The Padre

By Alex Davidson

Cal is a hitman on the run from his powerful old boss. He has found sanctuary among the invisible poor in the barrio outside of Mexico City. He lives in and fixes up an old, dilapidated Catholic church, which is how he earned his nickname among the locals as "El Padre." The Father. The Priest. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Davidson
• Release date: May 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781736519639

Book preview

Prologue

Eva watched the blade plunge into the pregnant woman’s belly.

There was a communal gasp. Like the air had been sucked out of the room. A shock so deep and sickening it chilled the bone, jolted the heart, turned the stomach.

There are sights so terrible and jarring in this world that they are not only burned into memory but etched into the soul.

The Twin Towers on 9/11. The hundreds of thousands of empty shoes at Bełżec. The gassed bodies of Syrian children in Ghouta.

A Mexican cop stabbing a pregnant woman’s womb on a busy street in Downtown Mexico City.

Passersby stopped, but no one intervened.

---

Moments earlier, Eva had been walking down the street in Centro Histórico, Mexico City’s Downtown district. It was Friday night and the streets were alive. She moved in her tight dress and wedges through the crowds, past bars and nightclubs with lines snaking down the block.

The pregnant woman was walking in front of her. Eva thought it was foolish for her to be out this time of night, looking the way she did — done-up in makeup and a skimpy dress that hugged her swollen belly. Two cops stepped in their way. They assumed Eva and the pregnant woman were together. They ordered them to stand against a wall.

The pregnant woman shook like a leaf.

Be cool, puta, Eva thought. Crooked cops fed off of fear. The trick was to stand strong, firm, and unafraid. You didn’t want to be an easy mark. You wanted to make yourself unworthy of their trouble. Otherwise, they were liable to take liberties.

The first cop was a sleepy-eyed guy with a goatee. He shone his flashlight in the pregnant woman’s face. It was the face of an eighteen-year-old Mexican woman. Plain, not pretty, not ugly. Entirely forgettable under normal circumstances. But tonight, it was a terrified face. Eyes on the ground, lip quivering under the weight of the interrogatory light. 

Why does your lip quiver? the sleepy-eyed cop asked in Spanish.

The woman struggled but failed to steady her lip. The cold, intimidating Mexican police officer eyed her belly, which ballooned beneath her party dress. 

Eva watched the interrogation without emotion.

Look me in the eyes, Sleepy Eyes said to the pregnant woman, but she could not bring herself to look at him. Sleepy Eyes gently reached out his hand and slowly caressed the woman’s inflated belly. Predatory. Erotic. The woman’s horrified gaze darted up to meet the cop’s eyes.

How many months pregnant are you, mami? the officer asked.

The other cop was a short, round, bald guy. Chonchis, Eva named him. Chonchis inched closer to Eva to make sure she didn’t try to run.

The pregnant woman shook her head helplessly as the cop continued to fondle her inflated belly. The woman backed away, becoming more and more upset. Sleepy Eyes took a step toward her.

Suddenly, the woman pushed forward, knocking Sleepy Eyes off balance. She ran, but Sleepy Eyes tackled her to the ground. The pregnant woman bit Sleepy Eyes’s forearm. Hard. Tearing flesh and drawing blood. He yelped and released her. She stumbled to her knees and pushed forward as Chonchis grabbed her by the arm and swung her back. The pregnant woman shrieked, kicked, and flailed as Chonchis restrained her by the arms from behind.

Just as Eva was about to use the opportunity to flee, something stopped her. She noticed that the woman’s inflated belly was exposed. She watched worriedly as Sleepy Eyes rose to his feet, his forearm dripping blood, his eyes overflowing with hate. She watched him approach the pregnant woman — slowly, menacingly. She watched him raise his bleeding arm to the pregnant woman’s face.

The pregnant woman wept hopelessly, no longer struggling as Chonchis restrained her.

Sleepy Eyes pulled out a knife. Sleek. Shiny. Evil.

Pinche puta! he said, and he plunged the knife into her belly.

Then, there was terrible silence. The worst kind. It was silence without action. The world stood still, and no one did a thing to intervene.

The pregnant woman slowly, sadly lowered her eyes and looked down at the knife stuck in her belly.

The sleepy-eyed cop pulled the knife out of the wound.

The blade was clean.

Then white powder poured out of the puncture. Neither cop was surprised.

Congratulations, Sleepy Eyes said. It’s cocaine.

---

The pregnant woman, no longer pregnant, sat on the ground, handcuffed. A punctured stomach prosthesis and a kilogram of cocaine lay next to her.

