Chapter Five

At first, Alba thought that a bomb had gone off. She woke to the sound of an explosion and she saw the front door splinter and crash to the floor. Her two children started crying and she saw her uncle running around in circles, half dressed. Then she saw the tactical officers pour in, guns drawn. Ten, fifteen, twenty. She could not tell how many in all. They spread throughout her house like a deadly virus. One of them tackled her uncle and threw him to the floor. The impact knocked the wind out of him and she heard him cough and moan in pain. They threw the handcuffs on him and pistol whipped him for good measure. "Shock and awe, baby," shouted one of the cops in a raspy baritone, sounding like a professional wrestler. The entire raid smacked of bad theater. "Where’s your man?" cried out another, pointing at Alba with a vile laugh that made her skin crawl. "Where’s Hector????" Her first thought was to help her uncle. Before she could get to her feet she felt an object strike her forcefully between her shoulder blades knocking her to the floor. Later, she would discover a bruise on her back in the shape of a night-stick. She winced from the pain and tried to curl up and cover her face, but she was pinned down. Someone placed a knee on the back of her neck and began to grind it, applying enough pressure to cut off her windpipe. She gasped wildly for air. She heard the sound of furniture being turned over, fabric tearing, drawers being yanked out, dishes breaking. They even took the tiles out of the ceiling in the kitchen. She started to lose consciousness. "Try not to kill her," suggested an undercover cop in a casual voice. He sported a bandana and ponytail to compensate for his balding pate and he wore a black leather vest over a white Harley-Davidson t-shirt. He was trying so hard not to look like a cop that you couldn’t help but take him for one. She had seen him before. He was a sick fuck. He’d fondled her in the back of a paddy wagon once. He’d rubbed himself against her, his hairy, middle-aged paunch pressed up flat against her bare midriff. She had almost thrown up. This was their leader. Their sergeant. "Ten four, Sarge." She felt the pressure on her neck ease and she was able to breathe again. She was on her stomach and her face was pressed to the cold, wood floor. She could feel them move through her house, hear snippets of their conversations vibrate along the floor-boards. Through one eye she glanced the sergeant speaking to her ten year old daughter. "It’s alright sweetheart," he said putting a meaty arm around her shoulder. "We’re just looking for your daddy." He offered her a piece of candy. That made Alba furious. Acting like he was a nice guy. Trying to turn her own child against her. But it didn’t work. Her daughter was like she was; stubborn, proud. She shook her head no and pulled away. Just then, another cop strutted out of her bedroom grinning and holding a plastic bag filled with white powder. "What have we got here?" he asked sarcastically, waving the bag at her to taunt her. "You put that on me," screamed Alba, struggling to get free from the officer who was still holding her down. "I don’t mess with that no more." "It was in your dresser," replied the cop, smirking. "You’re lying." "Tell us where Hector is and I’ll pretend I never saw it." Alba started to cry. They could raise their right hand to god later in court and lie about it without losing a moment’s sleep. No one would take her word over theirs. "You can’t just come into my house without a warrant," she insisted suddenly, remembering that she had rights. This provoked more crude laughter from the police, as if she had said something preposterous. "What are you talking about," replied the sergeant, feigning surprise. "We received a citizen’s complaint. We set up a surveillance. We observed you make several hand to hand transactions from your front porch. We approached and announced our office. You tried to ditch the narcotics by tossing the bag into the bushes. We recovered it and placed you under arrest. We never even went inside your house, did we fellas?" Several smirking cops nodded their heads from side to side. "Of course, we’ll have to notify the Department of Children and Family Services. You obviously aren’t a fit mother. They’ll probably take your kids." Alba turned her face away and closed her eyes. Her tears began to form a small puddle on the cold wood floor. Her uncle groaned and mumbled something in Spanish. Her daughter cried out. "No mama." "You shut up, Lili. They’ll take you away from me. You want that?" "That’s it, Alba," said the sergeant leaning over her and stroking her hair. She jerked her head away. "Now, where’s Hector?" Luke couldn’t sleep that night. It was nothing new for him. He’d just jump into his car and drive. Sometimes, the streets at night had the look and feel of dreams. Nothing seemed real through the windshield of his car. He liked to cruise the bad areas of town. Faces came out of the shadows, predators in search of sex, or drugs or money. Sometimes it was a pasty faced hype emerging from some dark alley, wild eyes that would lock on his eyes and suddenly focus as if they knew him. Sometimes he’d pass some thug with the hood of his jacket pulled up over his head casting a dark shadow over his face so that he had no eyes at all. He’d nod in Luke’s direction looking like the grim reaper. It frightened him. If he just kept it beyond the glass they stayed dreams. He had really stepped in it this time. He tried to think of a better way out. Not that the deal the feds had put on the table wasn’t sweet, but he hated the thought of surrendering his law license for five years. How was he supposed to earn a living? Flip burgers? He thought about running away, but the feds would catch up with him eventually. He hated to take the same way out as his father. He had turned rat in exchange for a reduced sentence sending his partners to jail. Luke had refused to visit him for several years despite the constant pleas from his mother. When finally he gave in, he was eighteen. His intention was to make sure that his father knew what he had done to them. As if prison did not afford him time to contemplate the fact that he had ruined their family. But Luke wanted to make sure he knew that there wasn’t