Barrio Imbroglio

By Daniel Cubias

Abraxas Hernandez is a young, second-generation Latino who lives in East Phister, a Midwestern city that is home to “a vast amalgamation of freaks, nutjobs, and social deviants.”

Abraxas’ cousin, Hugo, is murdered. Hugo’s girlfriend, Delta, found the body in the restaurant that Hugo owned. The restaurant was closed for the evening, and there are no obvious suspects or motives for Hugo’s murder. At the murder site, Abraxas meets Al-Janabi, a homicide detective who is “three layers of hardcore over a napalm center.”

Abraxas’ confidante, an ex-girlfriend named Vic, prods Abraxas to investigate the murder. Vic says Abraxas still has connections to the old neighborhood and can get info that the cops can’t. Vic, a woman who “thinks vodka is a chaser,” adds that she wants some excitement in her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel Cubias
• Release date: Jul 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781942899174

Daniel Cubias

Daniel Cubias has been a professional writer/editor for more than a decade, specializing in Hispanic culture. His articles for the Huffington Post and Being Latino magazine have provoked thousands of reader comments over the years. Furthermore, he is the creator of the website the Hispanic Fanatic. His fiction has been published in numerous literary journals and won several awards. In addition, he has ghostwritten a book for a Hollywood costume designer, worked on the desk of the Hollywood Reporter, and edited over 100 books.

Book preview

I felt bushwhacked and bitch-slapped.

Up until that point in the evening, I had been perfect. My eye contact was steady, but not creepy. I exuded confidence without any bitter overtones of arrogance. And I even got her to smile once or twice.

Then my damn phone went off. She looked at me, confused, and I ignored it. The thing rang again a moment later, and I fumbled to silence it. That failed miserably, because a stream of trills indicated that text messages were flowing quickly toward me. And then it rang eighty-eight times in five minutes.

Excuse me, I said. Someone’s fucking with me.

I answered my phone and didn’t get the first syllable of Hello out before the familiar, wince-inducing voice of that ditz rammed into my ear. I hung up on her when she wouldn’t stop caterwauling, and I sighed.

It was the Moment. By that, I mean the instant that changes your life. For most people, it’s meeting your future spouse, or seeing your first kid get born, or getting that acceptance letter from college, or stepping off the plane into your new country. It’s supposed to be something majestic like that.

For me, however, it was the high-pitched shriek of a lunatic redhead whom I hated, screaming at me over the phone that he was dead, he was dead, he was dead.

I put the phone back into my pocket and turned to the woman seated across from me. Sasha was stunning, a blind date gone right for once. Like a lot of Hispanic men, I went for the fair-skinned beauties. Specifically, blondes in black jeans—like Sasha—had always been a serious problem for me. Then again, I wasn’t exactly looking for a solution.

My phone rang again, and I said, I have to leave.

But we just ordered dinner, Sasha said. Expensive shit, too.

Yeah, but apparently someone has just been murdered, and I need to drive across town to check it out.

You’re a detective? my date said, a flash of excitement crossing her face.

What? No, I’m in computers. I told you that over the appetizers.

Oh, yeah. An IT guy, she said, her enthusiasm morphing into disappointment. I really wasn’t paying attention when you said that.

Good to know. I’ll pick up the bill.

A moment later, I walked out the door while mumbling vague apologies to Sasha. She ignored me and dialed her phone, making impromptu plans with an ex-boyfriend named Jimmy or Johnny.

This asshole just called off our date, she said into her cell. I’ve got nothing better to do, so I might as well come over and jump into that sex swing in your living room. You know, for old times’ sake.

I said goodnight to Sasha, but she was already deep into dirty talk with Jimmy or Johnny. So I turned and hurried toward the parking garage.

Delta’s phone call had unnerved me, of course. And my distracted state, combined with my haste to get to Hugo’s place, meant my perception was not as sharp as it should have been. Perhaps that’s why I didn’t immediately register what had happened to my car. Or maybe I was busy visualizing my date clambering into Jimmy or Johnny’s sex swing.

Regardless, it was only after I opened the driver’s door that I paused, stepped back, and looked at my car. That’s when I saw it.

Someone had spray-painted the words Fuck Police on the vehicle’s side.

Hijo de puta, I muttered.

I wondered if the taggers had meant fuck the police or fuck da police, but were so time-pressed that they dropped the article and ruined their gangsta homage. Or perhaps they meant it as a literal statement, in which case they were most likely police officers themselves and were advising citizens to take on a cop lover. Or maybe the dripping words were the tag of a local gang, the fierce and dreaded Fuck Police, and members were just marking their territory. Regardless of the origin or significance of the spray-painted display, I could not figure out why they had earmarked my piece-of-shit Hyundai with 180,000 miles on it to make their bold statement.

