The Long Run, page 3
He sprinted towards the locker room and ripped off the strap of one glove with his teeth. The second was off before he reached his locker. His hands fumbled at the combination lock.
Focus, he thought. He sucked in a breath and exhaled.
The lock was off a moment later. He stuffed his gloves in his bag and grabbed his phone. He punched in a number and waited. Nothing but a dial tone. He cursed and shoved the phone in his bag and pulled a T-shirt over his head. The shorts stayed on. There was no time to change. He zipped up the bag and raced to the front door. Bang watched him pass with narrowed eyes, clearly wondering what was going on. That was Bang. He worried about Israel like a father to his son. But Israel had no time to explain. Bang wouldn’t understand, anyway. Israel waved goodbye and pushed open the front door.
Sofia wasn’t his girlfriend. Not his sister, either. Neither Bang nor anyone else in the gym knew who she was, or that Israel had any connection with her.
But she was the most important person in the world.
4 DAYS EARLIER
CHAPTER 3
Israel
Israel stood behind a stainless-steel counter in the kitchen inside Garcia’s Pizza House. He popped open a plastic tub and removed a golden yellow ball of dough and slapped it on the counter. Using his thumbs and knuckles, he pressed the ball into a flat disk, spread red tomato sauce on the surface, and then layered a pile of cheese and pepperoni on top. With prep complete, he slid a peel under the dough and carried it to the rectangular pizza oven. He deposited it onto the conveyor belt and returned to his station to make another pizza.
Most times he would rush orders to customer’s doors. But the post-lunch lull saw few delivery orders. So he helped where could. And when the manager stepped out, he retrieved a portable radio and tuned it to his favorite Latino rap station. He grooved to the music, shaking his shoulders, and dipping to the beat. His crewmates clapped and cheered as he danced. When a delivery order arrived, he whooped as he walked out the door, carrying a delivery bag stuffed with four large Supremes. A nice order. He hoped a big tip came with it.
He cranked his stereo loud as he eased his car out of the parking space. Latino trap filled his car and his ears. He bobbed his head to the thumping bass and rattling 808. The salty air of the Gulf of Mexico—a silky warm layer on his skin—blew through the open windows, carrying away worry and stress. He felt good and dropped some verses.
My beats shake that ass
Shake it like Nikki
The party’s my past
You got me thirsty
It wasn’t so bad. That job. That life. He earned enough money to pay for gas and insurance and a gym membership. Yeah, he messed up when he was a kid. He wasn’t proud of the things he did in the gang. But he had grown. Survived. He wasn’t that guy anymore. He was in a good place.
He stopped at a traffic light. A cop sat in his cruiser beside him. Israel felt the cop’s stare and gave him a friendly nod. Just a dip of the head. Let him know they were cool. The cop’s eyelids wrinkled as he stared. That’s how it was for cops. Some tatted young Hispanic dude cruising in the bad part of town. A cop might think bad things. Israel didn’t like it, but he got it. The light turned green, and Israel drove straight through. Nice and easy. The cop stayed at the light, waiting to turn left. But his gaze followed Israel through his rear-view mirror.
He had nothing to hide. No reason to avoid a cop’s gaze. He was careful all the same. He had tats. Had the look. He always needed to be careful. But he had done nothing to get in trouble. No reason to go before the judge. That wasn’t always the case. He remembered those days. Remembered hiding his guilt. Lying low. Watching his back. Feeling like a loser.
He shook his head clear of uncomfortable memories and turned the music up louder. Got it thumping good. Kept his eyes on the road and enjoyed the drive. Soon he was in the rich part of town. Two story brick houses with Spanish tile roofs. Professional landscaping. Teslas parked on winding brick driveways. Automatic sprinklers watering expansive lawns.
He and his ancient Chevy Cavalier didn’t fit in there. Like a pawn shop on Rodeo Drive. He lowered the stereo. He didn’t want to be conspicuous.
