Making A Call

Crime Fiction by J. Marquez Jr.

The second he put eyes on the silver Honda Civic with the words, WASH ME, scrawled across the blanket of dirt that covered its rear window Chico made the call he’d been making since childhood. A series of cracks that looked more like the webs under Spiderman’s armpits grew out the driver’s bottom corner this way and that across the windshield as if throwing gang signs at them. The front-left tire was exaggeratedly smaller than the others. Probably a doughnut. Who cared. Doughnut or not, Chico made his call. The car was a piece-of-shit.

“Perfect!” Said Primo, putting down his backpack next to the Honda. His light brown eyes flashed a greenish-yellowy tint under the bright sun, a trait that ran in the family. “This ride’ll do.”

Chico, on the other hand, could spot a piece-of-shit from a mile away. He’d been spotting them since the early age of four when his dad had picked up a life-sentence for some murder beef. It only took three weeks of daddy-absence for mommy to start bringing the piece-of-shits home. Each and everyone came with a tag of authentication that only Chico could read. In turn, it didn’t take long for him to develop the skill of calling them as they came for what they were. Despite his mom calling them boyfriends, Chico called them piece-of-shits. They were all the same.

Years later, on a sunny day in April, 1994, and at the age of sixteen, Chico stood in the alley behind the Rosewood Apartments’ carports in the City of Pomona, a small gang-infested city that orbited thirty miles east of Los Angeles, and made the call, “Chale, Primo. This ride’s a piece of shit. Why don’t we—”

“Whatta you want, bro? A fucking Ferrari? Chale, foo, there ain’t no fucking Ferraris in P-Town. This is what we get.” Primo rummaged through the tools inside the backpack. “Plus, look around you. You see any windows or cameras?”

Primo had a point. The Honda was tucked in the corner carport of the apartment-complex, stashed away from view. Still, though, Chico’s piece-of-shit detector beeped uncontrollably.

“Look, Primo, why don’t we go to the Sunset Apartments across the street? I’m sure we’ll find another G-ride.”

“Hey foo, if you wanna bitch out on me, then fuck off. I’m on a mission. That puto Neto’s gonna pay for what he did.” Primo took the Slim Jim out of his backpack. “I can handle this shit on my own.” Primo then proceeded to do the weird shit he always did in the middle of his conversations. He paused for a few seconds and stared at the air between his listener and him. It was the stare that told you, we’re experiencing technical difficulties, we’ll be back in a moment.

Once the hamster that ran the wheels inside his brain fixed the technical difficulties, Primo slid the Slim Jim into the Honda’s driver’s window and, with a magician’s finesse, unlocked the door.

“You’ve always struck me as a bitch, Chico.”

In any other case, Chico would have never tolerated any one call him a bitch. That was disrespect and disrespect was a no-no in his books. However, in this case, although not okay, he tolerated the disrespect because it was coming from Primo. And contrary to the meaning of the word primo, which meant cousin in Spanish, Primo was Chico’s uncle. As his uncle, Chico practically worshipped the ground he walked on. Primo was the funny one. He had a knack for telling the stories about his mischief with a punchline to the listener’s funny-bone. There was the story about how he sold a gun to some soka named Franco,who wanted to protect himself against some neighborhood thieves. It so happened that a week prior, two masked robbers approached him late at night, smacked him around with some gun and robbed him for every dollar in his wallet. Primo listened as Franco spilled out his woes and nodded with sympathy. He then offered to sell Franco a gun for protection. Franco bought the gun. As it turned out, Primo was one of the masked robbers who’d pistol-whipped and robbed Franco a week prior. And the gun he’d sold to Franco, well that happened to be the very same gun used. There was the story about Mrs. Anderson, the P.E. teacher, and the legendary one about Pastor Flores. On and on they went, the funny stories that circled around Primo. Then there were all those jainas and sluts that circled around Primo as well. Camel-toe Carmen. Christy-cream Christine. Hot-pocket Patty. Roxanne. Deserie. On and on they went like the funny stories. Therefore, sixteen-year-old Chico gloated like a gymnastics Olympic gold-medalist. Three years older, at nineteen, Primo served as Chico’s guide, mentor and, in turn, older homie.

