Once Upon A Wish : Book One (4 page)
Read Once Upon A Wish : Book One Online
Authors: Richard Poche
Tags: #noir, #noir crime, #hit men, #noir crime thriller, #drug cartel fiction, #edge of your seat thrillers, #gripping thriller, #hit man book, #hit man series
“Can't we figure something out?” Hernan
asked, sounding desperate. His eyes pleaded, hoping Nestor would
take the lead.
“I am just as bad at figuring things as
you.”
couch and stared at Nestor.
“I think I have a concussion.”
“I should have brought you to the
doctor.”
“No,” Nestor said, waving off the suggestion and tossing the ice
bag on the coffee table. He looked up at the ceiling again as if
waiting for his frustration to dissolve into numbness. “That would
mean just more bills.”
with bravado.
“God hates us.” Nestor whispered, trying to
get up and Hernan sprang over to assist. Nestor waved him off and
got up by himself. He walked over to the window and looked out at
the graffiti painted walls. The landscape burned in his brain like
a future bad memory then sank into darkness as one of the street
lamps blew out.
a one-bedroom apartment. He would sleep on the couch. It really
didn't matter. His gambling got them into this hole. He needed to
stop denying that he was the loser. Not Hernan. He just brought the
kid along for the ride.
bottle of Corona. Covering it in a paper bag, he exited through the
door.
Nestor walked past the street vendors
peddling tamales for a dollar. He laughed at how he couldn't even
afford that.
take a pass on the six bottles of beer he bought at the liquor
store.
Nestor walked to the park, ignoring the
bums exchanging needles under the swing set. He went under the
furthest tree, laid flat on his back and drank himself drunk.
***
The restaurant would be empty from two
until around six. The last to leave on the swing shift, he
intentionally left the back entrance unlocked. He left the
apartment exactly at two o'clock. Nestor fell asleep in front of
the television, the smell of beer strong around him.
The quiet of the East Oakland night put
Hernan on edge. He entered through the back door as planned and
turned on the kitchen light. He already had his story straight. If
someone caught him, he would say he forgot his coat. He would say
the lights were on so he just went in and retrieved it.
He opened the front cash register and found
an empty drawer.
The safe?
He remembered Cisneros kept the spare key
in his office. Good luck trying to find that.
His eyes turned to the register at the
cocktail bar. He jumped over the counter and popped the machine
open. There were twenties and a few hundreds. A lot of small bills.
Hernan stuffed them into his backpack. Pushing his luck, he went
back to Cisneros' office. He rummaged through the drawers looking
for a set of keys. He found some but there were about thirty on the
chain. He went over to the side of the safe and began inserting
them one by one.
worked overtime numerous days the prior week and did not get paid
for it. He addressed the oversight to Cisneros but the man just
brushed him off.
He did not tell Nestor about being cheated
out of his rightful pay. Nestor would demand revenge, but he was
starting to see things Nestor's way. People will take advantage of
you when you play by the rules.
So, Hernan was striking back.
Annoyed that he did not find the master for
the safe right away, he dropped the keys back into Cisneros’
drawer.
He looked through the kitchen and thought
of other items he could steal. Maybe he should steal some of the
fish meat and sell it to some of the street vendors? Too messy and
selling it would be a hassle. He took some of the fish meat anyway
and figured he and Nestor could fry it for a few dinners.
Hernan exited the back door and made his
way down the dark alley. He took a few steps when the blue light
hit him.
“Don't fucking move!”
He turned around anyway and the cop had his
gun pointed at him.
“I said don't move!”
The cop slowly came toward him.
“Hands up!”
Hernan complied with the officer's request.
In Mexico, if you were caught committing a robbery the cop might
shoot you first and ask questions later. Hernan remained strangely
calm as the police officer approached, knowing that the rules were
different here.
The cop pushed him to the ground and he
could feel the cold metal of the handcuffs go tight around his
wrist.
Another officer arrived and the two
escorted Hernan to the squad car. They tossed him in the back seat
causing Hernan to hit his head on the floorboard.
cute Latina with a name badge that read L. Marcos. She inputted
data into the computer. The arresting officer hovered above him. He
had a wrestler's physique with a bulldog neck. His badge read S.
