The War Whisperer: Book 1: Geronimo Page 13

  “So, what about the Reds?” I asked.

  “Yeah, the Reds,” said Jonny. He tapped the side of his head. “For him happiness is power, and if he had all the power in the world, he wouldn’t be happy enough.”

  East of Zarzamora

  The colonel’s house was small, a single story cracker box with a recessed corner on the right that made for a rain protected stoop, the front door facing east rather than the street. The front of the house had one double-hung window, closed against the heat. Almost none of the houses we had seen had basements. No vents, no basement windows. The colonel’s house had two tiny basement windows on the street side of the house.

  Luke pushed the doorbell and thirty seconds later the door opened, swung inward, revealing a man clad in a black and green aloha shirt, baggy once-white cargo shorts. His left leg was dark caramel colored. His right leg from mid thigh down was black plastic: a prosthetic limb. Catchy music emanated from his left cargo pocket I later learned was the middle of Benny Goodman’s “Six Flats Unfurnished.” He reached down into his pocket and stopped the sounds.

  Jonny introduced us to the colonel. He was maybe forty, lean but well built, dark caramel complexion, with black hair shot with gray and cut close on the sides. He had almost black eyes that looked as though they had seen a lot of life and a lot of loss. Although he had an air of sadness about him, he got around pretty good on that plastic leg.

  “What’d the VA say?” asked Jonny.

  “Another week of rehab, then I can drive myself once I get a car with a couple of modifications. Got that on order. How’s your gut?”

  “Glued together and holding, colonel. You know they glued me together?”

  “Did the same to me, but left out a couple of parts.” He bent over and knocked on his plastic leg. With a wry smile he said, “You all want to come in and soak up some root beer?”

  “Thanks colonel,” said Jonny. “That’d be great, but we’re just getting started learning the ten and we have a long way to go.”

  Colonel Belton nodded toward Dylan and me. “These the replacements?”

  “Two of them.” Jonny held out a hand toward my brother. “This one is Dylan Nuñez.”

  They shook hands and the colonel said, “Pleased to meet you Dylan.”

  “You a real colonel?” Dylan asked.

  Colonel Belton laughed. “Well, just a retired lieutenant colonel.”

  Jonny pointed at me. “This is Jerry Track.”

  I shook hands with him and looked into his eyes. The eyes that looked back seemed to recognize something in me. I recognized it too, in him: a feeling I couldn’t identify right then, almost a sense of dark brotherhood thing. “How are you doing, Jerry?” he asked.

  “Okay, colonel,” I said. “Glad to meet you.”

  “Once they take over the ten,” said Jonny, “they’ll be working it all by themselves. When we get more recruits in and trained they’ll have some company.”

  “Sorry about Two Bits,” said the colonel to Jonny. “I really liked him.”

  “His mom said to tell you thanks for coming to the funeral, colonel, and for the flowers. She and the rest of Two Bits’s family appreciated it, coming all the way out to Mason.”

  “It was no trouble,” the colonel said. “Mrs. Northstar having any trouble meeting the funeral expenses?”

  “Great of you to think about that, colonel, but the Kings took care of the expenses.” Jonny held out his hand and they shook as Jonny said, “We got to be going. Pick you up tomorrow for rehab?”

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’ve imposed enough. I found a taxi service that will actually come into this neighborhood. You’re clear to train your new crew.”

  Colonel Belton offered his hand and as he shook Jonny’s hand, Dylan’s and mine, he said to all three of us, that if we ever needed his help on anything at all, from a community bake sale to another street war, call him. Nothing in his face suggested he was being amusing about the street war offer.

  When he turned to reenter his house and close the door, I could see a bulge in the back of his aloha shirt about belt height. Luke Belton was carrying.

  Jonny told us it was an old fashioned Army Colt 1911 .45. “Shoots fucking hot-loaded cannonballs and leaves a damn nasty hole coming and a horror show going,” assured Jonny who had seen it in action that night. “The colonel say those little nines they use in the Army now ain’t good for nothing ‘cept letting the bad guys know where you are.” Jonny shrugged. “Nobody here ‘cept the feds wear body armor, so nines work okay here and we don’t shoot at the feds.” He shrugged. “But, used just right, even twenty-twos can take out the garbage.”