“I’m just sayin’—”

“Just sayin’ what, foo? That you wanna rank out?”

Chico stood quiet. The Balance Scales of Life addressing their given inequalities and making the necessary adjustments to balance themselves. With the piece-of-shit Neto, his pride, his uncle’s nod of approval on one side and the piece-of-shit Honda Civic that looked to be glued together with Elmer’s Glue and duct tape on the other side, the scales evenly balanced.

“Remember, foo. Neto didn’t just fuck me. He also fucked you.” Primo added a fraction of an ounce to his side, and the Scales of Life teetered.

Fuck!

Three days ago, one of the guys from Paddy-Trac crossed the wash that separated the two neighborhoods, Paddy-Trac from Sintown, hopped the back wall into Primo’s backyard, broke into the shed and, after rummaging through layers of dust and cobweb, found Primo’s and Chico’s stash and stole it. The stash consisted of a half-pound of weed, four 8-balls, an array of stolen jewelry, a gold butterfly knife, a twenty-five caliber handgun and a red rubber band that held eight-hundred dollars in twenties. Primo was fuming and after making his inquiries, he said he finally had a lead: Neto.

Everyone in Sintown knew Neto from Paddy-Trac, who’d made crossing the wash to spray paint his gang’s territorial markings, wave guns at the fellas and move in his dope sales a bad habit. Now he was burglarizing their homes too? Shit! Neto had been walking on thin ice for a while. Now he walked over the ice with hot shoes. 

“Chale, Primo. It ain’t like that, homie. You know I’m down.”

“You’re not acting like you are, homes.” Primo was already sitting inside the Honda. He pulled the dent-puller out of his magical backpack and began the assault on the Honda’s ignition.  “Well, Chico? You comin’ or what?”

The Honda was up and running in no time and the teetering Balance Scales of Life tipped.

 “Fuck it, Primo.” Chico hopped in. “Fuck that puto, Neto!”

He pulled out a cigarette from a red Marlborough box and jammed it between his lips. “All that work we put in for what? For him to cross the wash into our hood and fucking jack us like that. Chale! You know I’m down, Primo. It was just that I don’t trust this fucking car. It looks like a piece-of-shit.”

“Too late. You’re in like Flynn now, homeboy.” Primo was already pulling out of the apartment carports. “Ey foo, let me get one of those frajos.” He made a sharp right on Ridgeway and they both swerved to the left inside the Honda.

“Relax, Primo. You’re gonna get us pulled over, foo.” Chico pulled out another cigarette and gave it to Primo.

“Don’t you worry bout my driving, foo.” Primo mumbled as he lit his cigarette. “Just listen to the plan again. We’ll head out to the pad where Neto chills. You know, the one behind Charla’s. He’ll probably be getting high under the steps in the back of the house. We’ll go around the back and blast him. Then we can hop the fence and post at Charla’s canton for a minute. Once everything cools down with the cops, we’ll ask her grandma, Mrs. Lori, to bring us back. Even though, by then the shit’s cooled down with the placas, Neto’s homies will still be buzzing around like angry wasps.”

“But what about our shit? You know, half of that stash was mine.”

“I don’t think there’s much of it left. That fucking junky’s probably slammed it down his veins by now. But we can check around for a sec and see if we find anything of value.” He made another sharp right. The Honda’s tires protested.

Chico didn’t say anything.

“Here,” Primo mumbled with one hand holding the wheel and the other fondling his backpack. The cigarette polluted and robbed the oxygen from his squinting right eye. He unzipped it, stuffed his arm inside it, never taking his eyes off the road, and pulled out a nine-millimeter handgun.

This fucking backpack was like a magician’s top hat, full of goodies and shit.

