My Crime Years

The argument raged in Spanish for over an hour. It ended with the dying old woman beating on his chest with her frail fists. “No Angel no!” she cried bitterly, “I shall have this thing. Give me my final wish: my death wish!” Angel hesitated and then slowly shook his head indicating that he understood.

Normally a passive woman who watched television by day and slept all night, his mother had been sick with cancer for years. Her time was short and he had never seen her this intense before. “Swear it to me Angel,” she demanded in a hoarse whisper, “swear it to me on your life!” “Si Mama,” Angel replied, “I swear it to you on my life.” He turned away. His mother had her last wish. The old woman lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. Angel was pissed as he stepped out the front door of the cheap flat and started down the street.

The mid-day sun blazed off the pavement as he scanned the rows of project tenement housing that seemed to stretch on forever. The dumpy buildings rose like canyons and covered several city blocks. The stench just hung in the air and was so bad that the police rarely came into this neighborhood. When they did, it took them so long time to arrive that the crime was done and the suspects long gone. It had always been that way.

He stopped to catch his look in a tinted window. “Damn!” he thought. Angel was proud of his good looks and muscular physique. Only nineteen, he had been through more conflict than most people see in a lifetime. He ran his hand over his clothing and squinted up at the noonday sun.

Spinning suddenly he saw some wannabe leaning against an SUV staring at him. It was common on the weekends for guys who had grown up in these projects and moved off to better neighborhoods to return and visit whatever family remained. It amused Angel that these guys liked to pretend they were bad when they returned in their new automobiles. Hell, most of them had practically lived in their apartments like scared prisoners until they finished their education or joined the military. Either way they were soft and not any real threat.

He flexed and stared directly at the intruder. Usually this was enough to send most people packing fast but this guy either left a long time ago or was just way too stupid because he actually said, “What’s your problem?” Angel never hesitated. He instantly attacked the guy beating him down into the gutter. He didn’t even bother to pull his blade. The guy tried to fight back but was forced into submission. It ended quickly with the intruder begging for mercy. Angel laughed. He robbed him of his cash, and let him go. It wasn’t worth the trouble. The guy loped off holding his beaten face. Angel quickly pulled the stereo from the SUV and fenced it around the corner.

He felt better after that but worry gnawed him. He had to figure out how to keep his word to his mother and perform one genuine act of kindness that very day. The thought made Angel uncomfortable but he owed her. She would die in peace and afterwards he would be free to do whatever he wanted. Grinning, Angel walked out of the projects and onto the boulevard. Moving through city streets filled with people, he spotted a bus bench and stopped to give the matter some thought. After a while his eyes came to rest on a building across the street.

The Department of Motor Vehicles was located in a bad area but it hadn’t always been so. Pat remembered how quiet it had been when he came to work here twenty years ago. Eventually, however, the middle-class moved and property values dropped. Pat had moved too and like many of his neighbors made the commute to work each day. It was what it was. Seriously though, he thought, the projects aside there were still a lot of good family people here. Most worked for a living and the kids played outside during the day.

Pat was college educated but his degree was in liberal arts. Today’s economy dictated he might as well be a college dropout for all the good it would do him outside of government work. No matter, he had simple tastes and enjoyed the respect the community afforded him for teaching the mostly Spanish-speaking housewives and young people how to drive. He would have been hard pressed to find the same happiness in a well to do area. After signing a form, he motioned for the next person in line. Angel stepped up.

“Yes may I help you?” Pat asked. A vague uneasy feeling like a black cloud came over him. “I need a drivers license,” Angel said flatly. “Certainly but first you have to complete a written driver’s test.” Pat felt intuitively that this young man shouldn’t even have a driver’s license but the law was the law so he offered Angel a test booklet and pencil. Angel knew he couldn’t pass the written test. His driving experience was limited to joyriding and an occasional carjacking. He debated for a minute about stabbing Pat with the pencil and running into the street but decided against it. He needed the driver’s license to show his mother. This was something tangible and would impress her. Then he would be off the hook. He snatched the test from Pat’s hand and went to the testing area.

He doodled for a while before noticing the person next to him. It was Miguel. Miguel was one of those studious apartment prisoners that lived in the projects. He knew the score. No way he was going to cross Angel. Angel whispered quietly in a menacingly manner to Miguel for a minute and then exchanged his blank test for Miguel’s completed one. He penciled in his name and got the keys to Miguel’s Nova in the process. He took the test triumphantly back to Pat who graded it and gave him a passing score.

Now it was time for the driving test. Pat motioned him to the drivers test area and hooked the driver safety sign to the top of the vehicle. Angel nonchalantly unlocked the doors and got in. He played it cool until they were out of the parking lot. Then he turned on the radio and twisted the dial to a local rap station. Pat’s uneasy feeling grew as he reminded Angel to keep his eyes on the road.

