Chulito (4 page)

Kamikaze walked quickly around the corner of Hunts Point and Garrison Avenues and made eye contact with Chulito. As he passed him, he dropped a small bundle and a gun into Chulito’s lap. Instinctively, Chulito slipped the package and the gun inside of his hoodie. The gun felt warm against his bare belly. There had been no sound of gunshots, so it must be warm from Kamikaze’s body. That thought caused his dick to swell.

When Kamikaze reached the next corner two plainclothes cops stopped him. Then two more cops appeared. Chulito’s heart thumped twice as fast as the beats from the song. He wanted to get up and run inside; instead he tried to relax and bopped his head to the music. The cops pushed Kamikaze against the wall and frisked him. Finding nothing on him, they let him go. The four men walked down the block toward Chulito. With every beat his heart climbed up his throat. There were two Latinos, a Black and a white cop. The white guy was red-faced and as he passed Chulito he said, “Stay away from scum like that, little brother.”

Chulito wanted to deck him. He definitely was not little and he was not his brother. Chulito watched the cops disappear around one corner and Kamikaze around the other. The gun and bundle shifted inside of his hoodie, and as Trick Daddy sang about baggy jeans, gold teeth and saying “fuck!” to the police amidst a chorus of children agreeing with his every word, Chulito knew he’d crossed a line.

Kamikaze reappeared, walking slowly this time. He wore a bright yellow running suit with sky blue tank top underneath it, matching sky blue Timberlands and a bright yellow bandanna—definitely not a cop-dodging outfit. Without needing to be told, Chulito stood up and went inside his building as Kamikaze followed. He reached under his hoodie but Kamikaze touched his arm.

“You live here, right?” Kamikaze asked.

Chulito nodded. “My mom is out.”

When they got into the apartment, they went to Chulito’s room.

Kamikaze howled and hooted as he looked out the first floor apartment’s window. “Your name is Chulito, right? You just saved my ass, little bro. Big time. Those stupid fucks almost had me.” As if the room were his, he plopped down on the bed.

Chulito lifted his hoodie, and the bundle and the gun dropped next to Kamikaze.

“Thanks, bro.” Kamikaze sat up and put his feet on the floor. “I owe you.”

Chulito uttered, “Nah” and the word got caught in his throat. His underarms began to sweat, and, as one cold drop slid down the side of his body, he collected himself. “It’s cool. You don’t owe me nothing.”

“Bullshit! My ass was grass, bro. I was thinking, ‘what am I gonna do,’ and then I turned the corner and boom! There you were. I was hoping you were smart. I was right.” Kamikaze looked up at the ceiling and whispered. “Thank you, my nigga.” He turned to Chulito. “Yo, I know my boy Willie was looking out for me ‘cause I’m wearing his color today. You musta known him? He lived in this building.”

“I knew Willie,” he said simply.

Everybody knew Willie. He and Kamikaze were always together and Willie always wore yellow. Not gang gold, but yellow, nice and bright. He did wild shit like wear snake eye contact lenses and gold teeth that looked like fangs. Willie also had a sweet face and by the time he was seventeen he could stop traffic just by stepping out of the building wearing a tank top. The girls swirled around him, and he played with them all. It was a miracle that he didn’t leave any Willie juniors behind before he died in a car accident racing revved up low riders over on Edgewater Road.

Chulito remembered when the makeshift shrine went up in front of his building—a couple of cardboard boxes and plastic milk crates filled with candles, pictures of Willie, flowers (both plastic and real), Hennessey bottles, 40s, and cigars. The centerpiece was a picture of Willie dressed in yellow and Kamikaze dressed in his signature blue toasting with piña coladas out at City Island for Willie’s nineteenth birthday. A snapshot version of that photo hung from Kamikaze’s rear view mirror.

Willie died the previous summer on August 22nd. For one whole month Kamikaze wore Willie’s yellow and had Tats Cru make T-shirts that read “Willie R.I.P. I miss you.” Now the 22nd of every month, Kamikaze wore Willie’s color in his memory.

