Red-Handed

This isn’t like the movies. There’s too much blood and too much movement. 

Especially in my house. 

“Antonio,” followed by a tap on my shoulder, “Antonio,” another tap this time pushing me.

”Watch out!” I snap. The man steps back, raising his hands in surrender.

“Sorry Toño,” he said, “but where do you-?”

“Pablo,” I tilt my head towards the front of the long wooden dining room table, “we have a guest.”

Confusion lingered on Pablo’s face. I guess it didn’t matter. I thought. 

“Pablo,” I said, hugging him closer to me. He tried to resist The man under me let out a muffled groan.

“Put it in the usual place. The panaderia (bakery) is still open, use the side door.”

The smell of homemade fajitas and slightly burned tortillas fill the house.

Pablo nodded. “What if we have left overs?”

I smiled at him like a proud father, nodding my head. “If we have left overs, take it to the school on 27th. Let Mr. Vallejo- actually put it in the custodial closet by the gym. Lorena is coming by tomorrow. I’ll let her know.”

”Ok.” Pablo walked back to the garage.

”Hey,” I said to Pablo, he turned back. “Good work. Sorry about the blood on your shirt, don’t get it on the school floor.” Pablo left.

I looked at the man under me, barely a man now that I see him under the dining room light. A handsome kid in his late teen’s, he must be one of the new guys Lencho picked up.

The kid lay on his back, beans, fajitas, and plates pushed aside all to make space for him on the table. Blood seeped through his pants, pooling under his leg. I pushed on the wound and he bit the red cloth napkins, letting out muffled groans.

“Sorry for that,” I said to the house guest. The kid tried to move his leg, almost knocking me off of the table. I caught my balance and shoved his leg back down. He moans, a sharp slap silences him. “Stop that, Diego!”

“What were we talking about?” I asked the guest from across the table. His eyes locked on Diego.

From the living room, a beautiful woman with long brown hair that almost touched her waist appeared. Her purple blouse complimented her Carmel-colored skin, and her light brown eyes fit in perfectly with the off-white color on the dining room walls. In her hands, a tourniquet and packages of gauze.

“Aver, muevete. (Move, let me see.)” Blanca motioned me aside.

I stepped off the table, my brown oxfords squishing the food beneath me. Blanca grabbed the boy and pulled him closer to the end of the table. He muffled out a yell, earning another slap. 

I went to the kitchen, and washed my hands until the blood stopped flowing. I looked at the small mirror in the kitchen. At least my hair is still combed. I thought.

“Allí te va, por menso! Quien te dio permiso? (Well, there you go for being an idiot. Who gave you permission?)” Blanca scolded Diego. 

I walked across the dining room floor trying not to squish any food. 

“Lencho.” The kid made out in between his rag stuffed mouth. She finished tightening the tourniquet and started to stuff the bullet hole in the kids thigh. 

“Let’s go over here,” I said to our guest who didn’t move from the chair. I laid my hand towel on the back of his chair, and put my hand on his shoulder. He flinched. The look of disgust on his face studied my hand and then my face. 

“Sorry,” he said, relaxing his face, “I’ve just- I’ve never seen anything…do you-?”

I chuckled. “Let’s go over here, I’ll explain it if you want.” We walked to the living room.

”You may want to take off your shoes,” I told him quietly. He took a deep breath and set his shoes on the brown tiled floor. 

“Oh, before I forget,” I turned toward Blanca who tending the kid’s leg, “I had one of the guys call Doña Carmen, y ya mero viene. (I had one of the guys call Mrs. Carmen, and she’s almost here.)”

“Do I need to call Ve-?”

“No,” she said, opening the last pack of gauze, thumbing it into the hole, “Dieguito will clean it.” Her eyes cut through the kid as his head bobbled in and out of consciousness. 

Cada quien con lo suyo. (Each one with their own thing.)

“Come,” I motioned my hand over to sit at one of our ivory colored sectionals.

He took off his brown rimmed square glasses, brushed his hands through his graying hair, and sighed.

“Un trago? (A drink?)” I ask.

“Please.”

 I poured him a margarita from the metal-style bar cart. He drained it in one go. 

“Another one?” 

“Eh,” paused the man, slaps and muffled groans came from the dining room, “please.”

Grabbing a metal folding chair, I sat across from the man. There was too much blood on my pants to sit on the couch; Blanca would kill me. 

“Is it- Is it like this every night?” The guest asked. 

“No,” I smiled, “it’s not.”

He nodded his head, sinking into the sectional. 

“It’s usually not like this.” I lean back into the chair, and crossed my legs. I finally notice how stained my gray slacks are. I looked down at my shirt, the crème-colored guayabera ruined. 

“Ok, so what’s going on? I don’t know if we can-”

“Wait a minute,” I raise my hand, “last week, your guys came to me. Last week, you called me.”

A moan and slap cut through the room.

“Last week, you-”

“I know, I know,” he interrupted, setting his glass down on the wooden epoxy table that looked like a river, “but Antonio, all this?” He pointed at my blood stained shirt and pants. 

Another moan and slap.

“And in your house?” He shrugged his shoulders, pressing his lips together.

“Look,” he leaned back, “those guys came in and they had something to take to this pandemia-“

“Panaderia. (Bakery)” I reminded him. 

