The Condemned: Part One
A Serialized Novella
I
The shadows from the mountain range crept over the flat, arid land like outstretched fingers on San Juan Diego’s outskirts. Once known for its farming, only a few residents remained in the remote village near the Mexico border. With the work gone, men abandoned their homes for other prospects. Most reluctantly sought fortune with cartels, especially the young and aimless. For those remaining, the village diminished into a pass-through — the lack of authority and remoteness, caused by the landscape encompassing San Juan Diego, made the location ideal for the underworld.
Despite the still morning, the dust kicked up by a cartel convoy the previous night wafted throughout the main stretch of the village, caking the few buildings in a yellowish, brown smudge. Since the preservation of water became a conscious necessity, only foolish residents would clean. The little market tents, bus depot and cantina had thus become tattered and worn, with the sun’s shadows revealing bullet markings. At the end of the main road was the church and attached rectory, which were in a similar dilapidated condition. Its bell dangled on one hinge. Even the fencing was completely torn apart with pieces of wood tossed into the road and nearby alley. There had not even been a priest in San Juan Diego for years, as he was rumored to have been bribed by the cartel to abandon his mission. A wave of aimlessness and despair had since imprisoned the residents’ spirits.
Between the general store and rectory, the harsh morning’s shadows poured into the alley, blanketing the body of a dead teenager. His wide-opened, blackened eyes stared at the sky, as though futilely attempting to scream in terror or in prayer. Instead, flies speckled the chapped lips and bloodstained, dirtied clothes. Only a few hours before, the teenager had been a cartel soldier, and, in an instant, became a prisoner and then condemned. The crime was the same for all the bodies found in the alley: treason.
An ownerless dog with stiff, mangled fur and protruding ribs emerged from around the corner near the main road and drifted into the alley. With near elation, the starving creature spotted the corpse, yet approached it with timidity and inquisitively. After recognizing no signs of movement, the mongrel jogged toward a feast. Its mouth salivated. The dog began to lick the calf muscle, tasting the dried saltiness from either perspiration or blood. It had not had a meal of this magnitude for its entire life.
Suddenly, a bus screeched as it approached the depot — its echo ricocheting profoundly through the shadowed alley. The dog, frightened, jolted its head upward from the meal for fear of retribution. A middle-aged man stepped off the bus whose silhouette cascaded toward the dog and teenager’s body. He wore an unassuming collared shirt and held only a small suitcase. The only distinguishable thing adorning him was a cross necklace. Although the dog could not see the man’s eyes, the mongrel knew he was being watched. Every step the man took weighed heavily on the dirt, as he bent over to grab a piece of fencing. Despite its motionlessness, the dog twitched debating whether to fight or fly — for it sought to end the pains of its own starvation, yet the man’s sheer presence was frightening. Only a few seconds elapsed, but, to the mongrel, it felt eternal.
Bang!
The dog’s eyes widened fearing the end.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The man knocked the plank of wood against the rectory’s façade, driving a thunderous wave toward the dog. After enough bangs, the dog bolted — ultimately deciding to not risk death over the depraved meal. The starvation would continue.
As the dog scampered away into the desert, the man remorsefully approached the body of the teenaged boy. Despite stepping off the bus moments before, a wave of responsibility and failure rushed over him. He bent over the boy — whose eyes still appeared to be screaming toward heaven — examining his fatal wounds. With a heavy hand, the man shut the boys’ eyes forever and muttered a prayer over him. He turned back to the main road with his attention passing from each dust-covered window. Except for the departing bus, nothing stirred as if the whole village was either silenced by ignorance or shame. Calling for help would be a fruitless venture, he thought; instead, he lifted the boy’s body over his shoulder and carried him into the rectory. The door was already opened, possibly by bandits years prior that no one bothered securing since.
As he suspected, the rectory had been raided. A tiny living room area consisted of a tattered couch and a bookcase with no books aligning the shelves. The space was adjoined by a kitchenette with a circular table and two chairs, one of which had a cracked leg so it was unsuitable for sitting. To his surprise, there was a phone on the counter and next to it a small, chipped figurine of Our Lady of Guadalupe. As he surveyed for a spot to lay the body down, he noticed a dustpan and broom propped upright in the corner of the kitchenette. Despite the sparse furniture and condition, the rectory was relatively clean. Someone had already been here recently.