And I couldn’t even get my parking stub validated. So I left the parking garage and drove all over town with the words Fuck Police in bold red paint staining the entire side of my car. A few pedestrians read the manifesto while I waited at stoplights, their eyes flitting to me for explanation, but I just shrugged at their baffled looks. Nobody offered me an interpretation. It would remain a mystery.

In any case, it was a long drive to Hugo’s restaurant, which was where Delta had originated her frazzled phone call to me (at least I thought she had said that before I hung up on her). As the blocks whipped by, the neighborhoods went from upscale sophistication to strip-mall blandness to struggling bohemian enclave to abject shithole. Then it started a fresh cycle. I had lived in this city, East Phister, my entire life. I knew it was a vast amalgamation of freaks, nutjobs, and social deviants—spiced up with the addition of the shrill, the hyper-religious, and the criminally insane—all jammed into a hundred godforsaken square miles in the American Midwest. But hey, it was home.

I turned onto Seconth Avenue, so pronounced because the city had labeled the street signs 2th Ave, either in a fit of dyslexia or avant-garde civic boosterism (it was never determined which). That wasn’t as bad as a few blocks over, which was labeled 5rd Ave.

I drove past a psychic’s shop that Vic had once dragged me into for kicks. We wound up not being amused at the psychic’s earnest declaration that Vic and I were doomed to lives of unbearable torment and raging inferiority. We didn’t tip her. I noticed that the place was boarded up now, with a sign outside that read, Psychic shop closed due to unforeseen and unpredictable circumstances.

Up the block, the fledgling restaurant row kicked into gear. It was mostly Mexican establishments, with a few Central and South American diners interspersed, and a couple of ancient Irish taverns still hanging on. The city was proud of this oasis of multicultural entrepreneurialism, and the mayor had christened the area El Barrio, possibly the least imaginative appellation for a Latino neighborhood ever. Beyond the press releases and self-congratulation, however, the fact remained that upscale East Phisters were still terrified to come to this part of town. The stretch included pawnshops, tattoo parlors, and a dilapidated gas station/convenience store called the Pump ‘N Munch. None of it screamed, Date night for suburbanites.

When I got to Hugo’s place, I double-parked, hoping that the city would be merciful and tow the damn car out of my life. I rushed toward the swirl of police lights and the jabbering, jostling crowd in front of the Ferrocarril restaurant.

Until that moment, I had assumed that Delta was exaggerating in her endless quest for drama. Surely, no one had been murdered. I had only hurried down here just in case something mildly bad was transpiring with either her or Hugo. But the police presence and the excited throng of onlookers convinced me that some serious shit had indeed gone down inside. It took a lot to get this many people worked up in El Barrio.

After all, this was a neighborhood populated with immigrants from Latin American hellholes. They were used to death and devastation smashing into their homes, taking a seat on the couch, and never leaving.

And their kids—the first-generation Americans—maintained badass demeanors despite the fact that the neighborhood was no longer quite so thuggish. Hell, the place was getting more and more gentrified every day. I couldn’t imagine even the most fearsome cholo preserving his street cred when he walked into the newest neighborhood addition (a Starbucks) to order a no-foam, half-caf double latte.

Still, my old neighborhood instilled a certain detachment in its residents, as if they had seen it all and would merely scoff if drug-runners from Guadalajara opened fire on the streets with AK-47s. But urban cool was not on display tonight. This was a real-life, genuine, first-degree crime scene, and its exoticness captivated the residents.

I couldn’t get in the front door with all the cops milling about, so I stepped into the alley off 99th Street. The backdoor was unlocked, as usual, and I walked into the kitchen.

Perhaps this wasn’t the best move. Clearly, the panicky young guy who stood there waving a gun at me didn’t think so.

No, he didn’t approve of my arrival at all.

Chapter 2

Great Big Bloody Bags of Beef

He was one jittery cop. The gun in his hand kept bouncing around as if it were under its own power. I was disconcerted the most, of course, when the barrel of that death machine pointed right at me.

Freeze motherfucker! the cop shouted at me. I’ll waste your gangster beaner ass, crazy bastard wetback maniac!

He continued yelling until he hyperventilated, and I wondered if I should lower my hands and get him a paper bag to breathe into. But then I figured if I made any motion, he would fire a half-dozen rounds into me. Actually, he was so worked up I worried that the involuntary constriction of my corneas under the bright lights would come across as a threatening gesture, and he would commence shooting.

