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hausofmamadas · 2 years

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| Every alley in Mexico has its own ghost |

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Pairing: Ramón Arellano Félix x David Barrón

Written especially for @kesskirata - Narcos Fanfiction Exchange 2022

Word count: 3K

I’d never met anyone like him. Which made sense. The planet would likely combust if it had to contend with the rabid, spitfire energy of more than one Ramón Arellano Félix.

David Barrón has spent the last few months “not noticing” Ramón Arellano Félix, but even the will and self-denial of a deeply repressed convicted felon/cartel assassin isn't enough to withstand the fatal charms of the youngest Arellano.

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I leaned over the warehouse railing, trying hard not to pay attention to what was missing from the main floor below. The empty spot in the middle where that tall kid with the crazy hair should be gesturing wildly with an ice pop in one hand, shooting Nestor with his BB gun in the other, laughing every time he winced, fighting with Mín over where the trucks should go once they arrived. That tall kid with the crazy hair was miles away and I was trying hard not to notice.

Mín’s office door slammed and I turned around just in time to see Pancho chuck something in my direction. His throw was short and whatever it was - looked like a balaclava of some kind - ended up plopping half a foot from my shoes. When I picked it up, I was smacked by the smell of latex and formaldehyde. Inspecting it more closely, I realized it was a Halloween mask. A kitschy calavera skull to be exact, black and white with tacky accents of orange and purple lining the eyeholes. Something you’d find at Party City or some scrappy stand on the pier at Pacific Beach. Ridiculous but something else to think about.

“Barrón? Are you coming?”

I held up the mask with two fingers like a pair of dirty socks and looked at Pancho, dubious.

“Que cabrón? Qué pedo?”

I didn’t have to say anything. I wasn’t going anywhere without an explanation. Pancho knew this.

“Pinsh— tu eres el cabrón mas shingada obstinado que he conocido pues. Lo sabes?”

I knew it, but still said nothing. Let silence reverse-engineer the conversation. People like Pancho who were uncomfortable with silence were particularly susceptible to the dangers of filling it with chatter. Sometimes the chatter was useless. But if you held out long enough to convince them that supplying answers might end the noiseless agony, the chatter contained a lot of those too. They’d break, give you something for nothing at all. Friends for years, and still, Pancho fell for it every time.

“Par de independientes,” he relented, raking his hand over his face and sighing, “from your neck of the woods are pushing product, pero no han pagado la pisa. Dina got the bright idea to collect without enough backup. Món and Mín aren’t back from Ensenada yet. Entonces, somos su espaldos.”

My neck of the woods? That couldn’t be right. No one would be that stupid with Ziggy as the Logan Heights llevero. Even if I hadn’t been with the AFO, all work and no play makes Ziggy a cranky boy, sensible ‘ole Ziggy Morenas would never risk all-out war with the Arellanos by sending some back-alley greenhorns down here. Carnales would have his cojones before he could give the order.

“You sure they’re Logan Heights?”

“Pues, no se, it’s what Mín said.”

As discerning as Mín could be, he was blind regarding anything me-related. He must’ve heard the names of one of the other San Diego clickas and mistook it for Barrio LH. Probably only heard the “Heights” in Sherman Heights and thought the worst. All shoot first, questions later. I needed to call Ziggy.

When I didn’t move, Pancho threw up his hands. “Qué pedo pues ya? Qué quieres que te diga?”

“Wanna know the best way to get pinched?”

He scowled at my cross-examination.

“Theatrics. So,” I jiggled the mask, “the fuck are these for?”

“Pues si, pero estos pendejos decided to take advantage of the gabashos in town for Dia de los Muertos. The place we’re going is smack in the middle of the parade route.”

I stood corrected.

“Any more questions?”

All work and no play made Pancho a cranky boy. I always did attract the prickliest of kindred spirits. He and Ziggy should meet one of these days.

I nodded my head, “Listo pues.” But instead of following, I brushed past him patting his shoulder, and headed for Mín’s office. He looked a comical mix of outraged and bewildered but if this call prevented an all-out war, the grumpy fuck would thank me later.

