Jon Talton - South Phoenix Rules

The Anglos who ran Phoenix historically thrived on ignoring the south side-prospered through its cheap labor, kept comfortable in their soft apartheid. It was a place to put the landfill, the toxic disposal outfits, and all manner of not-in-my-backyard enterprises. It was a place whose history was to be overlooked and marginalized. Now I wondered how much had changed, despite the newer subdivisions along Baseline, the tilt-up warehouses that were raised on spec, or the city signs that proclaimed this “South Mountain Village.”

The well-off had decamped for north Scottsdale, Paradise Valley, and the fringes, leaving millions of working poor all over the city that once haughtily neglected these neighborhoods. Every place outside of the newer areas was partly south Phoenix now. But this place, south of the tracks and, especially, south of the river, was also special, anointed by its unique history, and it had soul and edge, however many cheap, new houses sat behind walls along Baseline, no matter how horrid the fast-food boxes that squatted at Central and Baseline.

I turned north, the city lights briefly before me, before I crossed the canal, passed the Catholic church, and started the long, slow glide back to the valley’s center. The gaudy lights at the Rancho Grande supermarket were misleading. No place had been hit harder by the combination of the recession and the anti-Hispanic fervor of the Anglos than South Phoenix. The Ed Pastor Transit Center was nearly deserted, with only one bus idling in the bays. A man filled large jugs from a water machine while his children yelled from the open windows of the car. Did the water machines mean the families didn’t have operable plumbing? For whatever reason, they proliferated here.

It was this reverie that prevented me from noticing the vehicles that swarmed me.

They executed the maneuver as expertly as cops handling a felony stop. We were just south of the Central Avenue bridge. I was boxed in by a tricked-out Honda in front, a white car behind, and, what finally got my attention, a jacked-up, extended cab pickup truck. Before I could fully react, the truck swung over and bumped the Prelude into a warehouse parking lot. Then the car ahead suddenly stopped, forcing me to brake hard. I had the insane thought: Was this where the old Riverside Ballroom stood? I had a choice between using the cell to dial 911 or pulling out the Python. I chose the latter. But by then, six men were on the far side of the car, M-4 assault rifles with scopes and laser sights leveled at the windshield and door. All wore black protective vests.

Oh, I wished I had the Five-Seven. I wished I had backup. I wished Robin’s laughter still graced the world and that my wife loved me and that our child would have lived a long and full life and remembered us well. Instead I had six rounds in the Python and two Speedloaders. Eighteen rounds in all, but no time to reload. The Prelude was not, to put it mildly, armored. More men appeared around me, but they evidenced no gang hauteur. Instead all moved with a military-like competence. If this wasn’t the ATF, I had only one hope. It had little chance of success, but it was all I had.

South Phoenix Rules.

I was not afraid as they tore open the driver’s door and dragged me out, taking the Python, pinioning my arms at my sides, and roughly backing me up against the side of the car. My spine bent painfully backwards. The men all spoke Spanish. They were not the ATF.

“Let him go.”

This command came in accented English, his voice sandpapery. My arms were released.

A dark-skinned man walked close. He was my height with bad skin and dressed all in black, including a Kevlar vest. Now I really missed the Five-Seven. He spat in my face.

“You gunned down my people and you just thought it would be okay?”

“I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

“Why did you do it?”

“I didn’t do it. Didn’t you read the newspaper?” Of course, he didn’t.

“Screw this. Take him.” My brief and conditional freedom was rescinded, replaced by strong hands gripping my arms.

“You were lucky last night. We should have just come in the house and finished it. But this will be better. I’m going to feed you to my dogs. They like human flesh. They have a taste for it now. But first, I want you to have a little traveling companion. Let’s say it’ll help keep you quiet.”

He produced something dark and round, and another man latched onto my head.

“Open his mouth! Pull on his jaw!”

The next few seconds passed in a long, painful, frantic dream-state, ending with a man’s scream, something like a wet Chicken McNugget in my mouth, and half-proprietorship in a hand grenade.

A man was still screaming, as well he should. I had just bitten off one of his fingers at the second knuckle. Now I spat the bloody remnant on the pavement and stared at the jefe . The idea had been to put the grenade in my mouth. He held it up to my face as I struggled. Unfortunately, the man’s timing was bad and I have good teeth. The sudden turnabout had caused four-finger’s friends to loosen their grip, and I latched onto the grenade.

The jefe held it too, trying to wrestle it from me, tendons standing out in his neck and forearms. The crew could easily have overpowered me, but everyone hesitated. They could see that I had control of the top and the pin. That provided enough time to bend forward and pull the pin with my teeth.

Then I spat it away. The metal hitting the pavement was unnaturally loud.

The leader tried to back away but I wouldn’t let him. I held his hands wrapped in mine. His men were unsure what to do. The man who now had four fingers on one hand was reduced to moans as he ripped off his shirt to staunch the bleeding. All were confused by the new reality that had entered their lives: South Phoenix Rules-when you’re outnumbered and backup can’t arrive in time, when you have more assholes than bullets, all you can do is become the crazy Anglo.

I spat bloody saliva back at him. “Let’s all die today.”

His eyes widened and he tried again to disengage. It didn’t work. I had one hand firmly around his grip on the grenade and my other hand as the only thing holding down the safety handle. If my left hand was pried away, it was nearly impossible that anyone could move fast enough to keep the handle from springing, setting off the fuse, and leading to a short-countdown to explosion. What was it? Five seconds? Was it worth the risk? All had come to realize that el gabacho loco held their destiny, literally, in his hand.

I went on in Spanglish: “ Ya no se puede hacer nada. Estamos jodidos .”

They all knew there was nothing they could do. We were screwed.

“Who the fuck are you? La Familia? No, too disciplined. Los Zetas? Mexican police? I don’t even give a shit.” I lightly fluttered my grip atop the safety handle and everyone tensed. Four Fingers stopped whimpering.

“You…” The leader stammered as his men regained themselves and aimed their M-4s at me. A new sheet of sandpaper colored his words. “You’re not going to just walk away…”

“Then we’re all gonna meet God in five seconds, and even if you shoot me, I guarantee you’ll go with me when this piña blows.” I watched his luminous brown eyes as they failed to blink. My arms ached but I fought to conceal it. “Or, we can talk, entre machos , warrior to warrior. ”

“What can you possibly give me?” he demanded, his hand still firmly in my grip. We were both sweating heavily but his hands were starting to shake.

“I can give you what you want.”

Back at the house, I tried to take stock. After brushing my teeth like a maniac, I put the Bill Evans Trio on the sound system, made a martini, and settled at the desk to think. I thought about Lindsey, wondered about the man or men she might be seeing. Might be in bed with right now. What was he like? Lindsey was so conservative, almost a prude in some ways. Now I guessed she had rubber to burn. My lodestar lost, perhaps irrevocably. Common male jealousy twined with my vivid imagination wrestled with grief over control of my emotions and lost. The level of the liquid in the martini glass went down. I was too broad shouldered to carry off the narrow neckties popular when Bill Evans was at his peak. I still didn’t understand why Robin mattered so much to Sal Moretti that he would put a hit on her.