Speak of the Devil (9 page)

“No. I don’t.”

“Luisa says my mommy’s spirit watches over me.”

“Ah, well. Spirits are a different matter,” Anna extemporized. “I do believe in spirits, but only the nice kind, like your mommy’s, who watch out for you.”

“Hm. Can you look under my bed?”

“What for?”

“Monsters.”

“There’s no such thing as monsters.”

It was the automatic grown-up response, and Anna remembered how unsatisfying it had been to hear as a kid. So she got down on the floor. As she reached for the flowered dust ruffle, she experienced a tiny shiver of fear. What if there was something beneath the bed? Not a monster but a man, holding a sharpened blade? Ready to grab her wrist. She had a case like that once.

She shook off the vision and lifted the material. Under the bed were a few toys, a doll, and some dust bunnies. Anna let go of the dust ruffle, exhaled, and sat on the bed again.

“All clear.”

“How do you
know
there are no monsters?”

Olivia studied Anna’s face. This was a serious question, and she expected a serious answer.

“I’m twenty-eight years old. So I’ve been around for a long time.”

“That
is
long.”

“And in all that time, I’ve never seen a monster. I’ve never met anyone else who has. So I feel pretty confident in saying there are no monsters.”

Olivia nodded, somewhat satisfied with the answer.

But Anna was lying, and she knew it. She spent her days fighting monsters. Evil as real as the worst gothic horror. Killers, kidnappers, rapists—on the streets, and in people’s homes, and sometimes even under the bed. There were monsters, and Anna was afraid of them.

She continued to sit, patting Olivia’s back, as the girl’s breaths became slower and deeper. She watched Olivia’s cherubic face on the pillow. This was her child now. She would do everything she could to protect her from monsters, real and imagined. She stayed with the little girl until she fell asleep. Then Anna kissed her forehead and left the bedroom, keeping the door propped open to let in the light from the hallway.

That night, Anna snuggled into Jack’s body, drawing reassurance from the solid warmth of his skin against hers. His steady breathing helped steady her own. Eventually, she slept. But then she dreamt of all the things she told Olivia didn’t exist. A gang of demons, dancing wild-eyed around something in their midst: a creature with horns, cloven feet, and eyes as black as pits. The creature laughed, revealing razor-sharp teeth and a forked tongue, as he bound Anna and Nina to a stake and set fire to them both.

13

Two dozen young men, stripped down to their underwear, crowded around Gato as he stood on a chair in the middle of the cheap motel room. Twenty-four muscular chests, covered in a gallery’s worth of blue-and-black tattoos. Forty-eight arms raised, hands clenched in
la garra
, the claw: pinky and index fingers extended in the sign of the Devil’s horns. Twenty-four faces all looking at Gato expectantly. The motel room was humid from all the bodies and recycled breath. Gato raised his arms and made the claw, too.

“La Mara,” he intoned.

“La Mara,” two dozen voices chanted. They threw up the signs: the “M,” the “S,” the “13,” the “L-P-S” for their clique, their hands flying in the gang’s elaborate sign language. Gato looked around the room with satisfaction. If Diablo came tonight, he would be pleased.

Once, Gato had loved being Second Word. Out there, he was a landscaper—any asshole could tell him to clip their bushes or weed their flower beds, and he’d just smile and do it. He had no papers; he needed the work. But in here, he was a shot-caller, second only to Psycho. And with Psycho in jail, Gato was First Word. If he had something to say, the homies listened. If a shop owner caused a problem, he decided who would handle it and how brutal they could be. If a rival gang member, a
chavala
, came to their territory, Gato gave the greenlight to have him killed. In here, Gato decided who lived and who died. Only Diablo was more feared.

But he no longer relished the position. Only twenty-one, was he already too old? He didn’t like the killings, the beatings, the rapes. He would do what was needed for the gang. He always had. But it was starting to weigh on him. A year ago, he had greenlighted an old friend who tried to come to a
misa
wired up. Now that friend was dead—and the rest of them stripped before each meeting. Most of the bodies were skinny, muscular, and young. Not many MS members made it to old age.