“Careful with it. It’s loaded.” The gun felt cold and enormous in his hands. It was quite a monster in comparison to the twenty-five Neto had stolen from them. In fact, the Nine was twice the size and three times heavier. Chico held it up and pointed it out the window. He remembered that not too long ago, he’d been riding around another G-ride with another one of his homeboys. They’d crept behind Primo.  Chico pulled out his black palm comb, pointed it at Primo as if it were a gun and yelled, “give me all your money, puto!” His uncle’s eyes had opened wide like an obedient mouth opens at a checkup when the doctor commands it to open up and say aah. He then ran and dove into the safety of some bush. Once Primo had realized his assailant was actually Chico and the gun was just a palm comb, he’d nearly cut Chico with the jagged profanities and insults he’d hurled at him with his mouth. Chico had laughed till he’d nearly shat himself.

If the Nine in his hand was twice as heavy than the missing twenty-five, it was, without a doubt, five times heavier than the palm comb he’d used to scare his uncle.

“Fuck you smiling for?”

Chico didn’t say anything.  He just looked at the nine-millimeter monster in his hands and chuckled.

“Here,” Primo magically pulled out a weathered cassette labeled, MIXED OLDIES. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and put on some rolas?”

Chico placed the gun in the center console. He obediently took the cassette and fed the Honda’s tape player’s hungry mouth. The Honda’s speakers randomly responded with Whatcha See Is Whatcha Get by The Dramatics.

Chico and Primo looked at each other briefly and simultaneously yelled, “ciao!”

***

Albert Hernandez was riding his bicycle to his friend’s house. Gil lived on Orange Grove Avenue, two blocks south of  Albert’s house on Kellogg Park Drive. He noticed a silver car pull into Paddy-Trac’s only entrance, and exit for that matter. His first thought was that it looked like a piece-of-shit. The Paddy-Trac neighborhood consisted of three streets that met each other to form a triangle. Two more streets cut through the triangle and dared the local Geometry professors to devise some word problem about the relations between the degrees and congruences the acute, obtuse and vertical angles these two barging perpendicular lines created.  

The silver piece-of-shit pulled up beside him. Albert tried to speed up but it was no use. The car kept Albert’s pace.

“Where you from, foo?”

He turned towards his interrogators and saw two bald-headed guys. They didn’t look much older than him. The one driving had a goatee and looked a little older but not by much. Probably a long-gone high school dropout. And the passenger?  His face was smooth and as hairless as his head. Hadn’t he seen him somewhere before? Yes but where? Church? Boy Scouts? School? That was it. He’d seen him in school. P. E. class to be exact. However, he didn’t remember his name just his baby face with the light brown eyes that sometimes looked yellow like butterscotch hard candies.

“I-I-I’m from nowhere.”

“You know Neto?”

Of course he knew Neto. Everybody in Paddy-Trac knew Neto. In fact, everybody knew everybody in Paddy-Trac, being that the small triangular neighborhood was enclosed by a wash on the north side, the 71 Expressway, that slanted on the south and the west side, and a wall with one opening that served as, both, an entrance and exit on the east side. But he wasn’t going to tell these two that he knew him. They looked to be up to no good.

“N-n-no,”

“Fuck you. You’re lying…”

“Leave him alone,” his schoolmate broke in. “We didn’t come for him.”

Albert remained quiet.

“Chale, foo. This motherfucker’s lying to us. He knows Neto.” The one with the goatee then turned his attention to Albert. “Whatta bout Charla? You know her?”

“Let’s go—”

“Nah, man. I know this little puto knows both of them and he ain’t saying. I oughta blast him.”

Albert saw the driver reach down between the center console. The one he recognized from school struggled a bit and said something he didn’t make out. Didn’t need to. Didn’t want to. All he wanted was to be away from these two crazy cholos. Albert pedaled his bike away from the car and—

The thunderous bang of a gun robbed the sound of the 71-Expressway behind Paddy-Trac momentarily. A multitude of birds abandoned trees, telephone lines, home antennas and all their favorite loitering spots. Every elbow. Every armpit. Every crotch. Instead, they flew east, then west in unison, like a flash mob and speckled the unblemished blue sky.