Kamikaze tightened the yellow bandanna around his braids. He looked out the window and since they were only about six feet up from the ground it took little effort to scope out what was happening. “It’s been almost a year and I miss the shit out of him.” Kamikaze let the shade drop as he turned to face Chulito. “Check me out, getting all open and shit about Willie.” He got up from the bed and shook himself like a dog shaking off water. “Whew!” Then he put an arm around Chulito. “Besides, if they caught you with the stuff they couldn’t do much. You are like what, fifteen, right?”

Chulito nodded. “My birthday was last month.”

“They would have just taken the shit and the gun and called your mommy to come pick you up.”

Chulito crossed his arms, narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw.

Kamikaze stepped back. “Oh, sorry, bro. Didn’t mean no disrespect. You can handle yourself. You proved that shit straight up and down.” He pulled out his wallet and removed two one hundred dollar bills. “Here, go buy yourself some sneakers.”

“Nah, that’s cool.”

“Bro, don’t disrespect me.”

Chulito accepted the two crisp bills as Kamikaze smiled. He looked at the posters on Chulito’s walls of Fat Joe, Big Pun, Ja Rule and Jennifer Lopez. They connected over their favorite rappers and songs. Chulito couldn’t believe that he was chilling in his room with Kamikaze like they were old friends. His mom would definitely lose her cool if she caught him in the house.

“Yo, Chuly-chu, can I call you that?”

Chulito nodded.

Kamikaze said that he liked Chulito’s instincts and his clean, tough rep in the hood. Then he said that he needed help running deliveries.

“Are we in business or what?”

Chulito shrugged. He was afraid because, like every kid in his neighborhood, he knew drug life was rough. He had taken a puff from a joint every now and then with the fellas, but he’d never bought drugs or been this close with a dealer before. But he was also excited because he would get mad props from the fellas when they saw him rollin’ with Kamikaze and he would have his own loot so he could help out his mom who worked in the lunch room at the local elementary school and made just enough to take care of the basics. Besides, now that Carlos was gone, the only thing he had to look forward to for the rest of the summer was hanging out on the corner with the fellas or getting a minimum wage summer youth job.

“Man, whenever I get away from those motherfuckin’ cops I feel great. I get horny and hungry, and since you a dude, even though you got a nice little bump back there…” He burst into laughter, “I’m just messin’ with you. I ain’t no faggot.” Chulito flinched and his ears got hot. “Let’s go eat. My treat. And we could talk more about my proposition.”

They drove to Step In Diner in Parkchester and ate steaks. Kamikaze drank Coronas with lime, and Chulito had Cokes with lemon. Kamikaze let him sneak a couple of sips from a Corona, but Chulito didn’t like it. Kamikaze was about ten years older than Chulito and it was like hanging with that experienced older cousin or cool uncle that Chulito wished he had. By the time Kaz paid the check, Chulito was well on his way to becoming his boy. That summer, he rode with him and accompanied him on special drops and pick ups. Chulito’s head swelled with pride when he earned enough trust to be taken to Kamikaze’s crib, where no one was ever taken. Kamikaze was a loner who never spoke about family or parents, and he never claimed any of the kids he may have sired. It was as if Kamikaze had no history, past or connections. He only had the game.

Chulito was treated like blood and Kamikaze took him shopping to up Chulito’s game from bootleg clothes to $300 Diesel jeans, Hilfiger jerseys and Kenneth Cole gear. He relished spending most of his days with Kamikaze and felt like a member of the Terror Squad when, even though he was underage, he strolled into the night clubs alongside Kamikaze. He felt protected in the no nonsense way that Kamikaze looked out for him. Just as importantly, he felt like he mattered when he was introduced as “my protégé” to rappers and fashion kings and queens. He got a thrill and felt grown when he learned to shoot a gun, in case shit went down.

But Chulito liked it best when it was just the two of them, like that first day in his room, or when they’d sit and watch
Scarface
in his crib and order his favorite rib tips and beef fried rice from the Chinese spot. He felt most connected to Kamikaze when they spent hours talking about “the game” and what the future could hold for him. Their closeness reminded him of the way he used to hang with Carlos, before he changed.

The sound of laughter from the party posse brought Chuilito back to his room. He got up from his bed to lower his window and saw the white Range Rover pull up in front of the building again. Carlos got out of the car with his mother, and they talked to the blond driver. On the opposite side of the street the “party posse” was in full swing.