The man eventually found a bedroom, which only had a cot on the ground. The bedframes had been stolen a long time ago. As he gingerly placed the teenager’s body on the cot, the man was consumed with remorse — who was this young man? Does he have any family? What if I came a day earlier, would he still be alive somehow?
There must be someone I can call, he rationalized. Urgently, he went to the kitchenette, opening up every cabinet door in search of a phonebook to alert the nearest police station. As he scrambled in the bare shelves, a slight creaking sound came from behind him. The noise was disconcerting. Was someone coming to retrieve the body? Was he now a witness to the crime? Or did the wind open the rectory door? He composed himself, stiffening his spine and controlling his breathing.
“There’s nothing here worth stealing anymore!”
That was not the voice of a cartel member? thought the man, as he turned around, standing upright. He was shocked to see a young woman, probably in her early 20s, positioned in the doorway. She was wielding a mop, tightly gripping it as a makeshift weapon.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” the young woman said.
She noticed the body in the bedroom.
“Is that your friend in there, sleeping? Probably drunk or high, right? Well you can’t stay here. Get out or I’ll call the police right now! You’re desecrating this place.”
“Please do,” the man calmly said, standing at full height.
The young woman dropped her hands, confused by the thief standing before her.
“Is this some mind trick? Don’t take me for a fool or a coward.”
“I mean it. I was trying to search for a phone number, but there’s no book here,” the man replied pointing to the empty cabinets.
Still defensive, the young woman stood there contemplating momentarily whether or not the reply was legitimate.
“And what about your friend in there?” she finally uttered.
The man wasn’t sure how to respond — he saw a young, brave woman who could probably do some damage to him with the mop she still clutched. Lying would get him nowhere. It never did. Best to be upfront, he decided.
“Unfortunately, he’s dead, and I don’t know who he is.”
“Dead?”
A moment passed between them, as the young woman’s eyes filled with bewilderment. Her sight bounced across the floor and into the bedroom, processing what the man said. A wave of fear crawled around her skin. The situation was more serious than she ever anticipated, and wished she never entered the rectory. But she stayed — she felt it was her duty to bring this man to justice. She inched closer to the bedroom, moving away from the rectory door to peek at the body to see if the man was telling the truth. As she scanned the body, fear turned into anguish.
“Antonio?”
She dropped the mop and rushed over, kneeling next to the body while futilely checking for a pulse. She ripped off part of her shirt and began wiping away the dried blood. Tears welled in her eyes, but she restrained sobbing with nearly every fiber of her being. The man stood at a distance, not wanting to frighten the poor young woman even further. At least now he knew the boy’s name. He assumed she was related.
“Antonio? That’s his name?” the man asked, trying to diffuse the tension in the air.
The young woman dropped her head onto Antonio’s chest in a last gasp to hear any signs of life from his heart — even though she knew full well he was dead. Slowly rising, her clothes now speckled with his blood, the young woman’s emotions swiftly morphed from sorrow to silent rage. She clenched her fists to the point where every muscle in her forearms were visible, and her teeth were on the brink of shattering from the pressure. The air in the room shackled the two in their spots — the young woman, still standing over the body and the man in the doorway. He wished to relieve her of the anguish — and divulge his identity as a Catholic priest. A prayer for the dead can be the only comfort now, he thought. Although, he wondered if she knew about the existence of priests.
“I’m no thief. And I’m no murderer. I’m a priest.”
The young woman’s head sharply turned to scan him. The light from the bedroom window revealed the glittering cross necklace. How could he be a priest, she internalized. He must be lying. The man relaxed his stance in an effort to reassure her of the truth, yet she still doubted.
“Then how did you come across Antonio?”
“I found him in the alleyway outside. I had just gotten off the bus here in San Juan Diego for my new assignment. Who is this boy?”
The young woman’s muscles began to slightly loosen, although she calculated a test for the stranger claiming to be a priest. She dug through a pocket in her pants, pulled out a rosary, and held it in the palm of her hands.