Szylrph! Yrtzkgak! he said in gagging gasps, while struggling to aim his pistol. Hfrumpph! Flrgtyhh!

Perhaps we would have stayed that way indefinitely, him gargling on his panic and me afraid to twitch a muscle, until we collapsed of exhaustion or the building rotted away or Jesus Christ returned in triumph. But a burly, surly man with an harrumph air barged into the kitchen just then, and he bellowed at the guy in uniform (which I didn’t appreciate, seeing how jumpy the cop was).

Put down that gun, you rookie fuck, said the man.

The officer complied and, after several uncomfortable seconds, regained his breath. The hostile man, dressed in the sloppy suit and askew tie of the plainclothes detective, glared at me. I felt no more relaxed looking at his scowling visage than I had staring down the barrel of the nervous cop’s .38.

Who are you? the man in the rumpled suit asked. And how the hell did you get in here?

The kitchen backdoor was open, I said. And—

Answer the first question, he barked. I speak my sentences in order of importance, and so should you.

My name is Abraxas Hernandez, I said. My cousin owns this restaurant, and I got a call from—

Your cousin? Hugo Hernandez?

I nodded, and he said, Come with me.

He turned and walked into the main dining room. I followed him and passed the still-antsy cop, who avoided eye contact with me.

Keep up the good work, I muttered, and I whacked the swinging door and left the kitchen.

Ferrocarril was closed, but there were still plenty of people in the dining room. None of them were there for the food, however. Cops milled about, some guy took pictures, and a woman scribbled notes furiously. Delta sat in a chair in the middle of the room, looking shell-shocked.

And of course, my cousin lay dead on the floor.

Holy fucking motherfucking shit, I said. What happened?

Delta heard me and jumped out of her catatonia and her chair simultaneously. She rushed toward me and, before I could avoid it, wrapped me in a desperate, clawing hug.

I found him, she wailed into my chest. His head was in the deep fryer in the kitchen. There were bags of shredded beef all around him, and—

I pulled Delta off me and looked into her eyes. The woman was ninety-one pounds of psychotic behavior stuffed into a tight red dress. But for once, she had grounds to be hysterical.

Hugo drowned in the fryer? I asked her.

My God, you’re stupid, said the plainclothes cop. You didn’t notice the gaping hole in his chest?

Actually, I hadn’t, but I wasn’t a detective.

I looked again at Hugo. His face was coated in a thin sheen of cooking grease, and perhaps because of it, his expression was serene. There was, much to my embarrassment, a huge crater in his chest, ringed in blood. I don’t know how I missed that one.

I turned again to Delta and said, When did you find him?

I’ll ask the questions around here, said the surly man. I’m Detective Al-Janabi, he said.

You don’t look Middle Eastern, I said.

Look again, he said.

I did and nodded at him.

Yeah, I said. The nose. And your hair is—

Are you retarded? Al-Janabi said. The ‘look again’ was rhetorical.

I nodded once more and said, Yeah, I knew that. Right. I’m just so surprised to see Hugo—

Dead? Al-Janabi said. Imagine how surprised he was to get killed.

Delta wailed anew at the detective’s words. I tried to comfort her, but this was a woman who would burst into tears if her soda went flat. Discovering her boyfriend headfirst in a deep fryer was not conducive to Zen-like harmony.

Delta, who else did you call? I asked her.

Everybody! she said in between heaving sobs. The entire family. They’re all outside. And why didn’t you answer your phone, Abraxas?

Yes, why didn’t you? Al-Janabi said. And where were you earlier this evening?

I recoiled at Al-Janabi’s question.

What are you implying? I asked.

Nothing, Al-Janabi said. Other than the fact that you hate this woman and didn’t want to take her call.

What? Delta said, abruptly going from distraught to furious.

I had to give Al-Janabi credit. He was a pretty good detective to pick up on my politely concealed loathing for my cousin’s girlfriend.

I was on a date, I said in an effort to appease both of them.

And where is your date right now? Al-Janabi said.

Having sex with another guy, I said.

Of course, Al-Janabi said. We’ve all been there. Anyway, you can relax. Your alibi isn’t important. I could tell just by looking at you that you didn’t kill your cousin.

Was I a suspect? I asked.

Everyone is a suspect, Al-Janabi snapped. Shit, I’m a suspect, and I never met the guy until he was dead.

At the reminder that Hugo was, unfortunately, quite deceased, Delta cracked one hundred decibels on the shriek-o-meter. I passed on the golden opportunity to slap her repeatedly in a melodramatic attempt to calm her down, and I spoke to Al-Janabi.

Do you have any idea who did this? I said.