The delivery address belonged to a home with a tan stucco exterior and a rust orange tiled roof. Several cars occupied the long driveway. Another alongside the curb. Two Mercedes. One Lexus. All recent models and gleaming. Israel found an open spot and parked. He grabbed the delivery bag and hustled to the double front door. The doors were stained wood, centered with glass panels, and inlaid with wrought iron decoration. Above them was a half-moon window that revealed a sparkling chandelier above the entryway. He rang the doorbell, and it gonged like a stately old British manor. He expected a butler to appear, all dressed in a black and white tux. But no one came. He waited a few seconds. Then a few seconds more. His hand raised to knock when one door cracked open.
“Hi, I’m… Oh!”
Sofia stood in the half-open doorway. He hadn’t seen her in over a year. Maybe two. She wore a UTRGV sweater and burnt orange shorts. A white fabric headband kept her bangs off her face. Her ponytail rested on her shoulder. The messy, casual look. Obviously busy working on something inside. Her black eyebrows lifted in surprise. An awkward moment of silence passed before she melted into a crooked smile.
“Izzy! I didn’t know you delivered pizza.”
“Heh, yeah, delivering pizzas,” he said, repeating her words because those were the only words in his head. An embarrassed cringe of surprise clutched his throat. He searched for fresh words and spat them out. “Hey Sophie. Um, started a couple of months ago.”
“Oh. Cool.” She glanced at the ground in search of more words. “Oh, here, I’ll take those,” she said, looking at the delivery bag.
“Heh, right.” He unzipped the bag and handed the stack of pizzas to her. “Careful.”
“Thanks.”
The boxes stacked so high on her petite frame that her head appeared disembodied and resting on the top box. He laughed a little at the sight. She got the joke a moment later and laughed too. Unlike the awkward smile of seconds earlier, this was the real thing. The crinkled nose and dimpled cheeks. That was the smile that melted Israel’s kid heart. The girl he grew up with. But she was a grown woman now.
“Lot of pizza there.”
“Yeah,” she said, rolling her eyes and giggling. “We’re going out-of-town tomorrow. Spending the night packing bags and getting ready.”
“When did y’all move in here?” he said, admiring the foyer.
“Oh, ha-ha. This is my friend Rebekah’s house. That would be nice though, right? No, mom and dad still live in the same house.”
It felt like old times for Israel. Like two friends catching up. His shoulders relaxed, and he fell into old speech patterns.
“Where y’all going?” he said and regretted it. Too personal. They used to be close like that. But not anymore. She answered anyway.
“Me and my friends are going to Cancun for a few days. Before school starts.”
“Sounds fun.” He glanced at her sweatshirt. It sported an illustration of a vaguely cowboy-ish man in boots and a garish bandana. The UTRGV mascot. The Vaquero. “You’re going to UT?”
“Yeah. UT Rio Grande. Go Vaquero’s!” She laughed. “Getting my law degree.”
“That’s great!” He said, and he meant it. She spoke about becoming a lawyer since she was twelve. Not just any lawyer. An immigration lawyer. She wanted to help the poor people coming to America. People like her abuela, who crossed the river when Sofia’s mama was still in her belly. “I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks.” Sofia blushed and changed the subject. “So, what do you do when you’re not delivering pizzas? Are you going to college?”
“No,” he said, and felt his ears burn red. “I just work and train.”
“Train?”
“At the gym. I box. Well, I’m taking lessons. My first match is next month.”
“Really? That’s amazing! I was going to say. You’re looking pretty buff.”
“Heh, thanks,” he said, feeling his ears burning red. “I’m not that good yet. Still working on it.”
“You always were a fighter. You’re gonna be great!”
Boxing wasn’t like the street scraps of his youth. They had to fight by the rules in the ring. It was a different world. He was probably going to get his ass handed to him.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Babe, you hogging the pizza?” A man said, walking up beside Sofia. He was a shade under six feet tall with broad shoulders and red hair and green eyes. A young guy like them. He smiled and jostled her with a playful nudge. Then he noticed Israel, and his smile disappeared. The muscles in his neck tensed. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Hank,” she said. “This is my cousin, Izzy. Israel.”