“What mysteries do we honor today?” she asked in a soft-spoken, nearly ashamed voice. She couldn’t even look at the priest.
“Today is Friday, right? Then we reflect on the sorrowful mysteries.”
Something in his voice — the confidence and soothing nature — made her believe the man was a priest. The tears that welled in the young woman’s eyes began to trickle down her face, as the passage of Satan testing Christ in the desert whipped through her mind.
“I’m sorry for testing you. We didn’t think you were coming for another day. I was here to clean,” she said through tears.
The Priest placed a hand on her shoulder.
“It’s okay — what’s your name?”
The young woman rubbed her eyes, sniffing to compose herself.
“Maria.”
“Who is Antonio to you?”
“He is — was my cousin. He ran with animals, those members of the cartel,” her sorrow once again veering into anger. The Priest, again, resolved to diffuse the situation.
“Is there a number for local police?”
Maria sheepishly turned to face the Priest, yet her gaze was toward the ground. The Priest, meanwhile, walked over to the phone in the kitchenette, picked the receiver off the hook, and waited for her reply. His finger loomed over the buttons in anticipation.
“I’m sorry Padre. I was lying before. I thought it would scare you off.”
The Priest hung up the receiver disappointed. He started to realize the truth: there was no law enforcement in the town. He would be here alone.
“There haven’t been police here for some time,” Maria said, as she picked up the mop to reassume her initial intentions of cleaning the rectory. “At least not strong enough to stop the cartel.”
Suddenly, a foreboding noise interrupted the Priest and Maria’s conversation. With heavy footsteps, the Priest walked to the front window with a view overlooking the main street. A cloud of dust hung in the air, and within the cloud, the Priest could see a Jeep with three men — two of whom were brandishing weapons. In their animalistic frenzy, the driver nearly ran into an older woman, who had been carrying fruit to her market stand. She tumbled out of the way, escaping with her life, but the fruit was now caked with dust and unsellable. The Priest witnessed the young men laughing as they pulled up in front of the cantina and jumped out one by one. The driver, he could sense, was the alpha — wide, fit, and marked with tattoos across his arms and a tear underneath his right eye. The other two were younger and not as battle-tested, as they appeared less aged than their comrade. Perhaps they were new to the lifestyle, he surmised. Something told him their paths would cross sooner than later.
The Priest felt compelled to step outside into the alley to get another look at the young men. There was one he noticed who had more innocence in his eyes — as though he was in the cartel life out of necessity, without any other options. The heart of a killer was not in the young man, but his soul dangled on the precipice of becoming lost.
As the dust subsided, the Priest nearly stumbled over the suitcase he left prior to moving Antonio’s body. Wiping off the dirt that drifted from the Jeep, the Priest saw the three young men walk into the cantina. He stepped back inside and heard Maria in the bedroom praying Hail Mary’s. She was kneeling over her cousin’s body in deep contemplation, pleading with the Blessed Mother to intercede on his behalf. The scene moved the Priest. There is still faith here, he thought, as he knelt beside Maria and joined her.
“Holy Mary. Mother of God. Pray for us sinners. Now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”
As they made the sign of the cross, the Priest noticed Maria struggling to move, as if her being was affixed to the ground — laden with a guilty conscience. However, the body was starting to smell — or perhaps it already did, but the Priest finally noticed — and the flies manifested seemingly out of thin air. He could not let Maria linger in this state, dwelling on a sin she did not commit. Guilt consumed him, drove him to dark corners in the past. He would not let this young woman suffer similarly, and Antonio had to be put to rest.
“Is there a shovel?”
II
The Priest, covered in dirt, finished preparing the burial plot for Antonio who was wrapped in tightly roped blankets Maria provided. There were no carpenters in the village able to construct a proper coffin. With the harsh elements, the Priest decided best not to wait, and bury the body as soon as possible.
With her head bowed, Maria stood by her cousin’s plot like a solemn statue in the graveyard. As the Priest stuck the shovel into the dirt, he noticed two older women approaching on the path leading to the cemetery, which was situated a few hundred yards from the church.
“Who are they?” the Priest asked while wiping the dirt and sweat from his forehead.
“My aunt and grandmother,” Maria replied without turning to see.