Sixteen-year-old Albert never felt the bite of the nine-millimeter bullet enter the back of his neck, destroy every nerve, muscle, sinew and bone that got in its way and make its exit out of his left cheek.

***

“You fucking shot him!” Chico panicked and nearly jumped out of the Honda. “Why’d you shoot him?”

Primo peeled out and made an angry right on Laurel Avenue, driving over the curb and nearly hitting a street pole.

“We were suppose to put a cap on Neto! Not him!” Chico pointed to their rear with his right thumb like some hitchhiker. “That dude goes to school with me. Fuck, man!”

“Would you just relax, homeboy. That dude was fucking lying to us. He knows Neto. And he also knows Charla. I could tell by the look in his eyes that he was lying—”

“Who gives a fuck if he knows Charla?”

“Ey foo, you’re missing the point. That fucker was gonna go and warn Neto. He was gonna pedal his little ass and tell him we’re looking for him.”

“And what the fuck do you think you just did, foo? You fucking warned the whole neighborhood…even the fucking birds know we’re looking for Neto!”

“Relax, man. I got this under control.”

He didn’t. A loud bang interrupted their feud. The bang was loud, not quite like a gunshot’s bang or loud enough to draw the neighborhood birds out of their favorite hangout spots but loud enough to startle them. It came from the front of the car. Chico and Primo ducked with a gang member’s natural instinct. Seconds later, the piece-of-shit Honda lost power.

Son of a—

Primo floated the car and struggled against the defiance of the Honda’s locked steering wheel as he tried to safely park it. The Honda Civic had other plans, however. Instead, it chose a nearby target, and like a torpedo, it silently glided until it smashed into the ass of a parked car.

When the car came into a complete stop, Primo grabbed his backpack, jumped out and ran, gun in one hand and his pack swinging in the other. Chico followed suit. He opened the passenger door and ran behind his uncle.

They jumped over fences, dodged barking dogs, ran on roof tops, tunneled through bushes and jumped over more fences. Along the way, they collected a variety of scratches, gashes, cuts and scrapes. At one point, they even ran on the side of the 71-Expressway like two cross-country runners. They hopped over walls, tunneled through more bushes, ran on more roof tops and dodged more fucking annoying dogs only to jump over more fences. Somewhere in the distance, the howling sirens of the Pomona Police Department crescendoed and mingled with the constant sounds of the freeway. After figuratively circling around the fence-barking-dogs-rooftops-and-bushes-thing, they literally circled around the rear of the Paddy-Trac neighborhood through backyards and alleys. Finally, they climbed over one last wall. Chico recognized the leaning structure with the splintery fading-white paint job as Charla’s piece-of-shit gazebo. Another call he’d made long ago.

Although their mission had fallen to pieces and Neto was still somewhere getting high with their stash, Chico couldn’t help but feel relief and safe at the sight of Charla’s home. He dug into his pocket and pulled out his palm comb. Although he shaved his head bald, he had the habit of gently gliding his palm comb across his bald dome. Especially when he felt nervous.

They both struggled to catch their breath momentarily. The sound of the police sirens and the breath of the freeway was deafening.

“Listen up, Chico,” Primo said in between breaths. “Sorry bout blasting that kid.”

“I knew that kid, Primo. He went to school with me. He wasn’t nobody.”

“He was Neto’s cousin, foo. I know he was. And he was gonna go and tell him. We couldn’t let him do that.”

Chico stood there. Catching his breath and trying to think. None of this shit was making any sense.

“Look. Let’s just chill here at Charla’s for awhile. Let everything cool down.”

“Whatta bout Neto? What bout our shit?”

The discussion between the freeway and police sirens was suddenly interrupted and chopped to pieces by the sharp blades of a helicopter.

“We’ll get a chance another day. For now let’s go inside before the ghetto bird sees us.”

Primo turned.

