Even children fall into the Gutter. And the hand they're given out may be a harsh one. If they're lucky.
The Good Coyote by Gabino Iglesias
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The truck stops in the middle of the desert. The man inside
waits a moment before opening the door. The damn dust will get on everything
and cover his boots with a thick brown layer that he’ll need water to remove, but
there’s no reason to make it worse. After a minute, the dust settles a bit. He
climbs down and makes his way to the back of the truck.
The four kids in the back are blinded by the harsh light when
the coyote opens the doors. They squint and raise their hands to their faces
like vampires about to start bubbling under the Texas sun.
“Abajo,” says the man, looking at the Salvadorans, wondering
how in the world the two younger ones survived a ride in La Bestia.
The kids slowly make their way down, their legs weak from the
trip, lack of food, and fear. The coyote helps the youngest one, the only girl,
jump down to the ground. She thanks him in a cracked voice that reminds him of
those dolls that speak after you pull a string on their back.
“You and you, come with me,” the man barks, already hating
what’ll come next.
The two oldest kids look at each other and start walking
behind the coyote toward the front of the truck. One is about fourteen. Short
for his age. He has yellow teeth and acne. The other is seventeen or so. Tall.
All bones and a few lines that promise future muscles once he starts eating
well. This is the one the coyote worries about. He already explained to them
what would happen, but you never know what a man will do after you put your hands
on him.
They reach the front of the truck and the man turns around.
The teens stand side by side, looking like they’re ready to hold hands and
start crying. The coyote digs into the right pocket of his jeans and pulls out
his brass knuckles. They’re round at the top. The kids take a step back
simultaneously when he slides them on.
“Tranquilos, I’ll only hurt you a bit. You know how it is,” he
says.
He’s been doing the same thing for years, and by now has
mastered the art of hurting the kids just enough to get the job done. Hit them
too hard and you run risks. On his second trip, a child lost an eye. That was
too much. Hit them too soft and they’ll heal by the time they go through the
interview at the icebox. If they do, the fucking gringos will do everything in
their power to send them back to whatever hell they came from.
“Okay, remember: you were victims of gang violence. Los
Malditos, la Salvatrucha, Calle 18…I don’t care. You pick one and stick to it.
Explain to them they attack you regularly. Show them your wounds, got it?”
The kids nod. The coyote looks down then shoots a straight
right at the older kid. He feels his nose crunch under the brass knuckles. The
kid takes two steps back and drops. The coyote knows that surprising them is
the only way to go. He looks at the younger kid. A piss stain is spreading down
the front of his pants. The man grabs him by the hair and brings his right knee
up, sinking it into the kid’s stomach. The kid crumbles. The coyote bends down,
aims for the right ear, and pops him twice. Hard. The ear splits, starts
bleeding. A round bump immediately starts to change the shape of the youngster’s
head. That’ll last him a few days. Then he uses his left hand to bust his lower
lip open, taking care not to fuck his teeth up too much.
The older kid is still down, holding his face. Blood’s running
down his chin and neck, staining his shirt. Good thing the man has clean
clothes for them or the whole thing would be too obvious. The coyote knows
that, because he’s at the edge of adulthood, this kid will have a harder time.
He needs to be hurt in order to really sell the sad story. At least his English
is better, so that will help.
The coyote walks up to the writhing teenager, turns him
sideways with his boot, and lands three hard kicks on his back. The pointy
boots will break skin or at least leave a good bruise. No one will think this
is something he did to himself. Then he kneels and punches him in the face
three times. A loud snap tells him the second punch broke a finger. That’ll do.
Once both kids are up, the coyote brings them a gallon of
water and a dirty towel to clean themselves and some clothes. He uses a corner
of the towel to clean the blood off his brass knuckles and hands.
“Now you walk. Hasta que se topen con la migra. Once you see
the Border Patrol, go to them. If you don’t wanna go back, remember: los
mareros are looking for you. You fear for your life and get beat regularly,
entendido?”
A few grunts and nods is all he gets from them. Not much else
he can do now except give them some water and point them in the right
direction.
At the back of the bus, the little girl looks at him with fire
in her eyes. She heard everything. The coyote hopes that fire keeps her safe.
He kneels in front of her.
“I’m one of the good guys, mija. Anyone touches you, you put
your nails in his eyes and kick him right here,” he says, patting his crotch.
“And stay close to these guys.”
The four kids start walking away. The coyote knows they’ll
look back at him and be surprised they didn’t get killed like so many others.
He won’t stick around to watch them walk away, though. There are more kids
waiting for him.