“Yes, there. What exactly—should I even ask?” He threw his hands up in desperation. His blue eyes matched the blue in the Talavera vase behind him. 

“Then you have that guy, actually that kid, bleeding out on your dining room table while your wife, not a nurse or a doctor, cares for him because he was shot.”

The humming of the fridge, clocks ticking around the living room, and moans from the dining room fill our silence. 

Knock. Knock. 

I walk to the front door and wait.

Knock.

“Buenas tardes, Toñito. (Good evening, Little Tony)”

An older woman with short and curly dark brown hair, golden-framed circle glasses, a duffle bag, and nursing scrubs walks in. 

“Buenas tardes, Doña Carmen. (Good evening, Mrs. Carmen)”

We kiss each others’ cheeks. 

“Y este que? (And this one?)” She studies the man sitting in the living room. 

“Es un negociante (He is a businessman).” 

She turns her head sharply to me.

“Esta bien, no se preocupe (Don’t worry, it’s okay).” I smile at her.

She turns to him and nods her head politely, and heads to the dining room.

I pour myself a drink, offer our guest another who politely declines, and sit back down in the folding chair. 

The women talk to each other in Spanish, the sound of the duffle bag opens, things are shaken around, and moans from Diego begin once more.

“Mr. Cruz,” the guest sighs, shaking his head, “I don’t think this is going to work. I’ve—You know, I’ve been in different businesses, worked with different people, but this is—I don’t even know what this is.”

“El Campo (The Field),” I said, finishing the rest of my margarita. 

“What?”

“El Campo, I lived there. Humble beginnings, you know? A want of things that you don’t understand.”

“Mr. Cruz, I’m going to lea—”

“How many bedrooms do you have, Mr. Johnson?” He thought for a moment.

“Four.”

”How many bathrooms do you have?”

“Three and a half.”

”And the one’s in your kids’ rooms?” His eyebrows twitched. “Or should I say upstairs?”

“How do you—”

”How much square footage do you have?” He rubbed his chin with his hand. 

“I would say about twenty thousand or so?”

“Twenty thousand, one hundred and thirteen.”

The moans slipped through our words.

“How do you know about my house?” Mr. Johnson sat up now. His full attention on me. 

“We have three bedrooms and two bathrooms. Comfortable, wouldn’t you say?”

”I suppose.” Mr. Johnson shifted in his chair, searching for that perfect spot. 

“No,” I looked into his eyes, “it is.” I said coldly.

“Yes, Mr. Cruz. That’s what I—”

“See, I never understood why someone needed so much until one day, like today, I needed some space.” I stood up and poured myself another drink.

“Would you say, you have enough space Mr. Johnson?”

He started to rub his chin, “I would say so.”

“I know you do. Three-hundred acres worth. That’s nice.”

The ice clinked and lime-green margarita swirled in the glass. A sweet and sour scent. 

“Why do you need so much space? You don’t farm. You don’t keep animals. So why?”

“Well, I’ve felt like I’ve worked pretty hard, so I should be able to enjoy it.”

I raise my glass, toasting him. “Good point.”

I sat down. The moans and talking in the dining room stopped. 

“Mr. Johnson, why have so much, when you don’t give?”

“I do give.” Mr. Johnson started to turn red, his voice getting a little louder. “I give to our church. I give to the community. I have a non-profit I started that gives to the underprivileged.”

“Have you seen where the money goes? Have you ever met the underprivileged?”

“What are you trying to say?” Mr. Johnson was getting louder. “Are you accusing me of something, because if you are I will—” He stood up, pointing his finger in my face.

“You will what?” I cut him off. He sat down.

I took another drink and looked at the red-faced man.

“Are you going to tell the police? Are you going to do something to me? Please tell me, Mr. Johnson.”

No moans. No slaps. Just silence.

“People like you, have always pissed me off.” I finish my drink. 

“You want more and more, and do not care about what it costs.”

Mr. Johnson sat down. I scooted my chair closer to him. 

“See this is the difference between you and me. I may not do things by the book, but whatever I get, I make sure to give. That’s the only reason I do what I do. I know what it feels like to want, unlike you. I know where my money goes. I know who I am helping. I see them everyday.”

Mr. Johnson sunk lower into his seat.

“Your little philanthropy efforts pour into my streets, my communities. You have other ways to make money, yet you chose to take from what is not yours. You harm the underprivileged.”

 There is a saying in Spanish "al que a buen árbol se arrima, buena sombra le cobija.”

“I don’t speak Spani—” Mr. Johnson started to scratch his neck.

The sound of the front and garage doors silenced him. A group of Hispanic men line the living room like a firing squadron. The once chaotic atmosphere of the house turns intense. 

“He who gets close to a good tree is sheltered by good shade. It’s a good saying, but I used to wonder about the bad trees with bad shade.” I handed my chair to one of the men behind me and set my ice-filled glass on the table. “Know what I mean? Especially the diseased ones.” I sat down on the coffee table an arm length away from Mr. Johnson 

“Until I remember working at an orchard by El Campo.” Mr. Johnson looked around at the men behind me. Sweat began to trickle down his cheeks.

“The owner would tell us tira los (throw them away.)”