“Be quiet.”

He turned back around and didn’t give Chico the opportunity to add anything else to the thread of their conversation. He walked up the splintery fading-white steps of the back porch that matched the piece-of-shit gazebo and walked through the back door that led into Charla’s kitchen. He didn’t knock. Didn’t ask to come in. Didn’t announce himself. Just opened the unlocked door and walked in. After all, Charla was his girlfriend. Chico followed like he’d been doing all his life.

Once they were both inside, Primo shushed Chico and whispered, “wait here. I’ll be back.” He snuck around the corner and disappeared into the hallway.

Chico couldn’t stop thinking about the kid Primo had shot. He’d seen him in school many times. In the cafeteria. They’d passed each other in the hallway on the way to his English class. And…wait a minute, wasn’t he in Chico’s P. E. class?  What was his name? Alan? Alvin? No. Albert. That’s right. His name was Albert—

He heard Charla scream, a struggle, then another scream. Somebody snarled poisonous gibberish. Another struggle took place and the final round abruptly ended with a thud. He ran around the corner, down the hall and barged inside the complaining bedroom.

 He saw Primo panting and standing over two naked bodies drenched in a collage of blood. He held a gold butterfly knife. The body sprawled across the bed, he recognized as Charla’s. The one that weakly squirmed on the floor, he couldn’t quite make out.

“Is that Neto?”

Primo answered with his index pressed against his lips and a shush.

Seconds later they heard a door squeak open. Charla’s grandmother, Mrs. Lori, said from somewhere down the hall, “Charla are you alright?”

Primo quietly closed the bedroom door and waited. His index finger glued to his lips.

“Charla?”

Chico held his breath and the bedroom door began to open.

When Mrs. Lori walked in, Primo slid towards her and jabbed the tip of the butterfly knife, not quite puncturing the skin, but clearly contacting the side of her neck. That knife suspiciously looked like the one Neto had stolen. A glint of recognition flashed in Mrs. Lori’s eyes. She initiated a shriek she never fully developed.

“Shut the fuck up, bitch!”

“The fuck you doing, Primo?”

Primo responded by holding Mrs. Lori in a rear naked chokehold. He yanked her out of the bedroom. Mrs. Lori kept obediently quiet.

Chico almost barfed up the chili-cheese fries he’d eaten for breakfast that morning at The Golden Ox Burgers. He couldn’t make out the puzzle he was currently living in. If dead-naked-Charla was a piece of that puzzle, then what the fuck was dead-naked-Neto? A fucking Rubik’s Cube? He staggered behind, holding down the muriatic acid that threatened to come up his throat. 

He heard a slap from afar. Mrs. Lori screamed in pain. Another slap. Then, “I said, ‘shut the fuck up, bitch!’”

He walked around the corner into the kitchen and saw Mrs. Lori sitting in one of the chairs, his uncle shoving a rag into her mouth. He then knelt in front of her, his backpack welcomed his arm with its open mouth, and Primo dug in. When his arm came out, it was holding a roll of silver duct tape. He struggled with it momentarily and, once he unglued a corner, he used it to tape the rag unto her mouth.

Chico quietly watched. His mind swirling around like leaves in the presence of a gardener’s backpack blower.

Primo circled around Mrs. Lori, taped her hands together behind her back, then proceeded to tape her ankles together.

“There. You ain’t going nowhere.” Primo stood up and looked at Chico. “The fuck you standing there for, looking like you just seen a ghost?”

The tree leaves inside Chico’s head wildly spun and danced to the song of the blower.

“Let me get another frajo.”

Chico absently took out the pack of Marlborough Reds and gave Primo another cigarette. Primo took the frajo and jammed it in between his lips. The Nine was neatly tucked in the waistline of the oversized pants. The gun’s grip poked out like a submarine’s periscope. He lit the cigarette and mumbled, “why you tripping, little homie?”

Chico stared.

“You still tripping over Neto’s little cousin?”

“Chale, foo. What the fuck happen in that room? What the fuck was Neto doing in there?”