For someone so uptight and particular, it always surprised me how much of a mess Mín’s office was. The file cabinets that lined the wall were covered in half empty Banker’s boxes, loose files, paper clips, and pens. I had to move stacks of papers just to get to the phone. I dialed Ziggy’s home number, hoping I’d get him and not his girl León, or his grandma. This wasn’t something you could have a little old lady jot on a steno pad to pass on later.

“Diga.” Ziggy’s voice was flat bored.

“Zig, it’s me.”

His voice brightened from flat bored to mild disinterest. “Ay, there he is. I heard ‘round the way you were in town a few weeks ago. Hurt you didn’t call.” He oozed disaffected sarcasm but Ziggy always told the truth.

“So you do miss me,” I teased. “Nah, got strapped for time. Had to cut early and get back.”

“Yeah, Tijuana. How’s it going? Gotta be better than mediating for a bunch of wiseass baby cholos.”

“Few months and already sick of being key holder?”

“I was never much for people.”

I laughed, “Shoot, true. But you got sense. Mando knew that. Speaking of sense, you didn’t send some newbie triflers to sling down here without clearing it with the Arellanos, did you?”

He coughed out, “Uh, pardon?” No one can fake that kind of cluelessness.

“Didn’t think so.”

“What the fuck. Who’s saying it was us?”

“Don’t know. Any new beef with the paisas up there, other clickas?”

“I mean. Does the sun rise and set everyday?”

“C’mon fool, I’m serious.”

Zig chuckled, “Not more or less than usual. Shermtown just dropped three of our guys last week. Some kind of family vendetta against one of my gunners. Fue una poca mierda.”

Shermtown. Sherman Heights. I’d called it. Probably.

“Hmm. Alright. Gotta bounce. Gracias, primo.”

“Woah, woah, hold up. You don’t think you should explain this to me? I don’t want any fucking surprises up here.”

“It’s not like that. Someone fucked up, but shit’s going down here. I’ll hit you with what you need to know when I know.”

“Whatever, chiflado.”

“Cool it, cranky. It’s me. I got you.” The sound of Ziggy laughing shrank as I pulled the receiver away and hung up.

Pancho was in the doorway when I turned around, leaning, arms crossed, leg shaking. He wanted to hit me. I could tell.

“Que estás haciendo, cabrón?”

I narrowed my eyes, boring my gaze into his forehead. “Independientes from ‘my neck of the woods?’ Not Barrio LH.”

He kicked off the doorframe like he’d been nodding off and just woke up. “So?”

“So, either Mín fucked up, or someone’s smearing my neighborhood to sell, tax-free, in yours.”

----

We flew down the warehouse’s metal-grated steps so fast and I thought of those homeless tap dancers in Old Town downtown San Diego, peddling little routines for some pocket change and leftover French fries. We piled into the SUV parked outside. I shouted as casually as I could above the engine turnover, “Has hablado con Ramón?”

Pancho rolled his eyes as he checked the mag on his .45, “Supposedly, he’s meeting us there. They were already on their way when I got the call and pinshe menso’s trying to book it. Who knows if he’ll make it in time.”

I wished he wouldn’t. I wasn’t excited. I stared ahead and grabbed hold of the door handle as we pinballed side-to-side with every gaping pothole. Back home, people - well, usually gringos - liked to say the streets of Mexico were paved with blood. That always cracked me up, thinking about all these vigilant little tourists, popping down to Tijuana for a voyeuristic thrill, tip-toeing around the city, whispering words of warning to each other; the Underground Railroad for spring breakers. That is, if they weren’t hammered on the beach at one in the afternoon. Little did they know, the streets of Mexico weren’t fucking paved.

Pancho rolled down the window and stuck his hand out, yelling over the gusts of wind, “That’s why Món told me to bring you. In case he doesn’t make it in time.”

“If he hadn’t? Youd’ve gone without me?” I strained not to sound offended.