Now it was Eva’s turn to be interrogated. She stood where the pregnant woman stood before, facing the sleepy-eyed cop. With hostility, Sleepy Eyes shone the flashlight in Eva’s face, but Eva remained calm. 

Look into my eyes, Sleepy Eyes said.

I can’t, Eva replied.

Why not? Sleepy Eyes asked. You have something to hide? Something illegal?

No, Eva answered.

Sleepy Eyes produced his knife and caressed Eva’s cheek with the blade. Then why can't you look me in the eye, niña?

Eva raised her head and squinted into the bright flashlight. You’re shining that light in my face. I can’t see a damn thing.

The sleepy-eyed cop chuckled and turned off the flashlight. Eva passed the test. She was allowed to leave, unmolested, aside from the two cops’ leering glances at her bulging c-cups.

The thing was…

Eva knew the pregnant woman. Her name was Juana, and earlier that evening, Eva had told her she was stupid to think her pregnancy prosthesis would fool anyone on a Friday night in Downtown Mexico City.

And also, Eva was really an a-cup.

Part I

The Father

1

The sun rose on the cramped, labyrinthine settlement of worn and decaying structures just outside of Mexico City. The barrio woke up.

A mother bathed her infant outside in a rusted steel tub.

Police covered the dead body of a gunshot victim.

Rival cliques talked shit.

An old woman took ragged clothes off of her line.

There was a decrepit Catholic church, walls crumbling in places, undermined by a new frame being erected from the decay, and a lone figure perched, wielding his hammer, rebuilding the sacred structure.

He was rugged. Weathered.

He paused his labor to watch the sunrise. Peaceful and content. He calmly put down the hammer, hopped down from the church frame, and leisurely scooped up a nearby soccer ball.

In the crumbling concrete courtyard, he played fútbol with the poor neighborhood kids. They laughed and cheered and then whined when he told them he had to go. But they knew they would see him again tomorrow and the next day and the next.

He walked through the barrio. Impoverished and crime-ridden. Graffiti and junk. The ever-present smell of garbage. Residents lit up when they saw him. They waved and smiled and they called out, Hola, Padre! He greeted everyone he saw with warmth.

He entered a gardening store. Various plants, flowers, and tools lined the walls. The owner was a skinny, lanky man with blurred tattoos lining leathery skin that reminded The Padre of a raisin. His eyes were set deep in his bony face. The Padre did not know his name. The locals referred to him simply as El Floristerío, the Florist. He gave The Padre a cold nod from behind the counter. This was about as friendly as The Florist ever got. The Padre nodded back, selected various packets of vegetable seeds from a rack, as well as a large bag of fertilizer. He paid The Florist and exited out onto the street.

The community garden was a beacon of light amid the urban decay. Señor Vasquez was a kindly old gardener. Skinny and ragged. Hola, Señor Vasquez, The Padre said as he approached with the bag of fertilizer and seeds.

Señor Vasquez smiled kindly, revealing missing teeth. The Padre gave him the seeds and the fertilizer, then told him, I got something special for you today. He handed Señor Vasquez a package of garlic seeds.

Señor Vasquez’s smile widened. Gracias, Padre!

The Padre smiled and continued on his way.

On the main thoroughfare, hawkers advertised their items with street cries. A young, mean-looking gangbanger operated a stand. Knockoff designer junk, cheap gangster bling, Santa Muerte and Grim Reaper statues. He was selling amphetamines to a colgado as The Padre approached.

The kid grinned. Padre! They slapped hands and embraced.

Hola, amigo, The Padre said. What do ya’ got for me?

The kid reached into a nearby cardboard box, removing bootleg DVDs. "Lawrence of Arabia, Gone with the Wind, y The Godfather."

The Padre accepted the DVDs. Gracias.

Also, just got these in, the kid said. He showed off his collection of handmade fireworks. Professional grade. Tubes painted in the green, white, and red stripes of the Mexican flag. You haven’t seen real fireworks until you’ve seen Mexican fireworks, Padre. You could use them on holy days.

The Padre handed the kid some pesos for the DVDs. Maybe next time.

Just then, he spotted Eva across the street. She was entering a ratty, brown stash house. Barely seventeen and all business. She carried herself with the austerity of a hard life. And despite her best efforts to the contrary, she was beautiful.

The Padre moved toward the stash house, and the DVD Kid’s clique leader stepped in his path. His face and body were inked with demonic tattoos. His eyes were black beads of hate. They burned into The Padre. Murderous and distrustful.

And The Padre darkened.