“Whatta you think? Charla was fucking Neto. And we caught’m.”

That sentence became the missing link between confusion and clarification like Bigfoot is the missing link between The Neanderthal Man and The Modern Man. Suddenly, everything made sense. The rush to get here. The piece-of-shit Honda. The familiar butterfly knife he’d just seen Primo with.

“I’ve been knowing she was fucking up on me with Neto for some time but hadn’t caught them.”

“So that story bout Neto jacking our stash was bullshit? Our mission? Everything?”

“I knew the only way to get you to come down with me was if I told you that Neto stole our shit.”

“When in reality he didn’t. All he ever stole was your bitch.”

“Simon. Fuck that bitch, though. You gotta look at things differently—”

“How?”

“Like the smart foos say, ‘you gotta be optometristic and look at the half-emptied glass half-full.’”

“And how’s that? When the fucking glass is completely empty? When it appears that you fucking drank the half of whatever shit was in the glass when you played me?”

The helicopter circled around.

“First, you make up this bullshit story bout a junkie stealing our shit. Second, you have me go on this bullshit mission by stealing a piece-of-shit car that breaks down…after…after you…after you fucking shoot that dude who’s got nothing to do with your madness. Then you take out your bitch along with sancho. Now you tie up Mrs. Lori? Fuck!”

Another round of applause by the helicopter above.

“You went on a fucking killing spree and took me along, Primo. That’s not cool!”

They both looked at one another momentarily. A whimper escaped Mrs. Lori’s taped mouth. Chico’s eyes suddenly lit up.

“Whatta bout our shit, Primo? What happened to it? The coke? The weed? What happened to the feria?”

“Don’t trip about that, little homie.” Primo proceeded to do that weird shit that resembled a taking-a-crap-stare. And Chico let him do it like he always did. Seconds after, “I’ve got you covered. You know I always do. For now, let’s lay low. Once the pigs leave, we’ll go back—”

“What about her?” Chico motioned to Mrs. Lori, who sat strapped to the electric chair Primo had assigned to her. “She knows who we are!”

“Don’t worry bout her. Let me wet my whistle first and then I’ll take care of her. You go to the living room and look out the window. It won’t take long. Here.” Primo took out a twenty-five handgun that looked suspiciously like the one his uncle had just admitted Neto never stole. “Not all is lost, you see?”

How much shit did he have in that backpack? Earlier, he’d thought of it as a magician’s top hat. Now it reminded him of the circus clown-car that always seemed to keep spitting out clowns while the audience laughed. This time, however, nobody laughed.

“Don’t be afraid to use it if someone comes.”

Chico took it. This one was not as heavy as the Nine but was still distinctly heavier than his palm comb. The weight nearly caused him to piss himself this time. And for the second time in an hour, he felt like throwing up the greasy chili-cheese fries he’d eaten for breakfast. He walked to the living room and almost toppled due to the heavy weight he carried inside his head. Primo walked away towards the kitchen and disappeared around the corner. Chico heard his uncle mumble something about his dick, a smack and a whimper. He turned and looked out the window. Everything made sense but didn’t. The helicopter whirled by. A bullhorn thundered from it saying something about two hispanic gang members that were armed and dangerous. But Chico paid no mind. Instead, he focused on the dangerously-unbalanced Scales of Life in his head.

So what if Primo had lied about the whole deal? Yeah, he’d used him to get to Neto and he’d played him like a fool. Although these weighed heavily on one side of the scale, blood was thicker than water and Primo was blood. No. That wasn’t enough to walk out. Also, let’s not forget that he’d made a call on the piece-of-shit Honda and Primo hadn’t listened. That was part of the problem. They were stranded— 

“…LOCK YOUR HOMES. THEY ARE ARMED AND DANGEROUS…”

Also, Primo shot the dude on the bike. If the bullet killed him, that’s fucked up because he had nothing to do with Primo’s shit. A murder, however, would give Chico status around the neighborhood. Everyone would give him respect. But if the bullet hadn’t killed him, he’d recognized Chico for sure and by now the cops probably knew who Chico was—

“…WHITE T-SHIRTS, OVERSIZED BLUE JEANS…”

Then there were Charla and Neto. That was where the shit began to thicken. Was that enough though? Hadn’t they been looking for Neto in the first place? Regardless of Primo’s personal issues, Neto was still an enemy. Charla? Well, who gave a fuck about that ho? Two murders, possibly three. And now came a fourth. This one, however, came with an extra ounce of…rape. Fuck! The scales began to topple.