“Que shinga no, guey." A devious smile lit up Pancho’s face. "I just thought you’d wanna know you’re in good with him."

I shook my head, and pulled the mask on. It did just the trick even if it made my face sweat from the heat that flooded my cheeks. The smell of latex was stifling and I thanked my lucky stars it wasn’t summer.

The AFO warehouse wasn’t far from Mercado Hidalgo, Tijuana’s oldest, largest open air market and host to the city’s annual Dia de los Muertos celebration. Not five minutes into the drive, we met with the dense crowds of the parade. There wasn’t one blank face among them. Pancho was right, the masks were a good call. Everyone was decked out in the familiar campy, macabre Catrina costumes - a churning sea of black and white under a mist of windswept desert dust and a full, flat, honey-colored moon. It looked just like my memories. I thought of what Cheli’s grandma said how ‘every alley in Mexico has its own ghost.’ Or, maybe I’d read it in a book somewhere.

Pancho directed the driver, “Left here at Calle Zaragoza. Right on Boloyan.”

Finally, we pulled into an alley behind a slummy, rundown apartment building. I started sizing up the exterior. Only one door in the front and one out back but the building was fitted with fire escapes. Handy for us. Handy for the other guys too. I hopped out and walked around back to the open trunk where Pancho was passing everyone their gear.

“Are we going in cold?”

Pancho looked puzzled.

“Anyone do recon? Do we know what we’re wal—” My voice was drowned out by the beefy engine-revving of a Chevy Suburban. It pistol-whipped around the corner into the alley and skid to a halt, bumper nearly grazing my knees. Pancho had shot back so far and so fast he was almost halfway in the trunk. I took aim at the tinted windshield on the driver’s side and took a deep breath in. Three. Two. Exhale, on—

“Que pedo, cabrones! Nice to see you fresitas are awake!”

Just as I was about to get a shot off, that tall kid with the crazy hair rolled down the window and poked his head out, laughing that Evel Knievel laugh of his. Before I knew it, my mouth cocked up in a half smile. Loco. He had that effect on people.

Pancho was livid. “Shingamadre pendejo, nice of you to join us. Are you tryin’ to wake up the whole fucking neighborhood?”

Món hopped out of the SUV and strode over with all the swagger of a frat boy walking into a strip club. “Aaah, no mames. I didn’t want to miss out on all the action. Besides,” he waved in the direction of the parade crowd out on the main street, “no one’s sleeping with all this pinshe noise.” He looked down and locked eyes with me. Then tapped on my mask, “Hey these are cool. Where’s mine?”

Pancho rolled his eyes, “You’re lucky I brought extras.” He dug around in the trunk for another one.

It took a moment for the whiplash rush of adrenaline to ease up, but when it did, I registered what Món was wearing. He showed up to boost a stash house and get his sister out if this jam wearing expensive suede loafers, leather pants, and the loudest, red and yellow silk button-up I had ever seen. It wasn’t just impractical. He stuck out like a sore thumb.

“Dropped off your brother?”

He nodded enthusiastically.

“Didn’t have time to change?”

Món scanned himself from his shirt to his shoes and grinned. “Too much?”

I held up my thumb and forefinger.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. They’d be able to pick me out of a lineup, si cualquiera tuviera los huevos.”

He had a point. I always forgot that this wasn’t the US. Eyewitnesses weren’t worth shit in this backwards-ass town. Suddenly, he pointed his finger in my face. I wondered what he might do if I just leaned forward and bit it.

“But you don’t blend in as well as you think."

Even with my face covered, I was sure he could see how high my eyebrows shot up. "What're you tal–"

"I clocked those pinshe lobo eyes even with that thing on. I'd know those eyes anywhere.”

“Shoot, I almost killed you, fool.”

“Ahuevo, lobo. And I couldn’t think of a sweeter way to go.” He shoved my shoulder and winked, almost giddy. My heart fired off like a Gatling gun. I couldn’t help but think about how right Pancho had been about these masks. I made a mental note to set up some kind of alter or shrine to pay it proper thanks later.