The Padre casually took out a pack of cigarettes, put one in his mouth, placed one at the foot of a nearby Santa Muerte statue, and held the clique leader’s gaze. The clique leader saw something in The Padre’s eyes. Something he identified with. Something cold, something empty. He accepted the cigarette, gave The Padre a firm nod, and let him pass. Respeto.

The Padre arrived at Maria’s home at around noon. The two-room domicile was composed of dull brick walls and a rusted, corrugated tin roof. Inside, Maria was sleeping.

The Padre had known her back when she was beautiful, but her beauty had withered like a flower in winter. She lay in her bed, forty going on eighty. He hated the air in here. Death had a sour smell. Not like kill. Kill smelled fresh, like ice and steel. But death is sour, acidic, spoiled. The Padre left the door open because there were no windows to open.

Maria awoke with a start and found the Padre by her bedside. He smiled kindly. It’s only me.

Maria was relieved to see him, but her relief was only momentary. As she gathered her bearings, her eyes scanned the room and filled with worry.

Dónde está Eva? Maria asked.

Eva will be home soon. The Padre picked up a nearby book. Harry Potter y El Prisionero de Azkaban. He opened it to a bookmarked page. Where were we?

The Padre read to her in gringo-accented Spanish. He read for hours, and for a while, Maria forgot her pain. Forgot that she was dying.

The sun was setting outside when he finished the book. El fin, he said. Should we start the next one?

The Padre moved to the bookshelf, where there were more Harry Potter books.

Dónde está Eva? Maria asked again.

The Padre pulled Harry Potter y El Caliz de Fuego from the bookcase. As he did, various watercolor paintings fell to the floor. He bent down and picked them up. Each painting depicted a different land or cityscape — some he recognized from the barrio — framed through a window.

What are these? The Padre asked.

Maria saw the paintings and grinned affectionately. Mis ventanas.

Eva painted these? The Padre asked, impressed.

What are you doing?

The Padre turned and found Eva standing in the doorway. Her arms were folded across her chest and her face formed an angry scowl. He put the paintings in a neat pile, placed them back on the bookshelf, and marched to the door like a scolded schoolboy.

I told you to stay away! Eva said once they were outside.

You left her alone all day. She kept asking for you.

Eva lowered her eyes.

I know where you were. Just like I know why a girl from the slums of Mexico City can speak English, The Padre said. Your mother needs comfort.

She doesn’t need you. She’s going to be fine. Just leave us alone! Eva said, slamming the door in his face. She treaded softly and made her way to the kitchen. Opened a cabinet. Inside were letters, a postcard of the Statue of Liberty, and a small vase.

Eva? Maria called from the other room.

Sí, mama?

Eva picked up the vase. Inside was a roll of cash. She added the money she earned tonight to the vase and closed the cabinet.

¿Dónde estabas?

Estoy aquí ahora, mama, Eva said as she crawled into bed next to her sick mother.

---

It was dark by the time The Padre arrived home. The neighborhood kids had long since vacated the courtyard. Scooping up the soccer ball, he made his way into the half-constructed church.

He climbed up to the second floor to the room where he slept. He hung one of Eva’s watercolors on his wall. It was a painting of the Mexico City skyline framed through a window.

He popped the DVD of Lawrence of Arabia into his DVD player. He reclined on his cot next to a half-built wall and watched the movie on his old school box TV.

Outside, gunfire rang out through the barrio as naturally as crickets on a hot summer night.

---

He just appeared one day. This gringo, squatting in the old church. Fixing it up. The people of the barrio took to calling him The Padre, though he was no priest. They didn’t know what he was, where he had come from, or where he was going. To them, he was just The Padre.

But this had not always been his name.

He was once called Cal. Back when he was paid to kill people. But he never did it for the money. Cal possessed what shrinks call a process addiction. The brain is malleable. Neuroplastic. It can change its own structure. Through training and experience, the perfect interplay of nature and nurture, the brain can be rewired. The US government had trained Cal to be a killer. Trained him so that his brain rewarded violence the way a junkie’s brain rewarded heroin, or the way a faithful person’s brain rewarded going to church. Cal read once that two-thirds of a shark’s brain is dedicated to sensory perception. Sight, sound, taste, smell, touch. Everything needed to hunt and kill, leaving little room for anything else. That sounded about right.

After a long career in Special Ops, Cal entered the private sector. He worked for a man named Pat Roti, a private military contractor who handled the blackest black ops for the highest bidder, including the CIA. In other words, Pat Roti ran assassins.

Ultimately, Cal’s humanity abounded. It could be caged but not extinguished, and it chipped through its prison walls. Cal didn’t want to kill anymore. He no longer wanted to be a prisoner to his addiction. He wanted to live.