“…DO NOT ENGAGE. I REPEAT, ‘DO NOT ENGAGE.’ CALL 911…”

Chico looked out the window, hypnotized by the seesaw in his head.

Pieces-of-shits were like spies in society. They walked among us every day. At the gym. School. The park. The fucking bus station.You could go a lifetime playing handball with one. Dining with one. Breaking bread with one and not know that the person you’re socializing with happens to be the king of piece-of-shits.

 “Suck my dick!”

Mrs. Lori screamed.

Chico had always looked up to Primo because of all the stories that went around about him in the neighborhood. Primo stole a car. Primo fucked Nichole. Primo slapped some disrespectful punk for running his mouth. Primo fucked Deserie. Primo robbed the liquor store. Primo fucked Roxanne. On and on it went. The mischief and the fucking. Chico wanted to be like his uncle. Chico aspired to be like Primo. The respect. The girls. And these aspirations, perhaps distracted him from making the call he should have made a long time ago.

He squeezed the handgun tight.

The scales tipped and spilled everything all over his head when he made the call he’d failed to make years ago. Primo was a fucking piece-of-shit.

With the cock of the gun, Chico appointed the next bullet to Primo and walked towards the kitchen.

“I said, ‘suck my dick, bitch!’” In lewd agreement, his uncle’s zipper whispered something in preparation.

 Chico turned the corner and snuck up behind his uncle, who found himself under the influence of lasciviousness. He put the gun against his uncle’s temple and pulled the apathetic trigger. The blast of the gun was deafening, but Primo never heard it. Instead, he toppled, like the Scales of Life had, and died immediately…presumably with a hard-on inside his pants.

Not entirely understanding how the loud blast of the gun had just saved her, Mrs. Lori screamed. The homemade gag hung like a bandit’s bandana around her neck. Her face was flecked with blood, chunks of Primo’s flesh and other nasty shit Chico couldn’t make out. He lowered his treacherous arm holding the gun as his pivoting neck controlled his vision back and forth from Mrs. Lori to his dead uncle. Mrs. Lori whimpered and shook.

“P-p-p-please don’t hurt me.”

“Listen, ma’am, I-I-I’m not going to hurt you. I need you to stay calm.”

“NO…NO… PLEEEEASE…STAY AWAY FROM ME!”

“Stay put, ma’am—“

“FUCK YOU…FUCK YOU…HELP! HEEEEEELP!” Mrs. Lori attempted to jump and run but the chair she was strapped to wasn’t cool with that at all. She nearly toppled like…like unbalanced scales. 

He walked up behind her and put back the gag.

“Mrs. Lori, I-I’m not gonna hurt you.” He walked back and forth like a nervous father-to-be at the maternity ward. She released another whimper. The helicopter made its round above. “I just need you to be quiet. I need to think.”

She sobbed in response.

“Fuck…fuck! FUCK!”

He threw the gun as if it were a rattlesnake. The rejected gun clattered a couple of fuck-yous in response.

“Where’s your phone?”

Mrs. Lori pointed towards the kitchen cabinet with her nose like a pointing dog revealing a cunning quail’s hiding place behind a Rosemary Bush.

“Ma’am, I-I’m truly sorry for this.” He looked around towards Primo’s still body and then towards the open bedroom door at the end of the hall with Charla and Neto’s naked bodies inside. His heart worked hard at pushing the chili-cheese fries out of its turf. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll be on my way. I swear you’ll be safe.”