He was in one of those moods. Not the ones that Dina and Mín were always so vexed about, sus humores. I overhead them talking about those once. Apparently, he'd gotten in trouble for stringing up a bunch of tuna from the farmer’s market on a clothesline and lighting them up with an AK at a public park. Ruined some poor kid’s birthday party. I could never relate to the lack of impulse control but I understood the impulse. From what I could tell though, Món had other moods. Worse ones. Moods like the Sun. Moods like today. Today, he was in love with the world. When Món was in love with the world, it was viral. No choice, you just had to love it too. I’d never met anyone like him. Which made sense. The planet would likely combust if it had to contend with the rabid, spitfire energy of more than one Ramón Arellano Félix.

Finished with his trunk excavation, Pancho turned around, “Oye, quit flirting with the help.” I nearly choked on my own tongue. Món just grinned like a loon. “And put this on. You already stick out like a sore thumb.” Pancho shoved the spare at Món, right at the spot between his collarbones where his little gold chain got all kinked, stuck to the sweat on his skin. I started worrying about my heart, pounding too fast. I didn’t notice. I didn’t notice anything.

Món yanked the it over his head, then coughed and pulled a sour face. “Que verga, why does this smell like chemicals?”

I smirked and the mask slid, brushing under my eyes. “Right.”

“Not half as bad as your aftershave, cabrón,” Pancho teased.

Món flipped him the bird, but I could tell by the shine in his eyes he was still grinning. I wished his aftershave smelled that bad. Would’ve helped matters. This once-innocent camaraderie, once-platonic banter, was warping into something messier, something I didn’t know how to handle. I looked over at Pancho, who went back to passing out gear.

Really, all of this was his fault.

At Donovan prison, Pancho earned the nickname, “Rey del chisme,” an elegant title denoting his supreme status as a professional shit-stirrer amongst the other inmates. He could single-handedly incite a cell-block riot after an industrious afternoon spent just gaining and betraying confidences. He did it for sport. He did it because he was bored. And really, what better way to break up an afternoon than watching two vatos beat the tar out of each other because one stole the other’s toothbrush, or fucked their sister, or killed this or that homie. The tedium of prison really brought out the strange in people. But Pancho was effective because he never needed to distort the truth to rock the boat. All it took was a well-timed observation to some already angry güey that such-and-such rival güey seemed to have more pull with the block’s key holder. So, of course that monster, El rey del chisme, was the first to clock the "Món thing,” whatever it was, before I was even aware. I still wasn't. And once he did, he couldn’t let it go.

‘All I'm saying ... existe una vibra entre los dos.’

I was incensed. I could've strangled him and regretted it for the rest of my life. It was the kind of indignation only ignited by the recognition of some hidden truth. Hidden from you, by you. Real, despite your best efforts.

‘Don’t feel bad, carnal. Mira, it makes sense. Growing up, everyone always said Món and Dina look the most alike out of all the siblings.’

Of course, he just had to throw that back in my face too. Perhaps there was some sense to it, though. Maybe this newfound … affection was nothing but an extension of that first crush on Dina. Dina, who wouldn’t give me the time of day, who wouldn't wink at me and talk about my lobo eyes like she spent hours studying them, who didn't have moods like the Sun, who wasn't in love with the world. The more I considered it the more it made sense. Yeah, yeah. That must've been it. Had to be it.

I was sweating. I had to get this mask off. Take a breather. As I slid it off, the blissful feeling of non-stagnant, cool air on my face almost leveled me. I looked over at that tall kid with the crazy hair. Framed by the paper lantern lights in the sky, and bathed in the sinister orange glow of the street lamps, he looked obscene. Beautifully so. He caught me staring. Like some kind of contest, I refused to look away. We locked eyes like our lives depended on it. He shot me the most carefree, daredevil smile then pulled the mask over his face. And I stopped worrying about my heart so much. Some things needed to be understood just for what they were.

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