Trashed: An Eastside Brewery Novel Read online

  For months, I’ve been thinking of her. Tonight I found her.

  I turn her name around and around in my mind like a warm coin between my fingers.

  Carmen.

  Carmen.

  Carmen.

  The next morning, I ride my bike out to see my brother.

  He’s sitting in the kitchen of his girlfriend’s house, eating toast and reading a schoolbook. His girlfriend Vanessa bangs around the kitchen and gets her daughter ready for school. The little girl is wearing two short pigtails that stand straight up. One side of her head is spray-painted red. The other side is spray-painted purple.

  “What’s this all about?” I ask, closing the back door behind me. Vanessa’s asshole wiener dog barks at me as I pat the little girl’s head. It’s sticky with some kind of paint. “Who’s this little punk rocker?”

  “It’s Crazy Hair Day, Tío Eddie!” yells Muñeca.

  “Otherwise known as ‘Make Mom Crazy Day’ as I try to figure out what to do at the last minute.” Vanessa cuts a sandwich into little triangles. “¿Ya comiste?” she asks me.

  “Not yet.”

  “Sal, feed your brother.” Vanessa puts the sandwich and an apple in a Hello Kitty lunchbox. She’s dressed in office clothes, and her heels click on the floor. When my brother doesn’t respond, she playfully slaps his shoulder. The wiener dog barks again. “Come on!”

  “Jesus, woman. Haven’t you heard? Violence is not the answer.” Sal shuffles up and puts some bread in the toaster. “You want eggs?” he asks me.

  “Sure.”

  “They’re in the refrigerator. Pan’s in the sink. You have to wash it.” He sits back down to his book. Sal’s in a brewer certificate program at Greenbriar University. On the side he makes and sells his own beer. Since he got out of prison last year, he’s gone straight. School, work, Vanessa and Muñeca. His life is full. Today I’m here to help him and Vanessa deliver a few kegs.

  Vanessa’s grandmother comes out of her bedroom. I stop scrambling my eggs and greet her with a kiss on the cheek. “Señora.”

  “Good morning, Eduardo.” She’s wearing a Dodgers sweatshirt, leopard-print leggings and bright blue sneakers. She glances back and forth between me and Sal. “Look at you two boys. So handsome. You don’t happen to have a grand-uncle hiding somewhere for me, do you? Good looking, not too smart?”

  “Abuelita,” Vanessa says, “ready to walk Muñeca to school?”

  “Baby, I was born ready.”

  The old lady and the little girl head out the front door. I scarf down my breakfast, wash the dishes, and put them away. By the time I’m finished, Sal has packed his own backpack and is dressed for school in a black shirt with long sleeves. He covers up his tattoos nowadays, and he’s traded in his big pants for a pair of fitted jeans. Since leaving the gang, Sal has become a different person.

  There’s a pickup truck in the driveway, borrowed from a neighbor. I see the hand truck and the kegs piled in the bed. I squeeze into the cab with Sal and Vanessa. She drives, since both me and my brother lost our licenses a long time ago—one of the many results of our run-ins with the law.

  We head over the bridge and make the rounds at a couple bars and restaurants in the Arts District. I roll out the kegs and pick up the empties while Sal and Vanessa greet the owners and managers. While Vanessa chats everyone up, Sal hands out free bottles of his latest creation. This week it’s an amber ale called Forever Mine. He named it after his and Vanessa’s song, “Forever Mine” by the O’Jays. It’s a seasonal beer, made especially for Valentine’s Day.

  It would be easy for me to make fun of how lovey-dovey he’s gotten over her, but as I watch them work together, they’re genuinely happy. Any smartass remark on my part would just roll down that happiness like a raindrop hitting a windshield.

  Sometimes I wonder if that kind of happiness is in my future.

  But how?

  Sal and me—we’re brothers, but we’re not cut from the same cloth. He figured out a way to walk away from everything: the gang, the past, our father. Me? I’m different. The past holds me in its grip. It won’t let go.

  Vanessa records the orders and takes care of billing. She’s an accountant, and Sal is smart to leave all the details to her.