Gato sat down on the only chair. One of the younger homies, Lagrimas, stood behind him. Lagrimas was Gato’s Second Word for tonight’s meeting.

This was not their usual weekend meeting time, and attendance was light. But Bufón was dead, Psycho was in jail, and decisions had to be made. Diablo had gone back to where he came from—although he would be watching, waiting, ready to return and exact vengeance if they fucked up. They wouldn’t see him coming until he arrived, and then it would be too late.

“Psycho needs a lawyer,” Gato said. “Not some fucking public defender. How much have we got?”

“Twelve hundred,” said Lagrimas, who’d collected the dues.

Not enough. Not nearly enough. Gato looked down at his hands, spreading his fingers so he could see the ink inside the webbing there. The days of heavily tattooed bodies were winding down. The old-timers were covered in tattoos, earned like badges of honor. But law enforcement was onto it. An illegal like Gato couldn’t afford big tattoos announcing his gang membership. Immigration officials used the tattoos to establish they were MS, which made it easier to deport them. Gato’s tattoos were inside his lips and in the webbing between his fingers and toes. His most obvious tat was the three-dot symbol, inked between his thumb and index finger.

“As of today, rent goes up,” he announced. “Every business can pay double what they were paying before. Dues at
misas
are double, too.”

There was groaning. This meant more work, less beer and weed.

“We didn’t send no money to Araña when he got locked up,” Rooster said.

Gato stood up, stepped over a few men, and punched Rooster in the jaw. The younger man fell backward and glared at him, but knew better than to fight.

“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood,” Gato said. “If Diablo was here, he’d cut you up.”

Several men nodded. The last homeboy to talk back to Diablo had been hacked into pieces and fed to dogs. “I wasn’t First Word when Araña got arrested. I am now. Any more questions?”

The men were silent. Rooster rubbed his jaw and looked down.

“Good.” Gato sat back down. “Since Rooster loves my plan so much, he can put in some work. You have the food carts, Rooster. Lagrimas, you’ll take the brothels. Casper, you have the strip malls.”

“What if they say they can’t pay no more?” Casper asked.

“You tell them the Devil sent us. And they’ll answer to the Devil if they don’t obey.”

The men murmured their agreement. Gato stood up. He was ready to call the
misa
to a close. But Lagrimas leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Buena’s up tonight.”

Gato nodded. The men could use some fun. There were only three places MS could lead you—but there were benefits, too. This was one of them.

“One final thing,” Gato said. “We welcome a new homegirl tonight. Buena.”

A cheer went up. The men stood and pushed open the door connecting to the adjoining hotel room, where the girls were waiting. Girls were not allowed in
misas
, although they put in a lot of work for the gang. The girls begged on the streets for the money that paid for hotel rooms; they sometimes sold their bodies to get cash for the gang. But they knew their place. They wanted the acceptance and the glamour, and were willing to do what they were told.

The smell of perfume, marijuana, and beer drifted in from the girls’ room. The girls had started the party before them. The homeboys swarmed into the girls’ room, and the homegirls swarmed back, until they formed one big party between the two rooms. Music pumped from WILC Romantica 900 AM. Someone threw a red shirt over the bedside lamp, bathing the room in a pink glow.

Gato opened a bottle of Hurricane malt liquor and began to relax. He accepted a joint, and inhaled deeply. He needed this, a chance to think of something besides his friends being killed and arrested.

In one corner, a woman with amateur tattoo equipment inked a tear into Casper’s cheek, by his eye. Last week, Casper had killed a
chavala
, earning that tattoo. Homeboys were required to kill
chavalas
on sight. Gato couldn’t even recall how many tears he would have now, if he’d gotten one inked for every person he’d killed.

By the bed, Rooster was pulling off Buena’s T-shirt. She smiled nervously at him. Rooster ran his thumb down her cheek, then helped her out of her jeans, panties, and bra. Naked, Buena lay on her back on the starched white sheets. She was fifteen years old, with the body of a girl who would one day become a fat woman. But for this moment she was beautifully voluptuous, round and firm as a peach. The party went on, everyone smoking, drinking, and watching the action on the bed. The bass line from the music pulsed through the red light, making Gato feel like he was standing in the middle of a beating heart.