Scott and he looked down at Hernan through narrow brown eyes.
“Tell the woman your name.”
“Why? I have done nothing wrong.”
“What is your name?” the Latina girl asked
in Spanish. She looked at him flatly but he felt an unspoken
camaraderie with her considering she addressed him in his native
language. Maybe she could be his ally.
“Hernan. Hernan Vasquez.”
The girl's fingers danced across the
keyboard.
“What were you doing in the restaurant?”
the cop’s voice echoed in the old, high-ceilinged building.
“I was … I forgot my coat. I went to go get
it. I work there.”
“So you decided to go ahead and break in
after hours to get your coat at two o'clock in the morning? With a
bag full of cash?”
“That's right.”
Hernan thought that he must have tripped
the silent alarm. He could already hear Nestor's angry voice in his
head. He would berate him for robbing the restaurant without
consulting him first. By trying to rectify the money situation, he
made matters worse.
They took Hernan's photo, fingerprints and
showed him to his cell. An open-air toilet stood at the center. A
plank jutting out of the wall served as a bed. He lay down and
blinked back tears as he looked up at the cobwebbed corners of the
ceiling.
Nestor awoke to an empty house. He looked
in the shower and in Hernan's bedroom.
Home alone. Where was he?
A knock on the door. He looked through the
peephole and recognized the man in front of the door as
Cisneros.
“I had your friend arrested.” Cisneros said
before Nestor had the door fully open.
“What?”
“He robbed me,” Cisneros walked in without
an invitation. “Left the back door to the restaurant unlocked. Came
back at night and took out about three hundred dollars from the
cash register.”
Cisneros had a giant mole on his left
cheek. His salt and pepper hair on bushy eyebrows gave him an
owl-like appearance. He talked behind a pair of blue shades which
he wore night or day.
“I have had tons of guys try that same
trick,” Cisneros said. “My wife keeps telling me I need to hire
nice little white kids. But nice little white kids don't apply to
be dishwashers.”
“Where is he now?”
“In jail,” Cisneros said. “We need to have
a long talk.”
Cisneros drove Nestor to the police station
in a brand new Yukon. Custom gold and with leather interior, Nestor
sat stiffly in the passenger seat as if unworthy to be in such a
vehicle.
“I hire ex-cons all the time,” Cisneros
said. “I have a sixth sense about them. I can tell if they are
really out to redeem themselves. And I don’t bother with those who
are too far gone.”
“Hernan’s not an ex-con.”
“He is now.”
“Don't blame him. Blame me. It was my
fault. We’re running short on cash. Scared him. Shouldn’t have been
so harsh on him. Shit, he’s doing the best he can. That’s why he
tried to rob the restaurant. Because I told him we were in
desperate need of money.”
“How bad is it?”
“If we don’t come up with rent quick? We’re
being evicted. That’s my fault too. I lost a ton of money gambling.
Desperation does that.”
“Hernan is a nice boy,” Cisneros said. “I'm
in shock. I shouldn't be. But I am.”
The two men waited in line until they got
their turn at the front desk. A ropy officer led them down the hall
to officer Victor Tapia
“They gave him to me because he doesn't
speak English too well,” Tapia said. “Now he doesn't speak to
anyone.”
“He'll speak to me,” Nestor said. “He's
just confused.” He pushed passed heading toward his friend.
“Yeah, well he's going to John
George.”
“John George?” he asked, stopping.
The dreaded psychiatric facility in the
East Bay, Nestor knew Hernan would be holed up for two or three
days against his will.
“Can I talk to him? He’s not crazy. Trust
me. He has no record. Just a lapse in judgment, that’s all.
Cisneros said he would drop the charges.”
Cisneros stood behind Nestor. He nodded his
head. “I own the restaurant. I'll drop the charges.”
The officer sighed and shook his head.
“Wait here.”
He stared out of the window in a daze.
“Anything you want to say to me,
Hernan?”
“I am sorry.”
“Really? I mean are you really genuinely
sorry?”
Hernan nodded his head. “Yes.”
Nestor swallowed his tongue. He knew that
Cisneros would make the kid grovel. This was his crime too. His
life of empty beer bottles and torn betting slips had gotten his
friend into this position.