Hank’s face brightened. “Oh, cousins, huh? Cool. Hey Izzy. Good to meet you.” He extended his hand and Israel shook it. Hank had a firm grip and large hands. A heavyweight to Israel’s middleweight.
“Cool,” Israel said, because nothing else came to mind.
“I’m Hank. But everybody calls me Big Red.”
“Cool.” Israel’s mind had cratered into the aimless muck of awkward encounters. He pressed his eyes shut and thought of something else to say. “Good to meet you, Hank.”
Hank gave him a curious look. Then he wrapped a meaty arm around Sofia’s shoulder. “Sofie hasn’t told you about me?”
Sofia shot him a look. “I haven’t had a chance.”
“I’ve been busy,” Israel said. “Working a lot. I don’t keep in touch like I should.” He didn’t appreciate Hank putting her on the spot.
“She tell you we’re going to Cancun? Flying first-class.”
Sofia rolled her eyes.
“This time tomorrow we’ll be sipping Mai Tais on the beach.” Hank sighed with a dreamy smile.
“Here, take these, you doof.” She offered him the pizza boxes.
“Aw hell yeah. I’m starving.” He opened the top box, pulled out two slices, folded them on top of each other, and took a giant bite. His cheeks puffed like a frog’s throat as he chewed. “Mmf… yeah.”
“The boxes, Hank.” Sofia glared in exasperation.
“Heh, yeah.” He balanced all four boxes on one hand and continued chewing.
A knot formed in Israel’s stomach as he watched them play fight in front of him. He coughed and angled his body towards his car.
“Well, be careful in Mexico. Stay on the beach,” he said, and stepped away from the porch. He learned some things from his time in the gang. Things that didn’t appear on tourism websites. The cartels didn’t play around.
Hank stuffed the last of the pizza in his mouth and wrapped his free hand around Sofia’s shoulder. Like he was proving to him she was his girl.
“Don’t worry, boss. I’ll take good care of her,” he said, his words a muffle behind a full mouth of food.
Sofia cringed. “Just take the pizza inside. I’ll be there in a minute,” she said and pushed him away.
“Later Izzy! See you around,” Hank said, before disappearing inside.
Hank irritated Israel. And it wasn’t because he was dating Sofia. That was part of it, sure. Maybe it was his casual superiority. How he draped a possessive arm around her shoulders. The first-class tickets and sipping Mai Tais on the beach. What the hell was a Mai Tai, anyway? Hank reeked of upper class. So confident and right. Israel was just some mutt trying to survive. Hank wouldn’t survive the streets. Israel felt sure of that. Hank was one of those guys who puffed their chest and made themselves big to impress. But underneath, there was nothing there. In an actual fight, Hank would piss his pants.
“Later.” Israel nodded goodbye.
“It was great to see you, Izzy,” Sofia said, grasping her hands at her waist.
“Nice seeing you too.”
Israel thought he should do more. But a hug seemed inappropriate. A wave maybe? He raised his hand to wave goodbye when she rushed forward and wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tight. His heart stopped. Not actually, he knew, but it felt like it. She pulled away with a big grin.
“I’m glad you’re doing OK. Let me know when your fight is. Seriously. I’ll come watch. Be your cheering section.”
“Yeah, for sure. Thanks.” It wasn’t an empty offer. When Sofia said she would do something, she did it. And he wanted to see her there.
“Oh! Almost forgot your tip. Sorry. Here.” She fished a twenty-dollar bill out of her pocket and handed it to him.
“Oh, that’s OK.” He forgot all about his tip the moment Sofia opened the front door. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. OK. I’ll let you get back to work.”
They nodded their last goodbyes and turned away. Israel walked to his car and stopped outside it. His crappy old Chevy Cavalier had a huge dent in the driver’s side door. Years of exposure to the pounding sun had bleached the steering wheel and seats. A crack ran along the length of the windshield and baling wire held the front bumper to the frame.
