Gypsy

2008-04-01T10:59:00.003-05:00

He pulled in front of her apartment, didn't have to honk. She came out. With the scarf on her head, her open coat, swinging purse, dangling keys, she looked like a gypsy. She sat next to him without making eye contact. He didn't say anything. Turned on the radio. Some quiet music with a deep, throbbing rhythm.

The streets were never very long. They dead ended, curved garishly, made tires squeak against the wet brick. All around them were buildings sporting architectural features with grand names: porticos, dormers, gables, rotundas, buttresses, balustrades. In front of these buildings were men in light suits, sipping espresso under patio umbrellas. If there was music, it would have been accordions and mandolins. If there was music, they couldn't hear it. The windows were up. The radio was on.

There was never parking in front of his building. The worst part was having to get out together. Having to walk in the sunlight to the door. The lock was bad, had to jiggle the keys. Up two flights of stairs and to the left.

His apartment was small. It was the window you paid for--the view. His shades were drawn. They were orange and the light coming through them was orange. On the floor was a futon, some books in a stack.

He turned to her. They didn't kiss. Or they kissed through their eyes. They didn't watch what their hands were doing, just watched each other's eyes. Her shirt was silk, his fingers slipped as they forced buttons through small holes.

They made love standing up in the orange light. He wanted to say her name, wanted to tell her things. Maybe the way light kissed her skin and made it fire. Instead they said nothing. Or they spoke with their breathing.

For a time they lay on his futon, smoked his cigarettes. His eyes half closed. Perhaps she spoke. Perhaps she took the cigarette from her mouth, rolled on her side, and said he was handsome. Said only he could give her pleasure. Perhaps she finally read the journal he gave her and wanted to read more, wanted poems composed and left beside her orange juice and croissant every morning. She wanted to hear one now. He smiled. Spoke with intonation: "As the sun sets, and the wind dies down, and the light reflects off the land..."

His eyes opened. Had he spoken? He turned. She was asleep. Her arm off the side of the futon. A cigarette in her fingers. It burned a black and smoking hole in his parquet wooden floor.

God Among Us

2008-03-16T17:21:00.005-05:00

Father Kevin Gutierrez stood in front of the mirror and stared at nothing in particular, letting the image of his unshaven face and unkempt hair blur into the foreground. His eye eventually wandered to the sole decor on the wall behind him; a poster calendar turned to February of last year. It was a calendar one of his parishioners had given him: "Thomas Kinkade, Painter of Light." Above the dates was a fading scene of some winter cottage laden with snow; the sun creating rainbow eddies of refracted sunshine. The image was a jarring contrast with the rest of his one room, East LA apartment: there was a chair, an upside down cardboard box, and a rolled up sleeping bag stowed neatly in the corner.

One of his neighbors was shouting at her husband who had stumbled in drunk at 3:04AM. This, and the ever present wail of police sirens reminded him rudely of his new life. Kevin let his eyes slowly focus on the dead gleam of the piece in his hand, a .45 automatic. He grinned crookedly, and wondered what Mrs. Wagner, the dear lady who had given him his calendar, would think of him now.

Kevin checked the safety and slipped the gun into its holster beneath his pants. He bent over the sink which jutted unceremoniously out of the wall beneath the mirror, splashed some water on his face, and then slicked his hair back with dripping fingers. He dried his hands on his pants and put on the wife-beater hanging from the rusty nail beside the sink. Tattoos radiated out from his chest and ran down his arms, depicting Aztec temples, lowriders, and large breasted women. Across his back in arcane letters was the word ANGEL, and beneath it the number 13. This was his new priestly garb. He walked over to the solitary window on the wall to his left, put his hands behind his back, and gazed at the empty street, eerily illuminated by flickering street lamps. This was his new church. His lips moved mechanically, reciting the Lord's Prayer, his hands resting against the gun beneath his clothes. This was his new rosary. He checked his watch. Time to roll.

Kevin's contact inside the Mexican Mafia was Miguel "Chocho" Rodriguez. Chocho had been transferred to Federal prison after showing a sincere interest in the faith. Five years later, he had not only turned his life around completely, but had also been conscripted into the service of Project Immanuel, a clandestine operation answering directly to His Eminence, Archbishop Mahony. Project Immanuel's aim, most simply, was to subvert the influence of the Mexican Mafia through infiltration, and if necessary, the use of force. Chocho had been paroled and returned to life among the Marianna Maravilla gang, one of the oldest and most influential gangs comprising the Mexican Mafia. His job was to "make straight the path" by spreading rumors about a man he met in the Fed named Angel who supposedly had connections to both the Italian mafia and a drug cartel in Tiajuana. Chocho had apparently been successful, for as soon as Kevin stepped foot in Maravilla territory he was shown respect.

Hueco, the veterano of this neighborhood told him he could quickly rise within the ranks of Maravilla if he would just take care of a little work. The work Hueco had in mind involved taking out Black Angel member Vincent "Shotgun" Thomas, who had recently shortchanged the Maravillas in a drug deal. Kevin told Hueco he could consider Shotgun dead.

Shotgun lived in a house about thirty minutes from here, in a black neighborhood where Kevin would be shot at on sight. Project Immanuel, however, had a man on the inside who would take him as far as a house two doors down from Shotgun's place. Kevin lifted the cardboard box he used as a table and pulled out a black jacket whose pockets bulged with equipment. He put it on while stepping out the door, which he had no reason to lock.

Kevin leaned up against the wall outside his apartment complex and waited in the cool air. A few minutes later a '62 Impala with blue lights on its rims rolled up to the curve. The trunk of the Impala popped, and after making sure no one was watching, Kevin crawled inside. He didn't see the driver's face, and as the car wound its way through labyrinthine LA streets, he felt a stab of fear knowing his life was now in the hands of a person he would never meet -- at least not in this life. He took a deep breath and silently recited the third Psalm: "But you are a shield around me, O Lord; you bestow glory on me and lift up my head..."