“If there is anything you need from us,
just ask.” Nestor said.
“I might just hold you to that.”
Cisneros turned a corner and they drove in
silence for a few minutes. He turned on the radio and let some
salsa music play.
“If you need money, just ask. That's all
you have to do is ask. People just take and steal and I hate that
shit. I have many business interests in the city. If you want to
earn extra money—ask. Don't fucking steal.”
The sudden change in tone and language took
Nestor aback. Cisneros presented himself to the neighborhood as an
honest and charitable family man. He heard things about him in the
streets. How he would give to the poor people, host free barbecues
in the park and give stirring testimonies about his previous life
as a gunrunner and drug dealer who turned his life around.
He stopped the car in front of their
house.
“They say our God is a loving God. And to
forgive is divine.” Cisneros looked steely eyed at the young man in
the rear view mirror. “I don’t forgive. I just forget about certain
things and those people that hurt me no longer have any power over
me. So what you have done is forgotten, Hernan.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, how much money do you need?
Neither Hernan nor Nestor responded immediately.
Cisneros looked out the window for a moment
and then shut off the car stereo.
“How much?”
“Eight hundred,” Nestor said. “We owe some back rent. Eight hundred
puts us over the top.”
“You have to work a lot of hours to make
eight hundred dollars as a dishwasher. Talk about indentured
servitude.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hernan?” Cisneros took off his blue shaded
glasses. He looked at the young man again through his rear view
mirror.
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you a religious man?” Cisneros
fingered the Christ on the cross he had dangling from his rear view
mirror.
thank you but stopped himself as Cisneros stared out the window at
their graffiti devoured building.
Hernan took another look at the Christ
figure hanging from the rear view mirror before exiting the
vehicle.
asked, sounding desperate. His eyes pleaded, hoping Nestor would
take the lead.
“I am just as bad at figuring things as
you.”
Nestor pressed the ice
harder to his forehead, as if it trying to comfort his stress as
well as his bruise. He glared up at the ceiling and didn't speak.
The room filled with
the
sound of a plane going by.
We're a pair of deaf idiots in the dark.
couch and stared at Nestor.
“I think I have a concussion.”
“I should have brought you to the
doctor.”
“No,” Nestor said, waving off the suggestion and tossing the ice
bag on the coffee table. He looked up at the ceiling again as if
waiting for his frustration to dissolve into numbness. “That would
mean just more bills.”
“My
abuelita
said people worry about
money too much. Makes them forget about what is
important.”
“Your
abuelita
wasn't grounded in reality.
People say things like that but it takes money to enjoy the
important things. Like eating for one. A roof over your
head.”
with bravado.
“God hates us.” Nestor whispered, trying to
get up and Hernan sprang over to assist. Nestor waved him off and
got up by himself. He walked over to the window and looked out at
the graffiti painted walls. The landscape burned in his brain like
a future bad memory then sank into darkness as one of the street
lamps blew out.
a one-bedroom apartment. He would sleep on the couch. It really
didn't matter. His gambling got them into this hole. He needed to
stop denying that he was the loser. Not Hernan. He just brought the
kid along for the ride.
“I have to do some
thinking,
amigo
,”
Nestor said.
bottle of Corona. Covering it in a paper bag, he exited through the
door.
Nestor walked past the street vendors
peddling tamales for a dollar. He laughed at how he couldn't even
afford that.
What will we
do
?
take a pass on the six bottles of beer he bought at the liquor
store.
Nestor walked to the park, ignoring the
bums exchanging needles under the swing set. He went under the
furthest tree, laid flat on his back and drank himself drunk.
***
The restaurant would be empty from two
until around six. The last to leave on the swing shift, he
intentionally left the back entrance unlocked. He left the
apartment exactly at two o'clock. Nestor fell asleep in front of
the television, the smell of beer strong around him.
The quiet of the East Oakland night put
Hernan on edge. He entered through the back door as planned and
turned on the kitchen light. He already had his story straight. If
someone caught him, he would say he forgot his coat. He would say
the lights were on so he just went in and retrieved it.
He opened the front cash register and found
an empty drawer.
The safe?
He remembered Cisneros kept the spare key
in his office. Good luck trying to find that.