  Past the end of the dead-end street, we walked the top of the creek bank, past what looked like an abandoned manufacturing concern on the right: huge Quonset huts, collapsed outbuildings, rusty-topped warehouses, piles of rusted machinery and junked cars. “See the hides?” said Jonny nodding toward the yard. “See the paths, the gaps in the fence? You got a pack of Reds or DEA agents on your tail, you know where everything is and how to get from anyplace to anyplace in the dark, you going to out distance someone who don’t know.”

  He pointed up at the sky. “Reds and feds both got access to satellite imagery, so they both know what they can about your ten. They know where the fences are, what kind, where the buildings, back yards, and streets are. They got nothing beneath roofs, things hidden by overhanging trees, and under the dirt. They don’t know who’s got dogs, cats, chickens, renters living in outbuildings, but you will by the time you finish learning your ten.”

  Jonny pointed at me. “You play chess?”

  “A little in school,” I said.

  “Play chess—a lot. It’s playing moves ahead and figuring out what your opponent’s next moves will be ahead, and all of your alternate moves when your opponent doesn’t do what you thought he would.” He grinned. “You get good enough at chess and Boss Cañón might have you over to River House Compound for a game.”

  At Zarzamora Street and a large sign atop a steel pylon advertising Reserva De Mexico Tequila, Jonny stopped us and said, “Okay, look all around.”

  Zarzamora was a wide, four-lane boulevard with concrete sidewalks. Where we were standing was close to the north end of the Zarzamora Bridge where it spanned Alazan Creek. Directly across Zarzamora was a run-down and apparently closed auto repair garage next to an auto graveyard, the wrecks stacked five high in places.

  On the other side of the garage walking toward a do-it-yourself carwash was a heavy man wearing black jeans, a black tee, and a red bandanna wrapped around his head and tied in back.

  “That a Red?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said Jonny. “They always got red on their heads. Set themselves apart; Bandannas, baseball caps, even hair picks. They advertise wearing red like a TV commercial.”

  I frowned and looked at Jonny. “The Kings have anything like that?”

  “No. We just look like regular people. That way no one can be sure the dude next to him might not be a King. And we don’t set ourselves apart from the people in Kings territory. Kings don’t run your ten, the people do. And we are part of the people.” He pointed behind us and we turned to see our next street: Rounds.

  Rounds Street, which was more alley than street, was narrow, barely wide enough for two cars to pass, overgrown with trees, bushes, and weeds, the edges of properties lined with fences, mostly chain link, some masonry with broken glass mortared in, the sharp edges up.

  “Memorize which fences are made from what,” said Jonny to me. “Masonry you can get over without making a sound, unless you get cut up on the glass. See who uses glass and who doesn’t. Wood, planks or rails, you can get over pretty quiet—a squeak or rattle depending on how well built it is. Chain link if you kick or touch it always make noise—very identifiable noise. A squeak from a wood fence might be a door opening or someone stepping on a plank floor. Nothin’ else in the world sound like chain link when you hit it or climb over it. The hounds hear tha
t, they know where the fox went.”

  There were fenced back yards, junkyards, and outbuildings like tool sheds and garages that had been turned into makeshift apartments in which entire families were living and paying rent. Jonny introduced us to whoever was in. All of them were curious about Jonny’s eventual replacements. They expressed sadness at the death of Two-Bits and Jonny leaving the neighborhood. Jonny handed out over two hundred dollars to back yard residents up against it. They were all valued parts of the ten. He gave no money to active junkies.

  Rounds Street was an absolute forest of escape routes. Anyone chasing me into this area would be easy to lose. Most of the fences were easy to jump, but harder to get through quietly because of taller chain link fences in eleven cases, pets in fifty-one cases, chickens in four cases, other livestock in nine cases, outbuilding renters in forty-six cases, and visible alarm warning signs in thirty-two cases. Easy enough to toss a rock at some chickens on the south side to get them squawking, then hop a wooden fence on the north side.

