Chapter 7

On Tuesday afternoon, I walk up Ruben’s street on the opposite side of the park. The houses here are smaller and newer, covered in stucco and shaded by big trees. It’s quiet here. Everyone is still at work or at school.

Ruben is the perfect example of how a man can balance his gang responsibilities with a family. He takes care of business, goes to church, keeps his head down. He’s always been the leader we needed, even during the hardest times.

At twenty-four, I’m already considered old. The youngsters look up to me, but I look up to Ruben. At forty-four, Ruben is an original gangster, an OG. An artifact. He’s like an ancient turtle wandering around with a sign that says i’m two hundred years old.

His house is painted pink. The lawn is bright green and trimmed. The bushes are so square they look fake. The walkway and cement steps are paved with shiny red clay tiles. There are bars on the windows of the house and the front porch is caged with more bars and a heavy metal door. Calmly, I walk up the steps. I pause to swallow down my rising anxiety. Visiting Ruben, a convicted felon, is a violation of my parole. But a promise is a promise. Taking a deep breath, I press the intercom button.

“¿Bueno?” says Ruben’s wife, Martha. “¿Quién es?”

“Señora, soy Salvador Rosas. Estoy aquí para hablar con Ruben.”

Silence.

I clear my throat and add, “Uh, I called earlier. He invited me to come at this time.”

“Ah, sí. I’ll be right there, mi’jo. A ratito.”

As I wait for Martha to come unlock the door, I look at the carefully swept driveway and sidewalk. There’s a new heavy metal gate across the driveway, protecting Ruben’s cars and shielding his backyard from view. Good—at least someone is making money in the neighborhood these days.

Ruben is now at the top of the structure for Hollenbeck, a shot-caller who oversees our entire operation. He’s the liaison between the gangsters on the street and the Organization, the big homies on the inside. Corcoran. Pelican Bay. Folsom.

As I wait, I take a deep breath and let it out.

I try hard not to think of my dad and as usual, I fail.

Everyone knew him as Dreamer.

Ruben and Dreamer Rosas came up together. Best friends as little kids. Started on the streets as low-level soldiers and worked their way up to captains. Ruben was an example of how to do things the right way, whereas my dad was the example of how to do things the completely, spectacularly wrong way. Ruben—now he’s the star at the top of the Christmas tree. The head honcho.

And my dad? Dreamer? Where is he?

Dead.

Worse than dead.

Gone and forgotten.

The metal door bangs open, shocking me out of my trance. Ruben’s wife is a pretty older woman dressed in black pants, a black T-shirt, and sandals. She has a big head of curly red hair and when she gives me a hug, it’s warm and genuine. “Mi’jo. Long time no see. Come inside.”

I follow her to the office where Ruben is sitting with his laptop. When Martha knocks on the door, he keeps his eyes on the monitor and shakes his head. “What’s going on with this country, mi amor? I don’t know. I just don’t know. I want to stay current on what’s happening in the world but every time I read the news, I just feel worse and worse.”

“Ay, stop being so negative,” Martha says in Spanish. “Life can’t be all that bad. Look who’s here.”

Ruben stands up when he sees me and, just like Martha, immediately pulls me into a big hug. He’s tall and lanky, with graying hair and a thick mustache—it’s a good mustache, serious gangster brochas. He’s dressed in a white muscle shirt and khaki shorts. In his bare feet, he would look like any old beach bum on a fishing boat—if it weren’t for the faded prison tattoos up and down his wiry arms, the tiny bullet hole scar I can see under his collarbone, and the enormous scar on the back of his shoulder where the same bullet exited his body with a vengeance.

Martha asks me if I want a glass of iced tea and I say no thanks. Ruben stopped drinking ten years ago when he got out of prison on a five-year sentence. He lost a bunch of weight and started taking yoga. Clean living all the way.

Don’t be fooled though.

Ruben is king for a reason.

I know the drill. I lift up my arms and he pats me down for wires as we talk a little bit about his kids, about my work, about my brother who’s getting out in two months if all goes as planned. I ask him about his kids. They’re all grown and moved out of the neighborhood, long gone. No interest in the family business, I guess.

“Should we take a walk?” he asks.

“Yeah, that would be good.”

I watch as he puts on clean socks and a pair of new shell-toe Adidas. We make our way to the park and take a slow stroll around the lake. Kids from the local school are using the field for football practice. A couple of old homeless men sleep it off under the trees. A lone duck, big and ugly, slowly cruises the water, hoping for bread but not looking too optimistic.

Quietly, I tell Ruben about the crew from Las Palmas who are harassing Slim at the bakery and the other business owners on the southern border. I tell him everything that Slim told me, word for word. I have a good memory—when it comes to the gang, we never write shit down. Everything is said aloud.

I watch Ruben’s face as I deliver the message. No emotions, just a slow nod like a professor listening to a student recite a poem. I can’t tell if he thinks this is news or not. I’m used to his poker face. He’s always been this way. Impossible to read.

When I’m finished, he stops and stands at the edge of the water. The duck comes to him but, realizing Ruben has nothing to give, swims away a little offended.