Meanwhile, Sofia, a year younger than Israel, was preparing to fly to Cancun and then start her second year of college. She was going to get a degree. Become a lawyer. Realize her dreams. What dreams did he have? What hopes?
The surety of Israel’s complacent life unraveled. A few minutes earlier, he was cruising down the road, carefree and comfortable. Now he was accepting charity from his cousin. That’s how he felt about the $20 bill clutched in his hand. She handed him that cash like he was a street corner vagrant holding a homemade sign. And worst of all, he needed that money. His gas tank was almost empty.
He stuffed the bill into his pocket and slumped onto the torn driver’s seat. Gripping the steering wheel, he stared straight ahead, his mind lost in thought. He didn’t want to live in his dad’s house and rely on charity forever. There had to be more to life. The ignition switched on and the little four-cylinder coughed and hummed. He shifted into drive and scooted down the road.
He wasn’t a smart man. Street smart, sure, but not someone who got a degree. He had a damn GED. College was for other people. Smart people. Rich people. All Israel had were his fists and his speed. The boxing ring was his only hope.
He drove to the gym after work and trained until midnight.
NOW
CHAPTER 4
Israel
Israel blasted down South 26 th Street after leaving Bangz Gym. He punched through a yellow traffic light an instant before it flashed red. He needed to slow down. Getting popped by the police would do worse than delay him. With his priors, an eager young cop might toss him in jail. His heart was racing as fast as the engine, but he willed his foot to ease off the accelerator.
Sofia was inside that club in Mexico when the narcos burst in, shooting the place up and setting it ablaze. Some people survived. Some didn’t. That’s all he knew. The why? and by whom? were missing. And, most important, was Sofia still alive? He needed answers.
Cars clogged the street in front of Sofia’s parent’s house. Two police officers directed traffic. Multiple television news vans were parked on the curb. A reporter, all business with slick hair and a pressed suit, held a microphone and spoke to the camera. Israel drove a few houses past to find an open parking spot. He weaved past the throng of curious onlookers standing outside and approached the house. A cop halted him before he got closer.
“No visitors,” he said, waving him off with a raised hand.
“I’m family. Sofia’s cousin.”
“Sorry, step back, please.”
Israel looked towards the front of the house. One of Sofia’s brothers, Oscar, stood on the porch talking on his cell phone. A worried look on his face. He turned off the phone and tucked it in his pocket.
“Oscar! Oscar!” Israel called out as he jumped and waved.
Oscar looked around, in search of who called his name. His brow lifted in obvious surprise when he saw Israel. A natural reaction. They hadn’t seen each other in years. Oscar nodded and noticed the cop wasn’t letting Israel pass. He hurried across the lawn and approached the police officer.
“It’s OK. He’s OK.”
The cop gave Oscar a doubtful glance but stepped aside and waved Israel through. Israel nodded his thanks, but the cop focused on his tats and clothes. Same old, same old.
“Thanks, primo.”
“De nada,” Oscar muttered.
“I heard what happened. I’m sorry.” A meaningless statement, Israel thought, but it was a societal norm. People always apologized for others’ actions. Still, he felt it. The shame and regret as if he could have prevented Sofia’s abduction.
Oscar made no reply. He strode towards home’s entryway with his head down, staring at the grass like he was counting the blades.
“All I heard was she was inside the bar that got attacked. You hear anything else?” Israel said.
“Cops been in and out all morning. Last night too. They said it was cartel related. Probably a drug deal gone bad. Something like that.”
“Sofia don’t deal.” She didn’t drink or pop pills or jam needles in her arm either. She was the cleanest person Israel ever knew. But in cartel world, anyone could be collateral damage.
“That’s what we said too. But cops say it’s obvious. If a bunch of guys with rifles kick down a door in Mexico and start shooting, you know it’s the cartel. Who else could it be?”
Cartels didn’t play with their money. If one person in a building was dirty, everyone inside paid the price.
“Anyway,” Oscar continued, “they’re still picking through the rubble. Identifying remains. Some people died. But a lot got out. They haven’t released the names yet.”