His eyes turned to the register at the
cocktail bar. He jumped over the counter and popped the machine
open. There were twenties and a few hundreds. A lot of small bills.
Hernan stuffed them into his backpack. Pushing his luck, he went
back to Cisneros' office. He rummaged through the drawers looking
for a set of keys. He found some but there were about thirty on the
chain. He went over to the side of the safe and began inserting
them one by one.
Hernan didn’t like to
steal. Whenever he did, he imagined his
abuelita
looking down at him from
heaven and he felt shame.
worked overtime numerous days the prior week and did not get paid
for it. He addressed the oversight to Cisneros but the man just
brushed him off.
He did not tell Nestor about being cheated
out of his rightful pay. Nestor would demand revenge, but he was
starting to see things Nestor's way. People will take advantage of
you when you play by the rules.
So, Hernan was striking back.
Annoyed that he did not find the master for
the safe right away, he dropped the keys back into Cisneros’
drawer.
He looked through the kitchen and thought
of other items he could steal. Maybe he should steal some of the
fish meat and sell it to some of the street vendors? Too messy and
selling it would be a hassle. He took some of the fish meat anyway
and figured he and Nestor could fry it for a few dinners.
Hernan exited the back door and made his
way down the dark alley. He took a few steps when the blue light
hit him.
“Don't fucking move!”
He turned around anyway and the cop had his
gun pointed at him.
“I said don't move!”
The cop slowly came toward him.
“Hands up!”
Hernan complied with the officer's request.
In Mexico, if you were caught committing a robbery the cop might
shoot you first and ask questions later. Hernan remained strangely
calm as the police officer approached, knowing that the rules were
different here.
The cop pushed him to the ground and he
could feel the cold metal of the handcuffs go tight around his
wrist.
Another officer arrived and the two
escorted Hernan to the squad car. They tossed him in the back seat
causing Hernan to hit his head on the floorboard.
cute Latina with a name badge that read L. Marcos. She inputted
data into the computer. The arresting officer hovered above him. He
had a wrestler's physique with a bulldog neck. His badge read S.
Scott and he looked down at Hernan through narrow brown eyes.
“Tell the woman your name.”
“Why? I have done nothing wrong.”
“What is your name?” the Latina girl asked
in Spanish. She looked at him flatly but he felt an unspoken
camaraderie with her considering she addressed him in his native
language. Maybe she could be his ally.
“Hernan. Hernan Vasquez.”
The girl's fingers danced across the
keyboard.
“What were you doing in the restaurant?”
the cop’s voice echoed in the old, high-ceilinged building.
“I was … I forgot my coat. I went to go get
it. I work there.”
“So you decided to go ahead and break in
after hours to get your coat at two o'clock in the morning? With a
bag full of cash?”
“That's right.”
Hernan thought that he must have tripped
the silent alarm. He could already hear Nestor's angry voice in his
head. He would berate him for robbing the restaurant without
consulting him first. By trying to rectify the money situation, he
made matters worse.
They took Hernan's photo, fingerprints and
showed him to his cell. An open-air toilet stood at the center. A
plank jutting out of the wall served as a bed. He lay down and
blinked back tears as he looked up at the cobwebbed corners of the
ceiling.
Nestor awoke to an empty house. He looked
in the shower and in Hernan's bedroom.
Home alone. Where was he?
A knock on the door. He looked through the
peephole and recognized the man in front of the door as
Cisneros.
“I had your friend arrested.” Cisneros said
before Nestor had the door fully open.
“What?”
“He robbed me,” Cisneros walked in without
an invitation. “Left the back door to the restaurant unlocked. Came
back at night and took out about three hundred dollars from the
cash register.”
Cisneros had a giant mole on his left
cheek. His salt and pepper hair on bushy eyebrows gave him an
owl-like appearance. He talked behind a pair of blue shades which
he wore night or day.
“I have had tons of guys try that same
trick,” Cisneros said. “My wife keeps telling me I need to hire
nice little white kids. But nice little white kids don't apply to
be dishwashers.”
“Where is he now?”
“In jail,” Cisneros said. “We need to have
a long talk.”