“I’ll take care of it,” Ruben says at last. He puts his hands in his pockets. “Spider’s crew. Give them Demon for backup.” He nods again. “That’ll work.”

I say nothing. Besides the message, I don’t have anything to add to this conversation. Five years ago, I was one of Ruben’s best soldiers, a steady earner. But now I’m nothing—a blank. For the last six months, I have hidden in a no-man’s-land between gangster and dropout. I’ve done everything I can to stay clean and keep out of trouble—which means I’ve also been avoiding Ruben.

But I’d always known the clock never stops ticking. Soon the gang I pledged my life to would ask something of me again. Something I have to give, whether I want to or not.

Whether Ruben can feel my anxiety, I don’t know. He looks me in the eye. “Do you need any money, mi’jo?”

As easy and as fucking wonderful as it would be to say yes, I say, “No. Thank you. I’m good.”

For a long time, Ruben examines my face. He’s reading me. I try to keep my features still, but I know it’s no use. Ruben can see right through most people, including me. When he speaks at last, his voice is soft. “I know it’s been hard for you, mi’jo. Learning about your dad. Being on your own. Keeping your nose clean. And I know it hasn’t been easy for you to come see me.”

It’s the truth. I don’t say anything.

Ruben continues, “When Trouble gets out, you have to make sure he understands the score. You know how that kid is. He’s not like you. He’s doesn’t think things through. You have to convince him not to retaliate. We have to keep him safe. Keep him from losing his temper. Do you understand?”

I nod. He’s right. My brother Eddie is unpredictable. That’s how he got his name—Trouble.

“No retaliation from either of you. Is that clear?”

“Yes. I understand.”

“You, me, Trouble—we have it the worst,” Ruben says. “When I heard what happened to your father, I was in disbelief. I had a very dark moment, mi’jo. A crisis of faith, we call it. The higher-ups had green-lit my best friend. The one guy I grew up with. The godfather to my kids.” Ruben shakes his head. “Was he a crazy motherfucker sometimes? Yes. Did he ignore my advice when I told him he’d get caught taking a cut? Yes. Did he act before thinking about the repercussions of his actions? Yes, all the time. But when push came to shove, Dreamer was loyal to the gang. There was never a more loyal homeboy than your father. A real man. Like you.” He pauses. “If only I’d known sooner. If only I could’ve intervened—”

“There’s nothing you could’ve done,” I say. We both know it’s true.

Ruben looks back at the lake. I’m about to reassure him when he says the words I’ve been dreading: “Things have changed since you left. We could use your help, Ghost.”

There it is.

From the moment Slim looked at me over that counter, I knew my number was up.

When your gang calls on you, there is no such thing as no. There is no such thing as I can’t or I’m afraid. To refuse is to invite a bullet to the back of the head, just like my father did.

So I say the only thing I can.

“Yeah. Whatever you need.”

He nods. “Good.”

Ruben sends me off without any instructions. For now, my only job is to wait. I know what he’ll do. First, he’ll send out informants to find out exactly what we’re dealing with. Second, he’ll come up with a plan. Third, I’ll get a call from him telling me what to do next.

After our conversation, I go straight to work at the spa and lose myself in the only thing that makes me feel human: routine. My duties here are more demanding than they are at the gym. I drain the water out of the main Jacuzzi, clean the filters, and scrub down the tile. The disinfectants are strong and make my head hurt, but I work until I’m dog-tired and too fucking numb to feel anything.

No.

That’s not true.

Nothing is strong enough to make me feel numb.

See, whenever I think about my father, anger and regret mix inside me until I’m not sure which is which. We barely ever saw eye to eye, but blood is blood.

When I finish my duties, I strip naked. The shower room at the spa is glass tile the color of a swimming pool. I step in and wash off the dirt and sweat. I scrub hard at my skin but even here there’s no getting clean from the truth.

I couldn’t protect my father. I couldn’t save him.

I hate my own uselessness.

I get dressed and erase all evidence that I’ve showered here. I stock the towels and toiletries and make sure everything is spotless. I do a final walk-through, lock up, and leave. By the time I get back on the train, my head is still full of scorpions, stinging me from the inside out.

When I arrive at the house, everything is quiet. I slip into the backyard and the garage. I lie down on the bed and even though I should be tired, sleep won’t come.

Another truth: the gang needs me. I have to answer the call.

Back in the day, Ruben trusted me completely. It was a point of pride for me that when things needed to get done, I’d do them. I knew the score. I was respected. But now, I know the price for that kind of power. Years of my life, swallowed up by the monster and gone forever. Locked up, useless, as my father was killed and no one could do a goddamn thing about it.

This is no good.

I’m wallowing.

I’m getting anxious.

In the back of the garage, there’s an old lawnmower. To distract myself, I reach inside the bag where I keep my stash in an old sock. Carefully, I take out the roll and count the bills. Twelve hundred and sixty-five dollars. Honest money, every cent. Back in the day, this was chump change. I’d walk around with four, five Gs in my pocket. If I spent it, there was always more to be made. My cut from the dealers on the street. My brother and I had our own side hustles, stealing and selling cars to chop shops for parts. Back then, money was easy. We spent it like water.