  When the last keg is delivered, Vanessa makes the thirty-minute drive up to Glendale to Sal’s university. When we arrive, I slide out of the cab to let him out. He slings his backpack over his shoulder, and for a second, he looks like a normal college student instead of a formerly incarcerated ex-gangster who spent a serious chunk of his life in prison.

  I shut the door and Sal walks around the hood of the truck. Through the open window, he gives Vanessa a kiss. I try to give them a little privacy. I make faces at my reflection in the side mirror. I fiddle with my stupid flip phone that never rings. When the kiss goes on too long, I finally say, “Okay, okay, I get it. You’re into each other.”

  They break the kiss at last and laugh a little. “See you tonight,” Vanessa says.

  “Love you, baby.”

  “I love you too.”

  Vanessa merges back onto the freeway in the rattletrap. She’s glowing like a heroine in a romance novel. There’s nothing brighter than a woman in love.

  “So it’s ‘I love you’ now?” I tease her.

  She smiles behind her sunglasses. “Are you surprised?”

  I shake my head. “No. You’re good for each other.”

  “How about you?” Vanessa asks. “Are you seeing someone special?”

  “Me?” I shrug. “No, not really.”

  I stare out the window at the hills and houses. I want to bring up Carmen Centeno, but what can I say that wouldn’t be weird? I had mind-blowing sex with a stranger right after I got out of prison. I’ve been thinking about her nonstop for six months. I found her last night and oh, by the way, since the universe likes to play vicious practical jokes on me, she’s my boss.

  “Your brother says you’re not into relationships,” Vanessa says.

  I shrug again. “Never really had one.”

  “Never had a girlfriend? Why not?”

  Obviously, prison. Before that, I was a wannabe player, too much of a hardass for relationships. In my heart of hearts, I want what Sal and Vanessa have, a real connection like the ones I used to read about in those old romance novels. But I can’t bring myself to say any of this out loud. So to Vanessa, I say casually, “Never needed one.”

  She looks at me over the frames of her sunglasses. “Wait a second. ‘Never needed one’? Jesus. You make us sound like can openers. What exactly is the purpose of a girlfriend if you ‘never needed one’?”

  Vanessa’s fun to tease. “Oh, I don’t know. Sandwich making?”

  It’s a bad joke. She smacks my arm with the back of her hand. “You’re going to be making your own sandwiches for a long time with that attitude.”

  We hit a patch of traffic by Dodger Stadium, as usual. We’re quiet for a long time until Vanessa finally says, “Listen, I probably shouldn’t say anything.”

  I sit up straighter. “About what?”

  “Sal—he’s worried about you.”

  That’s not news. I relax a little. “He shouldn’t. I’m fine. Look, I even got a new job. Downtown, a restaurant called Giacomo’s.”

  She perks up. “Giacomo’s? That’s a great spot. I did some accounting for them, back in the day. What are you doing there?”

  “Dishwasher.” It sounds unimpressive so I add, “They like me.”

  “That’s great!” she says. “How long have you been doing that?”

  I clear my throat. “Uh, one night.”

  Vanessa’s shoulders sag. She says nothing, and her quiet disappointment gets to me.

  “But I’m going back tonight. It’s a start,” I say. “The other places—you know, those weren’t the right jobs. This one—I like this one.”

  “That’s good,” she says. “I’m glad. Now, just focus on this job and don’t let yourself get distracted by—”


  I don’t want her to say my father’s name aloud, so I cut her off. “I won’t, Vanessa. Don’t worry about me.”

  “I’m not worried, it’s just that—”

  “Sal told me all this. Again and again.” There’s an edge to my voice that I don’t like.

  “I don’t want to nag you. Sal and me, we both want to see you back on your feet. That’s all.”

  “I know. Just—just let me get there on my own. Please,” I say, as gently as I can.

  We drive back to her house in silence. Before she drops me off and heads to work, Vanessa says, “Sal thinks your dad—he doesn’t want to be found.”

  I climb out of the truck and shut the door. Through the open window, I say to Vanessa, “Sal’s probably right.”

  “Then why? Why keep looking?”

  For peace, I want to say. For penance. To somehow—somehow—repair what’s broken in my life, in my family. My father is alive, and I just can’t leave him somewhere out there, alone.