The aunt was inconsolable, balling into a handkerchief — a relic of her former husband. Antonio was her only son. To lose the only other man and her only child was devastating news Maria had to break to her. Accompanying her was Maria’s grandmother, a short woman with a worn face, coldly leading her daughter to the burial plot. Young men dying was a circumstance she witnessed too many times. The emotional walls were constructed long ago — long before Antonio.
The three women stood side-by-side, each grieving in their own way. The aunt buried her face onto Maria’s shoulder, still sobbing. Ever so slightly, Maria stroked her aunt’s arm. The Priest, again, was moved by the young woman’s strength. She would need much in the coming days.
A few feet away from the burial plot, underneath a dead tree, the Priest rummaged through his suitcase which contained a crucifix, a copy of the Bible, the Roman Missal and a photograph of an older man sitting in between two teenaged boys. He paused when he saw the photograph. How coincidental, he thought. The Priest pitied Antonio, whose fate was extinguished by an act of foolish desperation. He pitied the bereaved. He pitied the older man and two boys in the photograph.
As the Priest prepared to perform the Rite of Committal, his eyes wandered from the boy’s body in the shallow grave to the three grieving women to the lifeless, shadow-less main street of San Juan Diego. Surely, the Lord will have mercy on the boy — who now belonged to the ages in the dry desert. He felt perhaps his arrival was providential in order to give Antonio last rites, and beg God for forgiveness. He had to believe.
Out of his periphery, the Priest noticed the Jeep was still in front of the cantina. He believed the three young men might know how Antonio died. Someone must find out why this boy died and why violence plagued the townsfolk. The despair has to be rooted out, like an uncontrollable weed, and it begins with discovering the people behind this ruthless killing, he thought.
His gaze wandered back to the aunt, who still sobbed, her tears soaking Maria’s shoulder.
“My God, why did I request this place?”
III
Francisco downed a shot of tequila and smacked the glass on the table with a thunderous stamp, as if he was trying to prove something to Roberto and his younger brother, José. All three had weapons slung over their backs, and were the only patrons of the cantina.
Roberto and José cackled like hyenas, which reverberated around the empty and lightless cantina. The three young men had not yet been to bed from the border run the night before.
“Another!” Roberto cried to the bartender, a slim, nervous older man. He had seen his fair share of trouble in San Juan Diego, but being the only cantina nearby, his business had been the only one that didn’t completely dry up.
The request disturbed the radio broadcast he had been listening to. The bartender grabbed a tequila bottle and slowly walked from behind the counter to the three men. His attention was still on the broadcast: “The pope is hoping to bring a message of peace and fraternity to a region that has struggled with rising crime…”
“Rapido!” Roberto shouted. Francisco, recovering from the tequila shot, noticed Roberto moving his hand toward his gun.
“Roberto…”
The hot-headed young man smirked and lowered his hand. The bartender inched closer to the group, only moving once Francisco gave a slight wave to come forward. He proceeded to pour the three another round. As he turned back to the bar, the radio broadcast continued echoing through the cantina: “The Vatican announced today that the Holy Father is expected to make his long awaited apostolic visit to Mexico in a week…”
“Leave the bottle. And turn that off!” Roberto commanded.
Frightened, the bartender left the bottle and rushed to turn off the radio. Roberto scratched his chin and glared at the bartender. He laughed while envisioning different ways of toying with the old man, who he considered a worm: too pitiful to squish underneath his boot, yet he would enjoy watching squirm — similar to the bugs he would slice little by little in his youth, just to see them struggle. The cartel life attracted him early. He leaned over to José, smacking him with the back of hand to grab his attention.
“See. Assert your dominance and you control anyone,” Roberto audibly whispered to the young teen.
Roberto’s cousin and Francisco’s younger brother, José was a scrawny, late teenager without any experience in this lifestyle. Yet he was wild, untamed and naïve — a dangerous combination for a youth struggling to find his purpose in the world. Francisco recognized this in his brother, but what other options were there in San Juan Diego? He had his grandmother to care for. Like José, last night was also his first drive to the border. There was no sense of romanticism attached, unlike his younger brother. He had to be pragmatic for his family.
