread. Thanks.”

The bartender puts the order into the computer and I see a white kid in the kitchen window hop to action.

I watch as Alan takes two glasses from a refrigerator full of glasses. A refrigerator for just glasses. Damn, that is fancy. He pulls two pints of dark beer.

“Is that Feliz Navidad?” I ask.

“Yeah. See? The name works. You remembered.” I watch as he turns the second glass perfectly so that an inch of perfect foam tops the pint. He puts a paper coaster down and places the beer in front of me. There’s frost on the glass.

This is the life.

I open my backpack and take out the bag of bread Slim gave me. Alan grabs a small plate and I put down the puerquitos. Only one still has its raisin eye. That’s the one I give to Alan.

“There it is,” he says. He’s beaming. He gets excited about shit. Here’s something I’ve noticed—homies don’t really allow themselves to be excited about things. You can be happy. You can be angry, you can be sad. But we don’t really show it. Ever. You’re told, “A real man doesn’t show his emotions.” “A real man doesn’t get too excited about anything.” Again, as I get older I realize, fuck this real-man shit. I think Alan is a real man. I mean, I don’t necessarily want to get into any fistfights with him on my side, but he’s cool and he gets excited about shit so maybe there’s nothing wrong with that.

“Salud,” he says when he clinks my glass. We drink and he breaks his little pig in two. He takes a bite.

“Damn, you were right. That’s exactly the same flavor.”

“I told your ass. The same.” I take a bite of mine and a drink of beer. The flavor fills my mouth. It’s rich and sweet, but kind of spicy too. I never thought about the flavors of things before, but with Alan’s excitement I feel like I’m tasting food for the first time.

Our dinner arrives—I’ve never had Brussels sprouts before, weird as fuck but tasty—and we chat about how he started his business and the problems he has day-to-day. During breaks in our conversation, I think about Slim, trying to run his business, afraid for himself and afraid for his wife. I’m worried about him, but also, I’m worried about myself when I go to see Ruben. Besides my welcome-back party, I haven’t gone to see Ruben in months. The gang is usually easy on guys who’ve done their duty and didn’t rat. I served my time. But I’m not retired. Ruben told me to take all the time I needed. It’s been six months—a long time without an assignment. I never went back, never checked back with him. He hasn’t come looking for me either. So I’m in this no-man’s land between gangster and dropout.

“Is everything okay?” Alan asks.

Shit. I’ve been zoning out. Rude. The man has fed me and welcomed me into his bar and I’m zoning out. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“Problems?”

“Nothing big.” I’m not going to get into it. That’s an old habit I don’t think I’ll ever break: secrecy about gang business. My mouth is a tomb. I take the last sip of my beer and change the subject. “So, do you really make all this here?”

“I sure do.” Alan clears my plates and puts them into the busing tray. A white man just cleared a Mexican’s plates. How’s that for opposite day? I try not to smile. Alan continues, “Do you know anything about brewing beer?”

“Is it like pruno?” I joke. Prison moonshine.

Alan smiles. “Kind of.” He wipes off the table with a bar towel. “Come on. Follow me. I’ll show you.”