He walked over to the phone that hung on the wall above the kitchen cabinets and dialed 911.

After minutes of surrealism, an army of cops surrounded Mrs. Lori’s home. Chico completely forgot about the gun that slept on the floor next to Primo and walked out. With open arms, he embraced the chaos that awaited him. The crackle of walkie-talkies. The howling sirens. The buzz of the helicopter that repeatedly faded in and out, like a bad radio-reception. An ocean of neighbors from around the neighborhood watched and awaited for something exciting to happen. Chico felt the pressure. All eyes were on him.

“SLOWLY PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR AND WALK TOWARDS ME…” bellowed a mega voice from the melee of flashing red and blue lights and sea of blue uniforms.

Chico raised his arms high.

How did he not realize Primo, whom he’d idolized all his life, was no good? The signs had always been there. Hadn’t he heard the rumors about Nichole? Deserie? And Roxanne? Rape. Rape. And rape. Chico had heard them alright but refused to believe them. Now, everything made sense.

“…STOP RIGHT THERE…” The mega voice of god thundered.

Chico stopped.

And then there was Joana. Wasn’t Joana younger than Chico? Which meant that she was fifteen, a child, when Primo impregnated her?

“…TURN AROUND…”

Chico did as he was told.

Fuck! Weren’t all the rumors and the fucked up shit Primo did enough weight to label him a piece-of-shit like the ones his mom brought home? And if he’d failed to make that call, can it be possible that he’d failed to make other calls like…like…oh fuck! Didn’t that make him, Chico, a piece—

“…PUT YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD…” God commanded.

            The Balance Scales of Life began to topple again.

“…OKAY. NOW SLOWLY WALK TOWARD THE SOUND OF MY VOICE…”

Clarity suddenly struck inside his head. All this time he’d been wrong about the Scales of Life as well. If you put three grams of cocaine on one side and three grams of baking soda, it’s still three grams, right?

“…EASY DOES IT…”

Life is actually fair. It’s always been. We’re the ones that are all fucked up by giving unnecessary value to things and shit. Who gives a fuck about the color of rocks? Gold…silver….or shit brown…who fucking cares? Three pounds of gold and three pounds of copper is still three pounds! Right? And a ten-pound sack of sunshine against a ten-pound sack of shit will still be ten fucking pounds in the Scales of Life!

“…EASY DOES IT, ASSHOLE…”

Chico abruptly brought down his right arm, reached into his pocket and pulled out his palm comb. Somewhere in the distance, he heard god thunder something about somebody having a gun. The distinctive sound of firing guns in a war zone followed from miles away. Chico made his final call as god’s first thunderbolt pierced through his body. Somewhere below, a second bolt. And a third. Then they were everywhere. He dozed off to the soothing lullabies of singing cop guns. And Chico, the biggest piece-of-shit of all, teetered and toppled unlike the Scales of Life that were at long last steady. Even. And sound.

(Author’s Apologies (And Fun Facts): The City of Pomona is indeed approximately 30 miles east of Los Angeles. Paddy-Trac and Sintown are indeed two small neighborhoods that sit side-by-side in Pomona and are indeed split by a wash. Paddy-Trac does indeed consist of three streets that form a triangle and two others that perpendicularly cut through it. In turn, it does indeed make it a Geometry teacher’s opportunity to castigate his/her students with word problems about the relations of angles and such. Its only entrance does indeed simultaneously serve as its only exit as well. However, Paddy-Trac and Sintown are not indeed their official names. If one was to Google them, one would indeed be disappointed, for Paddy-Trac and Sintown are names strictly reserved for Pomona’s residents only. Sorry, my friends, but this is indeed a P-thing.)

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Bio: J. Marquez Jr. was born and raised in the jungles of Los Angeles. He is a true enthusiast of rock music and 80’s-era graffiti art. To learn more about him—it is unclear why anybody would—one can read the biographical and illustrated stories tattooed up and down his arms and across his chest.

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