Already drunk and tired from the night’s escapade, Francisco hesitantly reached out for the new shot of tequila. Meanwhile, José’s eyes widened as he quickly downed his drink. His face twitched as the alcohol singed his throat. Roberto watched the two — wolfing his shot down, unfazed by the burn. Francisco leaned on the table debating whether to have his drink.
“Weak stomach, Francisco?” Roberto jeered through his barred teeth.
Francisco couldn’t afford to look weak. With a sudden determination, he downed the shot. Even while he coughed from the burn, Roberto quickly refilled the glass while examining his cousin. Francisco, with his soft eyes, reddening from lack of sleep and drunkenness, put out his hand to avoid taking another.
“Another dance with the devil,” Roberto said.
“No. I’m already feeling sick. And I’m tired from last night.”
“There are drug runs, and there are drug runs. Last night was nothing. Come on, drink to your health.”
“I’ll drink to that!” José chimed in, who at this point, was beginning to wobble in his chair. The youngest took the glass intended for his older brother, and swallowed it before Francisco could impede the action. His mind wandered to Antonio, a friend of theirs who failed to join them in the previous night’s run.
“Where was Antonio last night. Wasn’t he suppose to meet us?”
Roberto gulped his shot, ignoring Francisco’s question. A sudden, heavy air lingered over the table — with every second feeling like an hour. Roberto leaned back in his chair, twirling his shot glass on the table. Francisco wasn’t sure if it was the effects of the tequila or innate fear, but he sensed something was wrong. The hairs began to stand on the back of his neck, as he watched Roberto — with a stoic demeanor — repeatedly toss the glass into the air.
“Where is Antonio?”
At that moment, the wobbling José tumbled out of his chair onto the floor. Francisco jumped up to tend to his brother, propping him upright in the chair once again. Roberto, meanwhile, arched his head toward the ceiling, howling with laughter.
“The boy can’t hold his liquor! I remember my first time.”
“I’m taking him home.”
Roberto drove his cousins, and he knew perhaps it was time to go, as he himself felt tired. However, he still considered Francisco to not have the mettle necessary to be a true member, at least not yet. He poured himself one more shot, wiped his mouth, and smacked the glass on the table.
“Fine.”
The bartender, who was washing glasses, noticed the group leaving. He rushed out from behind the bar to the table to present the three with a bill.
“That will be 600 pesos.”
As the three stood on the threshold of the cantina, Roberto paused, turning his attention to the bartender. Like a wolf stalking prey, he was light on his feet as he inched closer and closer to his next victim. A bemused breath escaped his nostrils, which was as hot as gas escaping a volcano. The alpha scanned the bartender, who shrunk further inward and into the floor. Francisco carried his younger brother and watched, debating whether to break Roberto’s concentration. He saw his cousin’s fingers twitch toward the gun still strapped to his back. He began to sweat — he didn’t want to see Roberto hurt this man. As he was about to say something, the bartender finally gave in.
“…it’s on the house gentlemen.”
Roberto shook his head in approval, with a grin curling at the end of his lips. As he strode back to the front entrance, he took the bottle — still containing tequila — and gestured to the bartender as if asking permission to take it home. However, he knew full well, at the moment, he was not asking. Without speaking a word, the bartender nodded, wishing to avoid a confrontation.
“Gracias, señor. You’re truly blessed,” Roberto said, while placing his hands together, mockingly praying the man.
Suddenly, the cantina door swung open and the Priest walked in, dressed in his cassock, with dirt and sweat from burying Antonio is still smudge across his forehead. Francisco, while holding José, was nearly knocked to the ground, as if some shield forced him out of the entryway. He stared at the Priest in an abhorrent wonder. He had never seen a priest before.
The Priest recognized the three young men from the Jeep, and positioned himself in the doorway preventing them from leaving. This was his best chance to find out more about Antonio and his death. An air of tension once more shrouded the room.
“Hola, gentlemen,” the Priest greeted the three.
Roberto spat on the ground. The Priest did not flinch.
“I hope you’re not bothering this man,” the Priest said, referring to the bartender.
“What’s it to you?” Roberto coldly replied.
“Yeah, what is it to you?” José echoed drunkenly, while draped over his brother’s shoulder.