  I remembered to look up—rather, that others were looking down. Satellites, drones, manned choppers with night vision and thermal imaging. Many, many factors in the equation of getting from here to there. Overhanging tree to overhanging tree; shed roof to culvert. Across Calaveras Street, Rounds continued becoming almost an overgrown jungle in places. In our ten, Rounds was an alley, almost no front doors facing it.

  As Rounds crossed Navidad Street, we could look across the street and see Rounds widening out and continuing east as a regular residential street with homes facing onto it. The street corners were rounded, the house lawns green and held back by low masonry retaining walls. Not part of our ten, though.

  There was a fellow sitting on the north retaining wall, watching us. Jonny waved at him and the fellow nodded back. He was a King watching his ten.

  We went south on Navidad until we got to Arbor, turned right, and did Arbor on this side of Calaveras, met more people, learned the names of more children, babies, dogs, and cats, studied more fences, routes to back yards, arranged to help three more persons move into homes, and another person, also a veteran of the Egypt War, to help put up her fence.

  I told Jonny I never forget anything, but my memory was being overwhelmed by the ten. I didn’t think I could remember all the names, all the properties, all the paths.

  “Not on the first day, Jer,” he said. “Breaking in new King prospects, though, after first week it’s like a puzzle that just seems to fall together. You got to like people. You don’t care much for people, the Kings way ain’t goin’ to work for you.”

  “You say the Reds are like an occupying army?” Dylan asked.

  Jonny nodded. “They figure ruling by terror is faster, cheaper, and less hassle. Makes them feel like big shots, too. Whatever shit they deal out, if you in Red grass, you take it and keep quiet or find yourself dead.”

  “Before I met Billy,” said Dylan, “that’s how I think gangs work.”

  “They all used to. But Kings don’t,” he said. He pointed with his thumb back over his shoulder. “Those three you goin’ to help move into their new homes? Notice where they moving from? Rivas and Twentieth? Murry and Perez? Salinas and Twenty-first? That’s all Reds grass. I bet you get another dozen people you can help move into your ten before the week is done, all from Reds territory. Just remember: You help unload and move in; You do not help load up and move out. That’d be in Reds grass, and we don’t go on that side of the Zees. Understand?

  We understood, but I had an uneasiness in the pit of my stomach. In a way it seemed like Jonny was saying, about a burning fuse, if you don’t bother it, it won’t bother you.

  It took us the rest of the day, but we walked every street in the ten, listened as Jonny described the inhabitants of each residence or business, greeted and said hello to hundreds of men, women, and children, and ate lunch at a small Tex-Mex luncheonette at Poplar and Navidad, the northwest corner of our ten. No charges for the meal; Refusing the gift would be an insult. Jonny tipped large, though. It evened out.

  It seemed to be less like what I imagined being a gang member was and more like being a candidate for political office. The exception was profound: Once they got your vote, the politician was out of there. Kings stayed. The perception, and the reality, to both the Kings and the people of the ten, was that the Kings were there for them: thick and thin, fat and lean, rough and easy, peace and war. Even more important: the people of the ten were there for the Kings.

  Occasionally someone would be in and notice Jonny walking by. Dozens of times we were invited in to local homes for coffee, tea, or beer. We had to turn down most of these invitations, but Jonny would at least introduce Dylan and me and spend a bit of time to catch up. Jonny knew all their relatives, their kids, pets, home situations, who was in jail, who was in rehab, who was in school, who was sick, who was graduating, who was starting a new job.

  In the course of the greetings and chatter, we also picked up a lot of gossip. Most of it was irrelevant, but some had to do with who was talking to whom, strangers poking around, a bit of blue sniffing around up on Lyons, a couple of red bandannas in a car riding past Rivas on Navidad, a couple of strung out and mean bastards on Reds grass close to the Zees, a suspected child molester seen on Rivas east of Laza, and other neighborhood happenings. It didn’t take a week to get a dozen more persons moving into the ten from Reds grass to help. It only took two days, and we got lots of help from neighbors moving them in.