But now? This roll of bills has more value than anything I’ve ever earned. Twelve hundred and sixty-five dollars, plus the twenty-two dollars in my wallet. Seven hundred thirty-five more dollars and I’ve got enough for first and last month’s rent plus a deposit on an apartment.

I peel a twenty off the roll and add it to the twenty-two in my wallet. Forty-two bucks for Spider’s kids to enjoy an afternoon at the church carnival? Plus whatever Regina can scrape together? It’s worth it, to me. That woman deserves a break too.

I put the money back in its hiding place and put my wallet in my backpack.

A dusty shaft of light cuts across the room. Carefully, I wash the small window inside and out with a rag and some water from the garden hose. Clean sunlight fills the garage. I’m still not sleepy, so I grab Ben’s toolbox by the door and walk out into the backyard. The lonely half-assembled swing set is calling my name.

The task is hard enough that I can’t just fall back into being a robot. There are nuts and bolts to this thing, and crosspieces and chains, and the instructions are ass-backward and make no sense. After two hours of work, I’ve got the frame put together. After another half hour, the three swings are up, all shiny, and I feel a little bit better about life.

Vanessa comes down the steps with a coffee cup in her hand. I’m surprised—it’s Wednesday.

“I thought you were at work.” I’m dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. I’m kind of sloppy and it bothers me to be in her company like this.

“Not today,” she says. “I rearranged my schedule so that I could study.” She’s wearing a pair of yoga pants and another tight T-shirt. It’s a Dodger baseball shirt, and she looks so goddamn good in it, I say a silent prayer of thanks to Fernando Valenzuela. “Why aren’t you asleep?” she asks.

I wish I knew the answer to that question myself. “Just feeling wired, I guess.”

She walks over and inspects the swing set. I glance at her bare feet on the grass. Her toenails are painted red. “Looks good.”

Sure does. “Wanna test it out?”

She looks at me suspiciously. “I don’t know. It’s for kids. I might break it.”

“Naw, you’re crazy, girl,” I say. “I tested it out already.”

“How much do you weigh?”

“Two-ten and change. If these swings can handle me, they can handle you. Come on. Give it a try.”

She puts her coffee cup down on the empty cardboard carton that the swing set came in. She looks at me with a skeptical half smile. “If the chain snaps, you’re going to get it.”

“If you fall because the chain snaps, I deserve to get it. I put this son of a bitch together.” I hold the swing for her. “Come on. Get on already.”

Vanessa sits down in the seat and the plastic strap cradles her sweet, round ass. Her hair is long and loose today instead of tied up. The sweet scent of strawberries and vanilla surrounds me—it’s her shampoo. She smells so good I want to take a bite. She grabs on to the chains where my hands are and for a second, our fingers brush.

Okay, hold up.

Before we go on, you should know a little about my sex life.

The day of my welcome-back party, Ruben sent two—uh, let’s call them professionals—to take care of me. God knows I needed their attention after five years of nothing but Mary Poppins and her four sisters. Those women almost broke my back that night. I came so hard and so often that when it was all over, I felt like I’d had five years of sex in twelve hours. I couldn’t walk the next day. Ruben made fun of me for weeks.

Since that first marathon, I’ve been with a couple of other women from the neighborhood. Just a good time, a way to let off steam. But it’s been about three months since I’ve enjoyed that kind of company, and at the contact between Vanessa’s fingers and mine, I’m hard as a rock.

“Ready?” I ask.

“Not too hard.”

I swallow down a groan. “All right, here we go.” I pull back the chain and let go. When she swings back to me, I place my hands flat on her back and give her a gentle push. There’s a beautiful curve to her spine. I can feel her backbone against my thumbs.

She doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who would yell, “Wheeee!” She doesn’t. She simply smiles and looks at me over her shoulder. Her cheeks get rosy. She builds up a little momentum. Soon her dark hair is flying over her shoulders and she’s pointing her toes as she goes forward, higher and higher. I can see the clean soles of her pretty feet. Every time she swings back toward me, I smell her shampoo. I feel her skin through her shirt. I feel everything and I realize for the first time that being around her has quieted my anxiety. Instead of feeling trapped inside my head, I’m free. Right now, I’m just a body, standing here in the open air, in the sunlight, pushing a pretty girl on a swing. I hear occasional cars passing on the street, the breeze through the branches of the avocado tree, the soft squeak of the chains.

“When you were a kid,” she says, “swinging on the swings at the park, or at school, did you ever think you could go all the way around?”

“I always tried,” I say. “I’d swing as high as I could and jump off at the highest point.”

“What would that be? Five feet? Six feet off the ground?”

“Maybe.”

“Kids are such daredevils.” She’s swinging on her own, so I stop pushing her. “I wonder,” she says, “if in the history of playground swings, and the history of kids, anyone has ever gone all the way around.”

“You’d be a legend.” My eyes are on her ass now. Plump. The plastic presses into her flesh.

“A legend,” she repeats. “I remember recess being the best time of the day—”

She’s in the middle of a sentence when we both hear it—a loud snap.