Something within Francisco did not allow him to join in, as he was still confused by the Priest’s presence. He felt trapped, frozen. The Priest sensed Francisco’s soft eyes staring at him, yet his vision remained fixed on Roberto. He could detect the young man longed to be anywhere else, but the circumstances drove him to here. He noticed the bartender, who, in the brief moments, slunk to and crouched behind the bar.
“Is that the type of greeting one would give when welcoming a new neighbor?”
“Neighbor? Ah, you’re funny padre. This is the friendliest town in all of Mexico. Aren’t we muchachos?” Roberto snidely grinned.
The bartender, in order to avoid a fight in his place, poked his head out from behind the bar.
“Can I help you sir?” he asked the Priest.
“Excuse me señor, but the padre and I are talking,” Roberto sharply lashed at the bartender, who proceeded to slink behind the bar once more.
“Yes you can. I’m looking for some wine. I need it for Mass on Sunday. Will I see you boys there?”
Moving his head as if the Priest were asking someone else in the cantina, Roberto cackled again sarcastically.
“You’re funny.”
The wild man inched his hand to the gun strap.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, muchacho,” the Priest commanded. His voice rang out throughout the cantina with an authoritative tone. All the while, Francisco felt his heart racing — as though it would burst out of his chest. But he saw the Priest standing firm, unrelenting to Roberto. Both were locked in an invisible struggle — planted to see who would blink first. Unbeknownst to Francisco, José slipped out his grasp, falling to the ground. The moment snapped the tension in the cantina as Roberto’s sight dashed to his drunk cousin.
“I think you better get your friend home,” the Priest stated, knowing he had won this first battle.
Roberto’s whole body clenched in frustration at his cousins. He glared at Francisco as though fire would blaze from his eyes. Instead of berating them, his head swiveled back to the Priest — with his lips curled in a devilish grin. He stroked his chin.
“Well padre, men like you don’t last here. You see no one here is worth saving. So we don’t need you.”
He formed his finger into a gun, aiming down at the Priest. The Priest stood firmly, yet silently. This man is a dangerous punk, he thought.
“It’s the wild west out here. C’mon Francisco,” Roberto said, holstering his fictional gun.
Roberto moved passed the Priest, while brandishing the tequila bottle. Francisco clumsily picked up his brother, relieved that a fight was avoided. He did not want to fight in the state he was in. As the three young men stumbled to the Jeep, Roberto finished the rest of the remaining tequila. Francisco plopped José into the backseat — but he saw the wheels in Roberto’s mind spin. He could tell his cousin would not let the stand-off end as it did. He had to have the last say.
“Come on, Roberto.”
Roberto examined the empty bottle, tossing it up and down as he had done with the shot glass moments before. The Priest, meanwhile, stood in the entrance, waiting for the group to leave. Don’t do it, Francisco thought. Don’t do anything. Get in the car and let’s go home. However, his prayer went unrealized. With fury, Roberto flung the bottle through the front window of the cantina, shattering it into hundreds of pieces. Impressed by the destruction, he howled with laughter as he leapt into the Jeep. Instinctively, Francisco hopped into the passenger seat before Roberto peeled away from the cantina, kicking up dirt that drifted down the main street. He turned back, seeing the Priest step out into the road, who watched their car disappear from sight as well as the panicked bartender left picking up the shattered shards. He couldn’t help but feel pity for the older man — his livelihood being abused — but he also wasn’t going to stick around and be reprimanded.
“What? Just having some fun with the new guy before he’s gone,” Roberto cackled as he swerved on the road.
“Just probably not the best to piss off someone like that right away is all.”
“Screw him. What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing, I’m just tired and it’s been a long night and day.”
With the view of the cantina and the black silhouette of the Priest out of view, Francisco turned to the dashboard. He reflected on the whereabouts of Antonio, since Roberto still didn’t provide him an answer.
“So what happened to him?”
“Who?”
“Antonio? I know you know Roberto.”
Roberto’s demeanor from malicious joy evaporated. He readjusted himself in the driver’s seat, and glanced in the rearview mirror to see if José was still sleeping, which he happened to be.
