GRINGA (14 page)

             
‘Wha
t
’s her name again?’ a man with a ruby in his tooth
slurs
. 

    
             
‘Payton,’ someone answers.

    
             
‘Satan?’

             
The house shakes with laughter and try as I may, I can’t hide the colour that flushes my face. Diablo is not laughing
though. He
’s
just
staring at me.

             
A
young man with long
, dark
hair and big muscles mutters
in a surly voice,
‘
Leave her alone.
’

             
I glance at him, wanting to give him a grateful smile. But he does not look at me. He
’s
sullen and morose and focuses on his drink. He too has three tattoo lines across his forehead.

             
I feel like the new kid at school, minus the buddy system. Diablo’s the school bully, Santana and Christa are the mean girls, Tongue is the class clown and the long-haired, surly guy is the cute
, dark
dude
who
smokes behind the school toilets.

             
After a while, conversation resumes and I’m left alone. The men are talking to Diablo – reporting, more like it. I release my grip on the table and sit back. I want to look at Diablo but I’m scared. I don’t dare lock eyes with him.

             
It is safer to concentrate on the colourful conversation around the table. Almost every sentence the men speak is littered with profanity. Me, I’m skilled in the art of profanity and I’m tough.
I have to be – I’m going to be an FBI Criminal Profiler some day. Besides, look who raised me –
a
she wol
f
called Elaine, remember?

             
But now, I cringe as I eavesdrop. I can’t help it – they’re talking in both English and Spanish over me. Conversation between two hairy men on either side of me goes like this: 

    
             
‘Where
da
fuck you
been
t’day, dickhead?’

    
             
‘Wh
y you fucking questioning me,
fuckhead?’

    
             
‘I fucking wanning to fucking know, cunt!’

    
             
‘Why you fucking wanna know where I fucking was, ma’fucker?’

    
             
‘Because yo’ mother was sucking my dick
and she ask me.
’

    
             
‘Ma’fucker, you should tol her I was beesy fucking yo mother in the
nalgas
!’ He stands up and thrusts his hips suggestively.

             
Diablo looks at
me, then at
him and
the man shuts up.
 

 
             
Christa
guffaws
at his obscene gesture. What a cool mommy.

   
             
Maria and Rosa bring out dinner and
a small riot ensues.
The men
wildly
attack the food as if it is alive, stuffing their mouths and chewing loudly, trying to maintain their swearing and cursing while eating.

    
             
The change in Maria and Rosa during dinner
intrigues me. Maria is
quiet and
seldom
makes eye contact with anyone at the table.
Rosa
stays in the kitchen and when she does help out in the dining room
,
it’s obvious, she can’t wait to scurry back to the kitchen.

At first, I assume they’re terrified of Diablo, like I am. But after a while, I realise it’s not Diablo they’re afraid of
,
it’s Christa. In fact they always talk endearingly of Diablo and that adds to my confusion.

I quietly study the food. Chicken? Well, it looks like chicken and it smells like chicken, so I assume it’s chicken, but
...

    
             
I notice Diablo and Maria talking
, their heads together.
Diablo nods slowly, his eyes never leaving my face.

             
‘E
at
!’ he
suddenl
y shouts. His voice sounds like it is being emitted from his gut, not his larynx. I tense at his addressing, the reef
-
knot in my stomach tightening.

             
Maria nods at his instructions.
    

    
             
I shake my head and mumble something about being a vegetarian, which I’m not. After my months of vegetable broth with Juan and Enfermera, I wanted
steak and sausages and shavings of ham and …

             
I would need forensic analysis on this food before I touch it. 

    
             
‘E
at
!’ he bellows so loudly, conversation around the table halts and all eyes dart between Diablo and me.

    
             
In an endeavour to
well, save face
, I shrug, then dish myself some vegetables, which I mimic eating. But the vegetables taste so great that after a while I
give in and
find myself actually eating them.

    
             
I breathe an internal sigh of relief when Diablo focuses on the conversation around him again. He doesn’t talk much to anyone, but
just listens, his eyes darting all round the table.
The only person he gives his undivided attention to - the big muscle, cute guy who defended me earlier on. They call him
Troy
.

    
             
Troy
. Nice name. He’s around twenty five and bearded, but no rings around his peepers. Reminds me of Zorro, but without the mask
. No
Catherine Zeta-Jones
either
. He seldom speaks
and is morose.
 

    
             
Christa and
Santana
look like twins conjoined at the head. They’re looking at me and
whispering. Then they burst out laughing. Christa’s drinking shot after shot
of tequila
and suddenly bursts out, ‘“You think I’m scared to die, you bastard? I’m not. But you shot me three times and I’m still here. Back from the dead. How many times do you need to
try
before you give up, eh?”’

             
Everyone cracks up with laughter. Even Diablo grunts a chuckle and his eyes start to shine. 

             
I remember those words –
bitchface is
mimicking me. My face is burning
now
and I probably look the colour of the tomato in the salad. I glance thoughtfully at the carving knife
.
    

    
             
When they finish eating,
one of the guys brings out a bag of white powder. They start to snort it off the d
ining table.

             
Tongue whispers in my ear, his lips brushing against my earlo
be like a slug,
‘Bebe, I have Marijuanaaa, heroinaaa, amphetaminaaa, cocainaaa - anything you wan
t
. Whachusay, eh? Whachusay?’

             
I jerk away and shake my head.

             
‘Why?’ He seems surprised
. ‘Come on, you party with me.’

             
I
continue shaking my head
, but I secretly wonder if he has opium there.
Fuck!
I’d give anything for opium right now.  
             
I can’t tell who’s doing drugs and who’s not, but I’m judgemental enough to assume they all are. 

             
Tongue leads the pack on the snorting. I watch him whip out a credit card, cut up three plump
lines
on the glass table, block one nostril and snort a line. He leans back and wipes his nose. Some of the men use
short
straws while others use rolled bank notes.     
  
             
Initially, I find it fascinating, almost entertaining. But after a while I’m bored and
I long to get back to my room. W
hen I look up and see Diablo watching me, I quickly shelve
any thought of asking to be excused.
So I stay and ache through their loud, drunken laughter and foul language, wanting the earth to open up and just swallow me whole. An earthquake or a tsunami right now, is just what I need.

             
Suddenly there’s shouting outside
. T
he men race out the door, pistols in hand
.

             
Christa and Santana follow the men.

             
Diablo doesn’t appear very interested
in what’s happening outside
and remains
seated
. 

             
‘Diablo!’ Christa calls. ‘Diablo!’

             
For a while, Diablo ignores her calls. Eventually, he r
eluctantly
scr
apes back his chair and saunters outside.

             
The moment he leaves the room,
Maria
,
Rosa
and I cram around
the window
and look outside
.