  Instead of telling her the truth, I shrug. “Guess I’m just stubborn,” I say.

  She shakes her head at me. “Guess so.”

  Three

  From Vanessa’s house, I ride my bike a short way to St. Amaro’s, our neighborhood Catholic church. It’s recess, so the kids from the elementary school are in the fenced-off parking lot playing dodgeball and basketball. I park my bike by the church steps and attach the chain to the handrail. I keep out of sight, since the nuns and priests probably don’t want a tatted-up felon circling outside the schoolyard gates.

  I enter the church. I dip my finger in the bowl of cold holy water by the door and cross myself. I’m surprised the water doesn’t hiss on contact.

  Inside, the church is dark and quiet. It smells like incense, dying flowers, and wood polish. I find a pew in the back and quietly put down the kneeler. I kneel, cross myself again, and close my eyes. There in the dark I realize I can’t remember the last time I actually prayed.

  A minute passes.

  I hear him before I see him. The jangling of his key ring, the strange slapping of his steps on the linoleum. That weird bouncing walk. He taps me on the shoulder and I open my eyes.

  The church groundskeeper. His dark green coveralls hang loose on his skinny shoulders. The patch on his chest says Miguel.

  Without saying anything, I get up and follow him out the side door.

  Across the concrete walkway is the convent. On both sides of the walkway, the nuns keep a rose garden. It’s winter, so the branches are bare, but the reddish-brown thorns look bloody on the green stems.

  I reach into my pocket for the envelope. It’s fifty dollars, not much—the remaining wages from my last job framing houses for a construction company. I got fired from that job when I didn’t show up for a shift. The reason? I was doing what I’m doing now—chasing a lead on my missing father.

  Miguel takes the money from me and slips it into the pocket of his coveralls. He’s nervous and twitchy even on good days. Right now, he avoids my eyes and looks back and forth between the church and the convent, as if someone is watching us from the windows.

  “Okay,” I say quietly. “What do you know?”

  “Trouble, listen.” He shuffles his feet. “You know I respected your father. He was a good guy. I hope they find him. I really hope they do.”

  I want to take Miguel by the shoulders and shake him. I want to tell him there is no they. There is only me. I’m the only one who’s looking. Everyone else prefers Dreamer Rosas to stay dead and buried, all his troubles and secrets gone with him.

  “Miguelito,” I say, “thank you. I know it would mean a lot to my dad, you helping me out like this.”

  “Sabes que,” he whispers, “I don’t want to start anything with the gang. Varrio Hollenbeck never gave me no trouble.”

  He has no trouble taking the money, though. Still, he’s my only lead right now, so I have to be patient. “ESHB’s got nothing to do with this. I’m just a son looking for his father. I’m not looking for anything else but answers.”

  “Pues sí, pero—”

  “If your dad went missing, wouldn’t you want to know the truth?”

  “Of course, of course, but—”

  I point to the tattoos on my forearm. “Miguelito, what does that say?”

  His eyes finally settle on my ink. He looks genuinely nervous now. “Trouble, I—”

  “ESHB,” I say. “The gang is me. I am the gang. I put in the work, I did my time. I would never do anything to cross them. You know I bleed East Side Hollenbeck. So did my dad. You say you respect him? That you were his friend? If that’s true, you’ll help me like you said you would.”

  The word friend is a stretch. Before he spent some time in rehab, Miguel shot up with my dad.

  I move my face in front of Miguel’s when he tries to look away. I cast a shadow on him. I know I’m scaring him. But when conscience fails, fear can push people to make the right decisions.

  Miguel swallows hard and puts a hand over the pocket that holds the money. “Okay, okay,” he says at last. “Here’s what I know.”

  I listen carefully.

  “When you and your brother were picked up, that was it,” Miguel says. “Dreamer had been using again for a few months by that point, but when you were both arrested, he stepped it up. The last straw was when your abuela and tío came to pick up Angel and bring him to Salinas. The house was empty. All three of his sons, gone.” Miguel takes off his cap and rubs the bill between his fingers. “He felt like he didn’t have nothing to live for. I’m sorry to say so, Trouble.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “He started to get rid of everything. He pawned your mom’s old jewelry. He sold the TV, all the furniture from the house. He sold his old junker. Broke into a couple of cars. Did a few burglaries, but nothing big. Nothing that paid out. Then he lost the house.”