“I heard maybe the Caballeros got to him. Or he probably chickened out. I don’t know,” he solemnly said.
“The Caballeros?”
“Yeah, I’m not sure when — but no one’s been able to find him.”
The rival gang — the Caballeros — were notorious for attempts at reclaiming territory from the Perros, the cartel organization to which Roberto belonged, and Francisco and José were soon to be initiated into. The Caballeros were headed by Rafael, a precise, ruthless, organized man with a devotion to his members. However, his ruthlessness paled in comparison to the Perros’ leader, Lobo — a man without a true name or past. He was more legend than human. No one had an inclination of where he came from, but he emerged as a powerful force to be reckoned with in the deepest corners of Mexico. Some whispers suggested his origins were linked not too far from San Juan Diego. Regardless, within a few years, Lobo’s domain stretched across a vast country, conquering other areas through sheer terror and violence. Members claimed he was the devil or the devil’s only son.
“I have no idea, but I know Lobo will enact justice.”
The name sent shivers down Francisco’s spine; but he’d rather be on the side of the powerful, than the weakening — which is how he viewed the Caballeros. Their act on Antonio was a warning shot, a prelude to an eventual all-out war. The Jeep sped faster down the highway, kicking up more dirt as they left for the outskirts of town.
IV
“Are you alright?” Maria shouted as she rushed over to the Priest and bartender, who were surveying the damage from Roberto’s tequila bottle. She had finished escorting her aunt and grandmother home to their apartment following the burial ceremony for Antonio. The Priest saw a combination of sadness and anger swarming in her eyes — he wished he could bring her peace.
“Yes, I’ll meet you back at the church in a minute to finish cleaning the rectory.”
After looking at the destruction, Maria gazed down the road. The dirt kicked up by the Jeep drifted over he tear-soaked clothes, seeping into the fabric. She shook her head in anguish, muttering, “Animals,” as she walked back to the church.
The Priest and bartender walked back into the cantina. The latter was on the verge of tears.
“I’m sorry about the window,” the Priest said in an effort to comfort the man.
“You’re barely in this town for a minute and this is the trouble you cause,” the bartender retorted as he picked up a bottle of wine, forcefully placing it on the end of the bar.
“Do you wish to start a tab too like Father Jorge?” he added sarcastically.
The comment left the Priest visibly perplexed as the bartender grabbed a broom to sweep the shards.
“First day here, he seemed to guzzle tequila like a fish. It ruined his nerves.”
“I’m sorry my friend. Whatever tab he owes, I’ll pay it. And the window. How much?”
The bartender continued his sweeping avoiding eye contact with the Priest. Even the offer of paying for the tab and window made the bartender embarrassed for mentioning the previous pastor’s debt. He suspected the Priest must be poor, otherwise why would he be assigned in San Juan Diego.
“Just go father.”
“How much?”
The bartender paused his sweeping. Still avoiding eye contact, he internally calculated the debt. He was ashamed to even share the final tally, but the Priest insisted.
“About 500 dollars.”
The Priest was shocked, not by the amount, but by Father Jorge’s abuse of the bartender’s business.
“Guzzle was the right word.”
The Priest pulled out his wallet, thumbed through the money and gave it to the bartender. The money in his hand felt like thirty pieces of silver, as though he extorted the Priest and his generosity. He was frozen in his spot, still unable to look into the man’s eyes. The Priest picked up the bottle of wine as well and nearly walked out of the cantina, before realizing he needed to add extra.
“Oh, and this for the wine,” he said handing the bartender a few extra dollars.
“I’m sorry father.”
“No need muchacho. I hope to see you at Mass.”
The bartender hadn’t been to Mass in years, even when Father Jorge was the pastor in San Juan Diego. He grew up in the faith, but slipped away, feeling the Church was insincere toward the poor — despite the riches the institution possessed. The gesture cracked that veneer, albeit in a small way. He was about to speak on his absence to the Priest, who seemed to read his mind.
“No need to explain why you haven’t. I just hope you make it.”
The Priest walked out the door, heading to the church. The bartender, with a tear rolling down his cheek, watched his new neighbor with an awe of gratitude. Someone has finally shown him some respect.
Continued in Part Two