Page 62 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name
She smiled, but it was tight-lipped and faded fast. Some of her anxiety had subsided, but there was still something that was gnawing at her. It had been gnawing at her for weeks, and she knew she had to confront it at last.
“Daniel. You need to tell me what this is all about. What you’re involved in that’s so bad.”
He shook his head. “Julia, I can’t.”
Her voice was soft but firm. “Like it or not, we’re in this together now.”
He pressed his fingers into his eye sockets and said nothing for a long moment. Then he dragged his hand down his face, cupping his hand over his mouth. Finally, he turned to her, dropped his hand, and began to speak. She reached for his arm, bracing herself to hold on no matter what he said.
* * *
Daniel told her about the heroin, about its journey from the poppy fields of the Sierra Madre Occidental as raw opium paste, arriving at the border at Ciudad Juárez as pure China White. How it got carefully weighed and wrapped in glassine on long tables in an old dartboard factory, under the watchful eye of José “El Merc” Ferrera and his army of cartel soldiers. How the product then got loaded onto pallets in the guise of various unassuming items. Crap no one would look twice at. Like cassette tapes and ballpoint pens and waterbeds.
How smugglers then moved it north in the back of freight haulers, and how those vehicles arrived at InterTruck for routine servicing. How the product then made its way to buyers like the Sokolovs. The Russians cut the keys down further, then further again, until it wound up on the street in the hands of the lowest level dealers of all.
And he told her about how he was just a cog in that wheel, a middleman. A guy who got shit done for Terry, who got shit done forlos jefesback in L.A. Who in turn got shit done for the bosses even higher up the food chain than them.
Until about a year ago, that was Daniel’s life, and he had accepted it. Death, prison, or deportation were the only endings to his story. Every year beyond fourteen had been a roll of the dice. If he made it to twenty-seven, he’d consider himself practically elderly.
But then Terry started sniffing around Sebastián. Making comments about bringing him into the gang. Soon, he’d be expecting his brother to start pulling shifts at InterTruck. Terry knew how smart his little brother was and was angling to put his brains to good use on the ledgers.
And it was then that he knew he had to get out. To get them both out.
So, for the past year, after every deal, he’d started skimming a little off the top. A couple of bills here and there, stuffed into the gym bag that she’d found in his wardrobe. He always adjusted the ledgers when he got back to base. He never took a lot. Never enough for Terry or Paq to notice.
I hope, he thought.
Julia listened to all of it. He kept his eyes glued to the ceiling. He didn’t want to see her expression. He didn’t want to watch as whatever good impressions she’d had of him were buried forever. Buried where they belonged.
After he’d finished talking, she was quiet for a long moment, digesting it all.
He closed his eyes, so he didn’t have to see her eyes peering into his soul. He still felt them, though. And he felt her cool hand on his cheek, turning his face so he couldn’t hide from her anymore.
“I’m getting out, Julia,” he said, his voice flat. “That’s what the money in the bag is for. Severance pay. I’m done with this life, and I’m taking Seb with me.”
She frowned. “What changed?”
He sat up in bed, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor. “My brother is gay.”
Julia sat up too, watching him. “And that’s a problem?”
He shook his head. “Not to me. But in my world, baby, it’s a death sentence.” His fingers dragged over his face. “I saw a guy get killed right in front of me just because there was a rumor he was gay.” His voice trailed off. His fingertips pressed hard into his eye sockets, as if he could erase the memory by force.
He knew what would happen if Terry got his claws into Seb. If the truth got out. It would end in blood.
His throat tightened as he looked at Julia. “Seb doesn’t belong in this life. He’s got too much ahead of him to be stuck slinging drugs. Or scrubbing dishes just to get by.”
She moved closer, resting a tentative hand on his back. “So do you.”
He said nothing. He didn’t know what he had to offer the world. No one had ever given him the chance to figure that out. His life had been a fight for survival since the day he set foot on American soil.
Julia hesitated, then said, “There’s that thing all the politicians have been talking about. DACA. It’s for people who came here as kids. It lets them stay, work legally, get real jobs.”
He turned his head slightly. “I know what it is. Sebastián’s already an expert on it, trust me.”
He’d thought about it, more than he wanted to admit. But his own record meant the door was closed to him. For Sebastián, though, it was different. For the first time in years, something like hope had started creeping in. The idea that maybe, just maybe, there was a way out. A way forward. If not for him, then at least for his little brother.
“But first,” he said, “we gotta get the fuck out of here. Far away. Somewhere Terry can’t find us. Somewhere the gang doesn’t have a toehold. Somewhere we can start over. For real this time.”