“You asking me or telling me?” Angel asked suddenly. “I must ask you to drive safely or return. You have made one unsafe lane change already, tailgated, and are going eight miles over the speed limit. Additionally, you are playing the radio excessively loud.” Pat felt the uneasy feeling peak as he finished.

Angel made a hard sharp right into an abandoned alley and slammed on the brakes bringing the car to an abrupt stop. “You want a black eye!” he screamed. Pat jerked as if an alarm had just gone off. Angel punched him in the face. Pat’s mind filled with brilliant colors and his ears rang from the blow. Pat opened the door and tried to make a run for it. Livid now, Angel leapt out of the car and sprinted toward him. Pat only got a few yards before being rammed to the ground with a body slam. Assuming the fetal position, he covered his head with his arms. It dawned on him that only his wits could help him survive.

“You stay put! Don’t you move one muscle of your fat ass!” Angel yelled as he ripped the driver safety sign off the roof of the car and threw it against a wall. Pat didn’t move. “You put that there to make me look stupid didn’t you?” Pat didn’t say a word. Angel opened the passenger door and motioned for him to get back in the car. Pat climbed in and within a short time they were out of the alley and heading south on the freeway.

“You think I’m stupid? You think you’re better than me?” Angel yelled. Pat shook his head no. “Yeah now you don’t but you thought you were damn smart a few minutes ago didn’t you?” Angel whipped out his butterfly knife and pointed it menacingly at Pat. “Don’t you try nothing you got that: nothing!” Pat nodded that he understood. The knife disappeared back into Angel’s back pocket.

They drove for a while; rap music blaring from the speakers. Pat looked out the passenger window at the passing manufacturing showrooms and tried to think of a way out. He was scared.
Finally Angel exited the freeway and drove through some abandoned buildings before coming to a stop on a pile of cracked asphalt in a vacant parking lot. Across the street were three Latinos sitting in front of a decrepit bar in a run down low rider. Angel flashed a sign. Their response seemed to satisfy him so he led Pat out of the car, over the sleeping body of a bum, and into the bar.

The place was decrepit. A row of cracked vinyl bar stools sat positioned in front of a foul smelling bar. The dim light revealed two thread worn pool tables in the middle of a room that was vacant except for a mean looking bartender and an old man nursing a beer. Angel led Pat to a booth against the wall and yelled for the bartender to bring over a couple of boilermakers, which he did. Pat paid.

“Drink up,” Angel said after another round. Pat hadn’t touched his drinks and very respectfully explained that he didn’t drink alcohol. Angel did the unexpected. He simply shrugged and downed Pat’s drinks. “Figures” was all he said. Then he ordered yet another round and began rambling about things that Pat couldn’t attribute any meaning to. After awhile, Angel got to the point.

“Here’s how its gonna be” he finally said. “I’m going to drive us back and you’re going to give me my driver’s license. If you don’t, you’re dead. It’s that simple. If I’m in prison for this one of mine is going to kill you. That will happen. There’s only one way out of this for you. You’re going to give me the license.” Angel cocked his head and waited for Pat’s reaction. “I understand,” Pat replied. Angel made him repeat it several times until he was sure that Pat meant it.

Cruising on the freeway heading back, an intoxicated Angel was having problems keeping the car in one lane. Pat dared not say a word. By chance, a patrol car appeared from behind and flashed them. Angel cursed as he pulled over and slowed to a stop. “One word or signal and you’re dead,” he hissed. Pat knew it was no bluff.

The police officer exited his squad car and walked quickly to the driver side window. “May I see some registration and identification?” he asked. Angel started in with an explanation. He got the once over. The police officer wasn’t impressed. “Sir, could you step away from the vehicle for me please?” he said. Angel was able to start the car and floor it in one easy motion. He left the officer in a cloud of burning rubber.

Quickly he brought the car up to over a hundred miles an hour and recklessly weaved between two cars. Pat covered his eyes. A short time later a helicopter appeared overhead. Pat dared to look and saw several police cars enter the freeway and position themselves about 100 yards behind them. Angel screamed curses and floored it narrowly avoiding an officer attempting to deploy a spike strip.

After twenty more danger filled minutes, a squad car sped up closing the distance between them, pointed a gun at the rear tires and shot them out. Angel lost control of the vehicle, which spun in circles at 80 miles an hour barely missing a motorcycle rider. The Nova caught a guardrail and flipped end over end. Angel was thrown from the car and in what was later termed a “freak accident,” impaled on a guard post as he landed. Pat had been wearing his seat belt and stayed in the car. The passenger side air bag saved his life.

The police rushed to free Pat from the wreckage marveling that he had no serious injuries. Pat looked over at the dying Angel. Spittle and blood ran down the side of his mouth a sign of massive internal damage. “Too late mama! It’s too late...” he gasped as some unseen terror took hold of him. Screaming a piercing wail Angel tried to sit up one last time but his body shuddered and grew still. It was over. Pat shook like a leaf as the police escorted him away from the scene. He was a very lucky man.

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