enough money left to pay the bills. He wanted him to know that his mother had lost all of her friends. That she had started to drink. And he wanted to hear what his father had to say about the fact that Luke and his brothers had become outcasts. That the people who had once envied them could barely conceal their joy over seeing their once fine family crumble. But when finally he stood face to face with his father it was just like before. He knew how to push Luke’s buttons. There was the old bastard dressed in an orange prison jump suit, dressing him down for wearing his hair too long, for not leading his highschool basketball team to the conference title, for not being tough enough, man enough, to handle the mess that he had made of Luke’s life, instead blaming Luke for all of the disappointments that he, in fact had caused so that before Luke knew it, he was choking back the tears, too angry to speak. "Dad," he pleaded. It was all he could force out of his mouth. His father had turned everything around. He was illogical, but he was persuasive. He was still a bully and Luke was still his helpless little boy. "The only thing I’m guilty of is giving you too much," reasoned his father through the glass. Luke noticed the dark circles under his eyes. He had lost a lot of weight and he hadn’t bothered to shave. His skin was a sickly, yellow color. "You come in here crying because you can’t go to the country club anymore. No fancy cars. Can’t turn up your nose at your classmates anymore. I spoiled you rotten. And all you ever did was take. Don’t you get it? I didn’t put myself in here. You put me in here." "You’re turning it all around..." "I’m telling it like it is," shouted his father. "I never asked for any of this. Marriage. Children. These things were...expected. I never lived a day for myself. Not one day. And you want me to apologize to you?" "Mom’s drinking..." "Let her. She shouldn’t be allowed to face reality. But you have to. It’s time you learned that everything I ever taught you was a lie." His father cursed and smashed his fist into the glass. The knuckles began immediately to swell. Luke stood there and took it until a guard who was listening started to feel sorry for him and led his father away. In a few years the old man developed stomach cancer and died a slow, painful death in a prison hospital. Luke never saw him again. He died alone. Sometimes, Luke would think about what it must be like to die alone. With no one to comfort you. Unloved. All that would be left was the horror. He thought of the last time he saw his father on the other side of that glass. He closed his eyes and saw the swollen white knuckles. He wondered whether his father would have struck him if it had not been for the glass. A few years later when Luke was in law school, he woke one night in a cold sweat. He had dreamed about the swollen white knuckles, but this time he saw something else. Something he had missed. His father was still wearing his wedding ring. He had even heard the sound it made against the glass like a small rock hitting the windshield of a car traveling along a highway. And Luke knew that his father must have cherished the life they had in spite of everything he had said. And he couldn’t bare it. Vice had temporarily chased most of the hookers away from Broadway, North Avenue, and Division Street. They always came back when the heat died down. They had relocated to a little industrial area farther west. All you had to do was catch their eyes. They’d wave at you, smile, all dolled up in some cheap outfit, lot’s of lip-stick, tight shorts or mini-skirts, black stockings, high heels and tank tops, hillbilly girls, black girls, Spanish girls, all ready, willing and able to suck your dick, no questions asked. Luke drove past a few, but none of them appealed to him. Then he saw a mulatto girl. He had been cautioned against using that word. It was a slave term. But he liked the way it sounded. "Mu-latt-oh." He said the word aloud. Not black, not white. A spirit who moved between worlds. She was alone. He pulled his car over and she ran over. "You want to party, baby?" she asked. "Don’t talk to me like that," he replied in a stern voice and before she could say another word he flashed a roll of cash at her. She became immediately obedient and mute. He didn’t like to be reminded of what this was. He preferred to think of it as a dream. Once she was in the passenger seat, he slid his pants down. She was momentarily taken aback by the sight of his shaved thighs, but only for a moment. She worked up some saliva in her mouth and soon he felt her warm lips on the head of his cock inching downward. He leaned back and closed his eyes. He wondered if dying alone felt anything like this. Just then his cell phone rang. "You got some explaining to do, said the caller. It was Hook. He sounded angry. "You out driving again?" "Yes. Before you jump to conclusions, let me explain what happened," replied Luke, looking in his rear view mirror just to make sure that Hook hadn’t followed him. That would have been a real nightmare. "You know what happens to people who steal from me?" asked Hook in a threatening voice. "I know. They had the drug dogs in the jail when I was going in," explained Luke, thinking quickly. "What was I supposed to do? I had to turn around before they got a whiff of me." "What about the shit?" "Don’t worry. I’m going back there tomorrow with it." "You better, motherfucker. You’re making me look bad." "Don’t worry." Hook hung up without another word and Luke knew he had more problems on his hands. That’s when he was blinded by a light in his eye. He heard a tap on the driver’s window. The girl sat up and jumped out of the passenger door into the waiting arms of a policeman. Another cop threw the driver’s side door open and ordered him out of the car. He heard the girl screaming obscenities and trying to break free. He stood up and the cop ordered him to lean over the hood while he patted him down. Then he put the cuffs on him. Luke started to laugh. "Pinch me," remarked Luke, shaking his head. "Don’t worry. You’re awake," assured the cop. "And you’re under arrest." "I need to call my lawyer," said Luke, resignedly. "Who’s your lawyer," asked the cop, as he lead Luke to the squad car. "Her name is Rial. Rial Bourgeois."