Cisneros drove Nestor to the police station
in a brand new Yukon. Custom gold and with leather interior, Nestor
sat stiffly in the passenger seat as if unworthy to be in such a
vehicle.
“I hire ex-cons all the time,” Cisneros
said. “I have a sixth sense about them. I can tell if they are
really out to redeem themselves. And I don’t bother with those who
are too far gone.”
“Hernan’s not an ex-con.”
“He is now.”
“Don't blame him. Blame me. It was my
fault. We’re running short on cash. Scared him. Shouldn’t have been
so harsh on him. Shit, he’s doing the best he can. That’s why he
tried to rob the restaurant. Because I told him we were in
desperate need of money.”
“How bad is it?”
“If we don’t come up with rent quick? We’re
being evicted. That’s my fault too. I lost a ton of money gambling.
Desperation does that.”
“Hernan is a nice boy,” Cisneros said. “I'm
in shock. I shouldn't be. But I am.”
The two men waited in line until they got
their turn at the front desk. A ropy officer led them down the hall
to officer Victor Tapia
“They gave him to me because he doesn't
speak English too well,” Tapia said. “Now he doesn't speak to
anyone.”
“He'll speak to me,” Nestor said. “He's
just confused.” He pushed passed heading toward his friend.
“Yeah, well he's going to John
George.”
“John George?” he asked, stopping.
The dreaded psychiatric facility in the
East Bay, Nestor knew Hernan would be holed up for two or three
days against his will.
“Can I talk to him? He’s not crazy. Trust
me. He has no record. Just a lapse in judgment, that’s all.
Cisneros said he would drop the charges.”
Cisneros stood behind Nestor. He nodded his
head. “I own the restaurant. I'll drop the charges.”
The officer sighed and shook his head.
“Wait here.”
He stared out of the window in a daze.
“Anything you want to say to me,
Hernan?”
“I am sorry.”
“Really? I mean are you really genuinely
sorry?”
Hernan nodded his head. “Yes.”
Nestor swallowed his tongue. He knew that
Cisneros would make the kid grovel. This was his crime too. His
life of empty beer bottles and torn betting slips had gotten his
friend into this position.
“If there is anything you need from us,
just ask.” Nestor said.
“I might just hold you to that.”
Cisneros turned a corner and they drove in
silence for a few minutes. He turned on the radio and let some
salsa music play.
“If you need money, just ask. That's all
you have to do is ask. People just take and steal and I hate that
shit. I have many business interests in the city. If you want to
earn extra money—ask. Don't fucking steal.”
The sudden change in tone and language took
Nestor aback. Cisneros presented himself to the neighborhood as an
honest and charitable family man. He heard things about him in the
streets. How he would give to the poor people, host free barbecues
in the park and give stirring testimonies about his previous life
as a gunrunner and drug dealer who turned his life around.
He stopped the car in front of their
house.
“They say our God is a loving God. And to
forgive is divine.” Cisneros looked steely eyed at the young man in
the rear view mirror. “I don’t forgive. I just forget about certain
things and those people that hurt me no longer have any power over
me. So what you have done is forgotten, Hernan.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, how much money do you need?
Neither Hernan nor Nestor responded immediately.
Cisneros looked out the window for a moment
and then shut off the car stereo.
“How much?”
“Eight hundred,” Nestor said. “We owe some back rent. Eight hundred
puts us over the top.”
“You have to work a lot of hours to make
eight hundred dollars as a dishwasher. Talk about indentured
servitude.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hernan?” Cisneros took off his blue shaded
glasses. He looked at the young man again through his rear view
mirror.
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you a religious man?” Cisneros
fingered the Christ on the cross he had dangling from his rear view
mirror.
“My
abuelita
used to talk about Him all
the time.”
“Because I am a sinner. I’m
still growing in the faith. My
abuelita
said I would make mistakes.
But that I would be forgiven.”
“Your
abuelita
sounds like a wise woman,”
Cisneros said. He reached into his wallet and flipped out eight one
hundred dollar bills. He handed them to Nestor. “Take
it.”
thank you but stopped himself as Cisneros stared out the window at
their graffiti devoured building.
Hernan took another look at the Christ
figure hanging from the rear view mirror before exiting the
vehicle.
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