  Two neighborhoods next to each other in the same city separated by Zarzamora, the homes in Reds territory actually newer and more expensive than the ones our ten, the only difference between the two neighborhoods being the cost of living. The expenses west of the Zees had to do with weapons, alarms, locks, door and window armor, humiliation, payoffs, hospitalizations, and death.

  On the Kings side, we had a brand of thoroughly corrupt law and order, but law and order all the same: consistent and based on common sense. If you lived under the protection of the Kings, you weren’t slapped around on the street just because it looked like fun to some pecker-short gang banger. Your kids got to grow up and go to school. If you needed help, help came. If you just wanted to talk, someone would be there to listen. You needed to get something done that was a little beyond what you could pay for or do for yourself, cheerful willing hands or a few dollars would arrive to help.

  Even druggies from Reds grass would sneak over the Zees to buy their shit from the Kings mainly because the product sold by the Kings was clean, consistent, less expensive, and reliable. Square deals; no rip-offs. You buy smack in Reds grass, it could be heroin, it could be confectioner’s sugar, battery terminal scrapings, or rat poison.

  Big economic principle: People voting with their feet. First time I ever noticed it and saw it for what it was. None of the people really knew all the ins and outs of the two approaches. All they knew was east of the Zees they were safer, more free, and weren’t soaked for money they couldn’t spare. East of Zarzamora, the path to their dreams was open. According to Nacho, the Kings way of doing things was best measured in receipts. The Kings were flush; The Reds were scraping by just barely paying their dues to the Council.

  At the end of each day, Dylan and I both were exhausted. Nacho picked all three of us up back at the bridge. In the car Nacho was talking about the new police drones and how the city could make money by not using them on the gangs but by discreetly renting them out to the gangs. At night in Nacho’s office, though, the crew boss would begin by saying, “So, tell me all you learned today.”

  That was to be our routine for the first week. Nacho would drop the three of us off at the Calaveras Street Bridge, and we would walk the ten, saying hello to those who had seen us the day before, introducing ourselves to those we had missed, studying the paths, obstacles, and hides, collecting useful gossip, unplugging a toilet, screwing in a loose hinge, getting a cat out of a tree. Dylan and I were looking for a place to live, Nacho quizzing us when we got back to his
place at night. It was one long exhausting job interview.

  Dylan and I saw a place on Delgado Street, near where Laza tees into it, that was for rent. It was run down but cheap. It took a few days, talking to the folks who would be our neighbors. Although cheap, the rent was too high for a couple of kids who had yet to draw a paycheck. It was a better deal than other places we found. One advantage to the Delgado Street place was that it was almost dead center in our ten.

  We stayed in a room at Nacho’s for the first week. Delfina and Ivanna were a great cooking team. As tired as he was at the end of the day, Dylan would be there ready to help and learn the second Nacho released us. I got to watch TV with the gang underboss and his boys and got to like his sons a lot. The three of us played three-way vid games on Eduardo’s game box, eventually earning me the avatar name “Night Slayer.”

  Their father watched a lot of really old documentary series and movies, mostly about gangs and military battles. A typical evening might be an episode of Sons of Anarchy, followed by a Godfather movie, and topped off by an episode of War Count. No nightly news. I asked him why.

  “Don’t want to get confused, Jer. See everybody on TV selling something—even public television—especially public television. So, whatever they say, however they look, is packaging for what they sell. The SA Reds kill eleven of ours, we kill a dozen of theirs, sound like a civil war. Business in SA don’t like that. Politicians in SA don’t like that. So, it put on TV and look like a little misunderstanding over a traffic situation. All better now.” He pointed a thumb at his own chest. “I get the news I need straight from Joaquín Cañón, the SAPD, and people like you and Dylan straight from the tens.”

  Nacho’s sons liked the more recent programs, like Star Angel, Toolie and the Stu, and Blue Dragon Lake.

  I never saw Nacho Azul drink alcohol, use drugs, smoke, or even have real sugar in his house. He did dress very well, gave Dylan some pants and shirts he no longer needed, and loaned me six hundred dollars to get some clothes without holes in them.