He went back to bed and drifted off. This time, he slept almost seventy minutes before his cell phone rang.
Away from his father, Julio Esperanza was the man. No one would have ever guessed he cowered under the glare of his father’s gaze. Few people had seen what his Papa did to those who crossed him. Just the thought of his father’s displeasure turned Julio’s blood to ice.
When he was eighteen, his father had told him to pack a bag; they were taking a trip out to the ocean. Just the two of them. They drove from Ciudad Juarez, a city his father literally owned, all the way out to the coast in his fancy new American car, a Lincoln Continental.
They travelled to a small town called Puerto Penasco where Emilio owned a rather large beach house neither Julio nor his mother had known about. There, the father told the son he was now a man, and he allowed him to drink his very fine, aged tequila. Julio had never felt so close to his father, sipping the golden liquor on the warm sand overlooking the blue ocean. He felt as though they were buddies for the first time in his life.
One morning, Emilio told his son he had friends coming from Tijuana. They were bringing Julio presents in honour of his birthday, because they respected Don Emilio. The men arrived, oddly, driving two beat-up vans. One man got out of his van and, grinning, went to the back and opened the side door. A half-dozen perspiring but beautiful women emerged from the back, as if a genie’s bottle had tipped over and spilled its lovely contents: blondes, brunettes, even a redhead who looked like the American movie star, Ann-Margret. They wore lots of make-up, and low-cut blouses that pushed their breasts up into nice, plump, fleshy pillows. A couple of them wore fishnet stockings. Julio almost drooled looking at them and found himself becoming both excited and a little nervous.
The sun was setting, casting a warm, welcoming, orange glow over the ladies and the idyllic beach setting. Emilio told the women to go inside the house and freshen up. They walked close to Julio. He could smell their perfume and their sweaty sex. A couple of the mujeres winked at him. One brushed by him, slowed, and dragged her hand across his still hairless chest, letting her fingers linger on his nipple and giving it a little twist. Goose bumps broke out all over his body and an erection grew, noticeably, in his swim trunks. The men laughed good-naturedly.
From the other van, two more men got out. Both of them had automatic rifles and pistols and stayed near their van. No one got out of the back.
Julio was not frightened, or even surprised. He had seen the men who worked for his father carry guns before. In fact, most of his father’s ‘friends’ had one in a belt or shoulder holster, under their jackets. He knew his father’s businesses made lots of money, so it made sense these men armed themselves, particularly in Mexico, where kidnapping and murder were very common.
‘Go in the house, Julio,’ his father ordered. ‘The girls are sweet. They will take care of you.’ Julio grinned as if he’d just given him the best present in the world. No one had to tell him twice. He was ready to bust.
For the next couple of hours, Julio lost his virginity to a variety of willing women – all pros – using a variety of positions, angles, and tricks that aroused and satisfied him over and over again, until he thought he would die from exertion. They had gathered in the bedrooms upstairs, showered, and played until everyone worked up a voracious appetite. A few of the women had gone downstairs – tired of the insatiable needs of the boy toy – and helped Emilio cook a grand dinner for everyone there. They gorged themselves on paella and homemade sangria.
After dinner, Emilio told the women to clean up the dishes. He and the men were going outside for a walk and a cigar. Julio was exhausted, but his father insisted he come along.
‘The initiation of your manhood is not complete,’ he said. Julio grinned wearily and tagged along behind his father and the other men.
They strolled down the drive and approached the van the other men still guarded. Julio had forgotten about it and wondered what was inside that was so important as to keep these men out here while the others had enjoyed such a sumptuous meal and the company of the ladies.
Emilio nodded to the men and told them to get some dinner. They nodded back, gratefully, and one of them said, ‘The tools you need are in the front.’ Emilio said, ‘Bueno,’ then went to the back of the van and opened the doors.
Inside, hidden in the shadows, were three men, all bound, their hands behind their backs. Bandanas wrapped tightly around their eyes. Sweat-soaked clothing stuck to them like a second skin. Emilio reached in, grabbed one of the men by his arm, and guided him out, telling him to watch his step as he climbed out of the van.
Julio grew uncomfortable now, but said nothing. A warm wind came off the ocean like the breath of a killer whispering in his ear and he felt sweat form in his scalp, then trickle down and hang on his chin for a moment. When it fell, he thought he could hear it hit the ground.
Emilio went to the front of the van and looked around in the cab. He came back brandishing a machete. He approached Julio and put his hand on his shoulder.
‘These men stole money from me.’ he said, gesturing with the blade. ‘When I tried to get it back, they threatened me and my family. We cannot allow this. Do you understand, son?’
Julio nodded, but a lump of fear grew in his throat, and he could not swallow, though he desperately needed to.
Emilio pushed the blindfolded man to his knees, his once pressed, linen suit, dishevelled and filthy as a beggar’s. The man began to cry and plead for his life. The other men inside the van began to whimper like puppies in a sack that was weighted down for the river.
Emilio brought Julio over to stand with him and said, ‘Watch what I do to men who try to hurt me.’
He brought the machete up and to the side as if he were shouldering a baseball bat. When he brought it back down, it struck with a wet, meaty sound, and stopped hard against the man’s neck bones. Blood spurted and sprayed Emilio and Julio. Emilio tugged at the blade and dislodged it from the man’s cervical spine. The man began to convulse and fell forward. Before he hit the ground, Emilio swung the blade again, catching it in the wound from the first swing. This time, it went clean through. The man’s head came off, hitting the ground with a thud.
Julio stood transfixed, his mouth wide, lips quivering. He could see the man’s face and watched his mouth open and close, like a fish gasping on a hot, dry deck. He turned and retched into the grass, his legs shaking under him like saplings caught in a hurricane.
Emilio pulled another man from the van. The man sobbed and made promises and excuses, but it was as if Emilio could no longer hear him. He pushed him to the ground near the body of the first man, then turned to Julio.
‘It’s your turn, Julio. You must help kill our enemies.’
Julio shook his head. ‘No, Papa, I cannot do this.’
Emilio reached over and slapped him. The blow hit him in the ear and made it ring so loud he could barely hear what else his father was saying. But he heard enough. ‘If you don’t do this,’ Don Emilio declared, ‘one of these men will shoot you. Do you understand?’
Julio nodded, tears streaming from his eyes. How had this happened? One moment, he was happy and sated, full of wine and women. Now, his father was threatening him and he was being forced to murder a man he did not know, and in this most brutal way.
‘Stop crying,’ said Emilio. ‘You won’t be able to see what you’re doing.’ He placed the sticky handle of the machete into Julio’s hand.
Julio looked at the blade, shining black in the moonlit night. Before he had gone downstairs for dinner, he had made love with the red-haired whore and, as they lay there in post-coital bliss, he had noticed his phallus, still shining from their sex. This is what he thought of as he looked at the blood-slicked blade: a wet, throbbing phallus. In one afternoon, his father