But you don’t just get to quit. Not the type of job he had.

Cal knew that he was a loose end. That Pat Roti would try to find him. Try to kill him. But he was not worried. Pain is inevitable. Suffering is a choice. And, as he often told himself, If I perish, I perish.

Until then, he would live.

Until then, Cal would be The Padre.

2

One of the first people Cal met when he arrived in the barrio was a thirty-four-year-old homeless man named Ángel. Cal climbed up a nearby telephone pole, retrieved a pair of Nikes that were hanging up there by their laces, and slid them onto Ángel’s dirt-caked and blistered feet.

Ever since that day, Ángel served as Cal’s translator. Cal was proficient in Spanish, but he was not fluent. He relied on Ángel to capture the spirit of his words. The nuances and inflections that only someone from the barrio understood.

On Sundays, Cal had church. His congregants would sit in a circle on foldout chairs in the dusty nave.

Thank you all for coming, Cal said. Ángel sat next to him, translating his words. I see a lot of new faces today. I, like many of you, have struggled with addiction.

The attendees were locals. Paisas. Living from hand to mouth. Damaged and disenfranchised people, just trying to survive.

But addiction is just a symptom of a deeper problem, Cal continued. The question is not why the addiction? It is why the pain?

Ángel spitfired Cal’s words in Spanish.

Until you identify what that wound is and heal it, you will always fill it with the wrong things. With addictions.

A squat man in work boots, denim jeans, and a faded flannel shirt — an out-of-work day laborer, Cal guessed — raised his hand and asked a question.

Ángel translated, He wants to know how you stop yourself from using?

Whenever I am tempted, I remember what is important.

Qué? the man asked.

That’s the question, isn’t it? Cal said. For me, it is all of you. Mi familia. Mis amigos. Mis relaciones.

A short, round woman in her fifties interjected. We have no jobs. No way out of poverty, Ángel translated.

If you’re poor and you believe wealth will make you happy, it won’t. Money is just another addiction, Cal said. All people really have is each other.

What do we do when there is no hope? the day laborer asked in Spanish.

Cal thought about it.

You find it.

---

Eva entered the post office and approached the postal clerk behind the counter.

Box 117, she said.

The postal clerk found the mailbox, removed a letter, and handed it to Eva. Eva read the return address on the envelope and her face illuminated. She rushed home.

We received a letter from Aunt Sylvia and Uncle Hector, she exclaimed as she burst into her mother’s house.

She sat next to Maria on her bed, tore open the letter, and read, Dear Maria and Eva. We have finally settled in Houston, Texas. I pray that one day both of you will be able to join us. Love, Sylvia and Hector.

Eva happily daydreamed for a moment.

Very soon, I’ll have enough money.

There was a knock at the door. Eva answered to find Cal standing on her doorstep. Her face dropped.

I wanted to return this, Cal said, handing Eva the watercolor he took.

Eva snatched it. Surprised.

It’s very good, Cal said.

Eva nodded. Reserved. She was about to close the door.

Why a window?

My mother can’t leave the house, Eva said.

So, you gave her a view. Cal smiled. Eva remained aloof. Uncomfortable. Distrusting. She closed the door.

Cal returned to the church and packed up his box TV set, DVD player, and a cardboard box of bootleg DVDs. He lugged them across the barrio to Maria’s house. He knocked on the door, and again, Eva answered. She saw the TV, DVD player, and bootleg movies. She looked at him, taken aback. She stepped aside so Cal could bring the items into the house. Maria grinned when she saw Cal.

Window, Cal said, indicating the TV. Ventana.

Cal set up the TV and DVD player. He dug through the box of DVDs. "How about El Mago de Oz?" He fished The Wizard of Oz out of the box, put it in the disc tray, and pressed play. Eva watched Cal, uncertain.

After the movie was set up, Eva said she had to go to work. Cal walked her outside.

I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you yesterday, she said. It’s just, when she sees you, she thinks she is going to die.

I understand, Cal said. Why’d you stop hanging your paintings for her?

Because it’s not going to change anything.

I think it helps.

She has no one to help her. My father left before I was born. I need to get her to the United States.

Why?

Because in the North, they can cure her.

The Padre bit his tongue. Eva’s cell phone buzzed. She read a text. I’m late. I’ve got to go.

I’m rebuilding the church, Cal said. I can’t afford stained-glass windows, so I was thinking of doing murals on the walls instead. Saints and holy pictures. If you paint them, I’ll match whatever the narcos are paying you.

Eva looked