Chulito froze as his phone rang.

“I can see you, bro,” Kamikaze said. “What you doing standing in your room? Git ya ass out here, ahora.” He hung up without waiting for Chulito to respond. Then, the party posse started chanting, “Chu-li-to. Chu-li-to. Chu-li-to.”

Chulito darted out of the apartment building and avoided making eye contact with Carlos as he passed. A roar of cheers rose from the guys. As he was engulfed by the throng shouting happy birthdays, Chulito saw Carlos watching. He felt trapped. He wanted to apologize to Carlos and promise to make it up to him, but for the fellas he had to act as if Carlos didn’t matter.

Papo, Chin-Chin and Davey were coming from the liquor store, bottles in hand, with Looney Tunes who was not invited. Not to be left out, Looney Tunes offered a gift. “I got you a little bottle of Hen, Chulito.”

“Thanks, bro, we’ll see you mañana,” Chulito said. “Be cool.”

“C’mon, Davey, let me get in your car,” Looney Tunes said. “You got room.”

“Drop it already,” Papo slipped on his shades. “Look at you. You always look wrecked and you always trying to ride another nigga’s wallet. The way you roll, you ain’t never gonna be invited to a party posse.”

Chulito and the guys headed toward Davey’s car that was parked on the corner where they always stood.

Chulito heard the blond guy turn on the ignition on the Rover. He turned and saw Carlos walk to the driver’s side, reach in and shake the guy’s hand. As he shook his hand, Carlos flipped his hair out of his eyes and Chulito realized Carlos’ hair was a little longer, almost touching his shoulder. Carlos stepped away from the Rover, waved good-bye to the blond boy and went into the building with his mom without looking back at the guys.

Papo pulled Chulito close. “See him shaking that dude’s hand? Guess we taught that faggot a little lesson about kissing his boyfriends on our block.”

Chulito didn’t like Papo referring to the guy as Carlos’ boyfriend. He doubted that was true because even though Chulito wasn’t up front about his feelings, he figured that Carlos knew something was up and wouldn’t show up with another dude.

“Bye, papi.” Looney Tunes shook his ass, ran after the Rover and waved good-bye frantically.

Puti, the drag queen who lived with her mother in the first floor apartment across from Chulito, was perched on her window sill. “¡Sángano!” she yelled out to Looney Tunes.

“Fuck you!” he yelled and the fellas laughed.

“Oh, really? With what?” she challenged.

Looney Tunes grabbed his crotch with both hands. “Wit dis, you sorry faggot.”

“With two hands full of bootleg jeans? I don’t think so.” She extended one long slim arm toward Looney Tunes and gave him a loud snap of her fingers. “Pleeeease.” Then she disappeared into her apartment.

Looney Tunes kept his head up as the guys laughed and got into Davey’s car. “Yo, fuck Puti. She’s always got some stupid shit to say.”

Davey imitated Puti by extending his arm out his car window and snapping at Looney Tunes. “Puh-leeeze.”

Chin-Chin nudged Davey. “Yo, Puti’s window is low and she gonna hear you and start shit with you, too, Davey.”

“I got no beef with Puti. Maybe we should invite her to the club to celebrate your birthday, Chulito,” Davey joked.

“Men only!” Papo said.

“So that’s why we left Tunes out,” Davey said. They all laughed.

“Technically, Puti is still a man, right?” Davey asked.

They considered the thought as Chulito noticed Brick from the travel agency coming down the block. Brick looked up at the azure sky and squinted to see the first few twinkling stars before continuing down Hunts Point Avenue.

Chulito knew Brick wasn’t coming down to join the party posse because he wasn’t down with Kamikaze and especially because he was carrying Crystal, his three-year-old daughter, on his shoulders like she was a princess riding a float at the Puerto Rican Day Parade. Chulito couldn’t see where he held onto her slim white stockinged legs because they were covered by the mucho ruffles of her soft pink dress. She waved with small, strong arms and blew a kiss with both her hands to Gil who sat on a white plastic chair in front of his liquor store.

“Hola, mamita.” Gil waved to Crystal. Her Shirley Temple curls bounced wildly as Brick walked over to Gil. “¿Qué pasa, bro?”