  “I heard he was taking a secret cut from the dealers on the street.” A dangerous game, and a good reason to get taken out by the gang.

  Miguel looks confused. “Who told you that?”

  Whispers and kites in prison. Rumors on the street. “Just something I heard,” I say.

  “I don’t know about that. The big homies didn’t really trust him to collect taxes anymore. Ruben took away your father’s territory and gave it to Demon. At that point, Dreamer was too messed up to put in any work for the gang.”

  What?

  That doesn’t add up.

  The story that got back to me and my brother was this: while we were locked up, our father’s drug habit got so bad, he started taking a cut from ESHB’s drug dealers without permission. The big homies in the Organization found out and put a hit out on him. Loyal to Dreamer, ESHB’s shot-caller, Ruben, stepped in on my dad’s behalf and stayed the green light. My father escaped with his life, but a few weeks later, he was seen in a bar mouthing off about ESHB. The green light was put back on, and there was nothing any of us—not even Ruben—could do. My dad disappeared a few days later.

  Sal and I thought we knew the truth. No one came out and said it aloud, but ESHB has rules that can’t be broken. Our dad had been killed, most likely shot and buried in a shallow grave somewhere in the Angeles National Forest.

  A disgraceful death for a disgraced gangster.

  That should’ve been the end of the story.

  But two months ago, my brother found a phone number.

  We called it. And Dreamer Rosas was on the other side.

  He hung up on us. The number was immediately disconnected.

  So here I am, digging up old skeletons. Sniffing around. Paying my way through as many informants as I can, even though I’m broke as hell.

  Until I find him. My father, Dreamer Rosas.

  “What happened when he lost the house?” I ask Miguel. “Where was he staying?”

  “Here and there. At the crash pad, at the park. He’d stay with me sometimes. It got bad for both of us, Eduardo. We were using a lot. One of the nuns here, she
had the rectory put me on leave. Your father’s caseworker sent him to Narcotics Anonymous meetings. He brought me along.”

  “What?” This is news to me. “Where were the meetings?”

  Miguel answers all of my questions as best as he can, but those were bad days for him too. I can see where his memory fails him. The picture I get is blurry at best—no details. Miguel went into an inpatient rehab program shortly after that and lost touch with my father completely.

  “Did he make any other friends at the meetings?” I ask.

  Miguel pauses. “I can’t really remember.”

  “Think,” I say. “Think hard. Anyone?”

  He looks down at the bare rose bushes. “Wait—there was a woman.”

  “A woman?”

  “Yes, a woman. Era bonita. She had a name like a flower. Rose? Lily, maybe? Something like that. Your dad liked her a lot.”

  I can use this information. “Do you remember her last name? What she looked like? Anything about her?”

  “No, I don’t—” The bell in the schoolyard rings, loudly enough that we both jump. Miguel looks panicked. “I have to go.” Quickly, he puts his hat back on and wipes his hands on his pants. “I have to go,” he says again. “I’m sorry, Trouble.”

  Before I can say anything else, he turns and hurries into the church.

  With the help of Rigoberto and the rest of the kitchen staff, Boner and I redeem ourselves. After a few hours in the dish pit, we get our technique down and fall into step. Rack ’em up, load ’em up, take ’em out, put ’em away. The work is not exciting, but at least Boner’s a decent conversationalist, and a kitchen full of people is an interesting place to be.

  Fuck.

  Who am I kidding?

  I can’t keep my eyes off her—Carmen.

  She can’t be more than twenty-five years old. Without makeup, she looks like a teenager. But the entire kitchen staff treats her like a four-star general.

  Dino was right—her word is law. As she stands at the head of the line, no plate leaves the kitchen without her approval. If I was feeling singled out yesterday, I shouldn’t have. I watch her chew out a line cook and a dining room server with the same fireworks show she gave me. The thing is, she’s tough but she’s fair. A good leader.