If I did, I wouldn’t be standing around talking to you, Al-Janabi said. I’d be bashing a handcuffed suspect’s head into the table in the interrogation room downtown.

Naturally, I said. Delta and I are done here. We’re heading outside.

Yeah, get going, Al-Janabi said. You’re just contaminating my crime scene. I’ll send a uniform to collect your statement.

What statement could I possibly have? I asked. I just got here, and I don’t know what the hell happened.

But you knew your cousin, Al-Janabi said. You can tell us what was going on in his life, who his enemies were, or why someone would blast a hole in his chest big enough for a suburban soccer mom to drive a minivan full of kids through.

Delta, in defiance of all known laws of physics, wailed even louder.

Do you have to keep doing that? I asked Al-Janabi.

Shut up and get outside, Hernandez, he said.

And with that, the detective was gone. I got the vague feeling that he didn’t like me.

I looked again at Hugo, supine on the floor of the Ferrocarril dining room. Maybe it was fitting that he had died here, in the midst of his dream place. He had built Ferrocarril into the cornerstone of the neighborhood. The guy was an absolute genius with food, and I never saw him so excited as when he talked about the gastronomical delights he had planned. Unfortunately, at all other times, he was pretty much a buzz kill.

I mean, we all loved him, but nobody clapped hands and hooted when Hugo showed up. Part of it was his extreme pessimism. He was way beyond the half-full/half-empty quandary. Hugo would look at a glass filled close to the rim and announce that it was one-tenth empty.

Nobody knew what he saw in Delta, who was so far beneath him in intellect that it was debatable whether they were members of the same species. My guess is that her freakishly hot body had something, maybe, to do with it.

Delta saw me looking at Hugo. She wiped away her latest salvo of tears.

Hugo and me were gonna get married and have little brown babies, she said. Well, off-brown, cuz I’m so white. But we were gonna have a bunch of them.

I thought about saying there was no shortage of Latino guys who would be fine with knocking her up. But this didn’t seem like an appropriate condolence.

He used to call me his little contortionist nymphomaniac of love, Delta said. But he’s gone, and now I’ll probably end up marrying the first guy who slips me a roofie.

She sighed, and I tried to think of the best response to her statement. But the blankest of my blank stares was not sufficiently blank.

The hyperventilating rookie cop—calmer now, but still jumpy—approached us then. He gestured toward the front door in a self-conscious attempt to carry out Al-Janabi’s orders. I glanced at the cop’s nameplate.

Rachmaninoff? I said. That’s your name?

Yeah, the cop said. So?

I guess you love classical music, I said.

No, he said in genuine confusion. Why?

I didn’t have the energy to ask how come this had never come up in his life. I just shook my head and led the whimpering Delta to the door.

Sorry I almost shot you, Rachmaninoff said.

It happens, I replied.

I’m just nervous being down here, with all you Latinos and stuff.

We’re a lot more scared of you, I said. Trust me.

If I was assigned to someplace like Brewster Hills, I wouldn’t have to worry about some crazed illegal immigrant taking a shot at me, Rachmaninoff said. And if a murder happens out in the suburbs, you’re a superstar for solving it. Here, nobody cares who did it.

That’s your cross to bear, Rachmaninoff, I said. Maybe you’ll get lucky, and a lot of Hispanics will move to Brewster Hills and start murdering white people.

You think so? he said. I mean, do you guys have that planned?

I looked at him in contempt, but he seemed to interpret it as regret that I had said too much and revealed our master agenda. He held the door open and gave Delta and me a quick nod.

I’ll be out in a little while to take your statement, Rachmaninoff said.

You have no idea how much I’m looking forward to that, I said, but the sarcasm was, of course, lost on him.

Delta and I walked outside, into the buzz of agitated onlookers and bloodlusting journalists. People jostled us and shouted, Who’s dead? and Did you do it? I saw my family clustered together, and I fought my way toward them, but the crowd’s questions kept coming. People yelled, Is Ferrocarril closed forever? and What does this mean for the community? and Why is good porn so hard to find?

They were all excellent questions, but I made no attempt to answer them. I hugged my mom as Delta collapsed into my cousin Ali’s arms. Like everyone else in the family, Ali couldn’t stand Delta, but now was not the time to begrudge the harpy her grief.

Is it true? my madre asked. Is Hugo dead?

My family crowded around me. I took a breath and said, Yes. Somebody shot him.

Maybe my family let out a collective moan. Maybe they wept as one. I couldn’t tell, because at this latest mention of Hugo’s offing, Delta pulled at her hair and screeched toward the sky, drowning out all other sounds within