They arrived faster than expected at their destination due to the lack of traffic at 3:35AM. The Impala jumped as it backed over a curb. A few seconds later the vehicle came to a stop. The trunk lid did not open. Fear gnawed at his stomach as he heard a muffled exchange of voices. Either his inside man was betraying him, or someone had come to investigate. He pulled the gun out from his pants, flicked off the safety, and pointed it at the trunk lid. He heard steps near the back of the car.

Kevin took a sharp breath and readied himself to fire.

Kevin jumped when he heard the first of three dull thunks followed by a groan. A low voice addressed him.

"You got five minutes before somebody comes looking for him. I'm leaving this gun on the ground. Use it to take out your target. Consider this man collateral damage." With that, Kevin heard the front car door close.

The trunk popped open, letting fresh air waft over his sweaty face. Kevin pushed the lid up with his leg and crawled out silently. As soon as he closed the trunk, the Impala drove off and disappeared around the corner.

On the ground was a large man with holes in his head and a quickly spreading pool of blood. Kevin forced himself to look at the man's face. One of the man's eyes darted off in the wrong direction. Collateral damage.

Beside him was a .9mm Beretta with a silencer at the end, which Kevin picked up and put in his coat pocket. He flicked the safety on his .45 and put it back into his pants.

He crouched low, stayed to the shadows, and moved up to the nearest window beside Shotgun's house. He peered cautiously inside, saw the room was clear, and tried the window. Locked. He removed a glass cutter from his jacket and cut himself a hole through the pane closest to the latch. He opened the window, slid through, and began sweeping the house with the Beretta drawn. He found the bedroom and noticed two figures laying in bed, covered in sheets. Damn Shotgun for having a sex life.

Setting his emotions aside, he swept the rest of the house and found it empty. He returned to the bedroom and weighed his options. One of the figures laying in bed sighed and rolled toward him. It was a girl, probably in her late teens.

Settling on a more risky and time consuming approach, Kevin reached into his jacket and pulled out a face mask and a compact aerosol can. He slid like a ghost over to the foot of the bed and began to spray.

Both Shotgun and his girl jerked at the hissing noise. Shotgun's arm flew under his pillow, but before he could sit up with his gun, the gas had entered his lungs and paralyzed him. They slumped over each other like a pair of dolls. The girl's eyes rolled back into her head and her eyelids closed, but the whites of Shotgun's eyes shone unblinking at Kevin.

Moving quickly before the gas had time to wear off, he lifted the girl off of the bed, careful to keep the sheet over her naked body. Shotgun fell back onto the bed without his human prop. He walked over to the living room and set her down on the couch, trying hard not to notice the dark nipples peeking through the thin fabric of the sheet. He tucked a pillow under her unconscious head.

Kevin returned to the bedroom and froze. Shotgun was missing.

He lifted the Beretta, crouched low, and stepped back behind the doorframe in one fluid motion. He berated himself mentally for not having taken Shotgun's handgun.

His hands trembled as he peeked around the corner. No one was visible. He listened intently, and thought he could hear the labored breaths of his target on the other side. From the sound of his breath, Kevin knew the chances of Shotgun successfully aiming and firing a handgun would be minimal.

Not wasting any more time, Kevin leapt up and ran around the foot of the bed, holding the Beretta steady as his target came into sight.

Shotgun had managed to roll off of the bed, but had landed awkwardly on his side. His eyes were open in wide-eyed terror, and his hand, wrapped tightly around his weapon, lay uselessly pointed in the wrong direction. Shotgun's breathing degenerated into a rapid gasping.

Kevin felt immense sorrow for the creature before him. He bent over, wrenched the pistol from Shotgun's fingers, set it gingerly on the bed. Kevin made a shushing noise as though soothing a baby.

"Vincent. Be calm and be brave." Kevin stood and aimed his gun. "For there is neither death nor life, angels nor demons, present nor future..."

Shotgun closed his eyes.

"Any powers, height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, that can separate you from the love of God." Kevin squeezed off a trinity of shots.

After saying a brief prayer for the departed, he placed a business card with the letter 'M' on top of Shotgun's chest. He then reached into his front pants pocket and pressed a button on a small black device. A police officer with ties to Project Immanuel parked two blocks away would be notified of the success of Kevin's mission. He checked on Shotgun's woman. She was still heavily under the influence of the gas, but would be fine in the morning.

A minute later a squad car pulled up and an officer came up to the front door, which was promptly kicked down. Kevin flashed him the benediction. The police officer responded in kind. Kevin calmly pulled out the .45 and fired two shots into the doorframe to the left of the officer. He then held his gun arm out to the side. The officer mumbled an apology, aimed carefully, and fired a shot into Kevin's forearm. Kevin grunted in pain and fell to his knees, offering the officer his hands.

The officer cuffed his wrists, attended to his wound, and led Kevin to the back seat of the squad car while he radioed his dispatcher. Kevin knew the next few months would be a living hell of jail cells, court dates, and guilty verdicts. Outside it began to rain. It would be years before he could stand in front of his final target, a man who considered himself safe behind bars and surrounded by the most powerful jail gang in the country. For now he would count the cost of following Christ, and wonder at the awful price exacted for the Kingdom of God.

The officer leaned back and gave Kevin a knowing look. "You know what Immanuel means, right?" he asked.

"God among us." Kevin replied.

The officer smiled, cranked the engine of the interceptor, and drove leisurely down the shining street.

Halcyon Flies Scribble

Gypsy

God Among Us