Everyone knew Rooster was in love with Buena, and she with him. Rooster sat on the bed, kissed her gently, and stroked her round breasts. She moaned, and Gato was glad. The rest of the night would be easier for her if she were ready. Rooster pulled off his own pants and climbed onto the bed, arranging himself over his girlfriend. He met Buena’s eyes as he entered her. Buena sighed and arched her back.

Gato leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, remembering how it felt with Maria-Rosa, so long ago. The way she smiled at him when he was deep inside her. How it felt to come while looking into her soft brown eyes. Falling asleep with his face pressed into her hair, inhaling the scent of her strawberry shampoo. How much she had trusted him.

A cold beer pressed into his hands made his eyes open. He took the bottle, twisted off the cap, and drank half of it down.

Rooster gasped then stilled over Buena. Closing his eyes, he buried his face in her neck. Casper pushed away the tattoo equipment and stood by the bed. Reluctantly, Rooster pulled out and got up. The two men traded places.

Buena knew what was coming, and she didn’t resist. Casper flipped Buena over onto her stomach and pushed his pants down to his knees. Rooster was still pulling his clothes back on when Casper hiked Buena up to her hands and knees and slammed into her from behind. Casper slapped her ass and yeehawed like a rodeo cowboy as he rode her. The other men laughed and cheered.

The rest of the party went on. Two girls danced with three boys in the corner. A couple leaning against a wall shared a cigarette. Rooster walked over and stood next to Gato.

When Casper finished with Buena, Lagrimas took his turn. He flipped the girl back onto her back, pinned her throat with his hand, and slammed into her with vicious force, making her whimper. But she didn’t move to stop him.

Most of the girls Gato knew were like Buena. Enough had happened in her life—she’d been demoralized in so many ways before she met the gang—this seemed like a small price to pay for the acceptance MS-13 offered. Buena gritted her teeth and looked over at Rooster, who gnawed his thumbnail as he watched Lagrimas fucking the girl he loved. Having participated in this ceremony many times himself, Rooster could not object to it now.

When Lagrimas was done, the next homey went. Every one of the men and boys would go, running a little train, a
trenchito
, on Buena. Each would add his own little humiliation to the act. The girl accepted she was property of each of the men, inferior in every way. Girls became part of the gang by being sexed in. Boys were “jumped in” to the gang, beaten by everyone for thirteen seconds.

Gato would be the only man who wouldn’t take a turn with Buena. A few of the homies had started to call him Padre—like he was a priest, celibate. That wasn’t true—he still did the occasional girl, although it had to be somewhere quiet, somewhere he could close his eyes and imagine she was Maria-Rosa. But he didn’t do the
trenchitos
anymore, and he didn’t touch the prostitutes at brothels. Still, he couldn’t have anyone thinking he’d gone soft. When he first heard the Padre nickname, he beat its creators viciously.

The boys loved sexing in the girls, for obvious reasons. But it was more than just sex. These were boys at the bottom of society’s food chain. The world taunted them with their low status, their inferiority, with all the things they would never own or achieve. But at least they were superior to the girls. Here, they had the power.

That didn’t make it any easier for a man to watch it happen to the girl he loved. Gato glanced at Rooster, who looked miserable as he stared at the activity on the bed. Gato was sorry he’d punched him earlier. He chugged the rest of his beer, grabbed Rooster by the arm, and led him into the other room.

“It’s easier if you don’t watch.”

14

The next morning, Anna was tempted to stay home with Jack. He was on a mission, making the house a fortress. He’d called a group of ex-cops who owned a security company, and they came over first thing in the morning and started installing metal bars over the basement windows. They put video cameras outside the front and back doors and, inside, mounted a small computer with a monitor showing the video footage. They put in glass-break alarms, door and window sensors, and a panic button on each floor. Anna watched them install one in Olivia’s closet, and was glad the girl was already at school. It would freak her out to see this.

Anna wanted to get to work. The photo, upsetting as it was, was a footnote to her investigation. If the case were going to be solved, now was the crucial time in the investigation. The security guys didn’t need her telling them which wireless monitoring system to use. So she packed up her stuff and told Jack she was heading to the office.