Beto woke up on the Nido powdered milk warehouse-sized box pieces where he slept, having a large rag bunched

up for a pillow. The sun would peek through a hole on their zinc wall and go straight over Betos eyes. At 28, he ran shop in the tiny zinc box, patching and filling tires with air. The cement floor was a continuation of the streets sidewalk, except it was tarred from the shops constant flow of petrochemicals and their fumes. He rises from his back and sits along two oil barrels, one is a tall table and the other one is two-thirds full of water. After lighting the rusty one-burner electric range Beto puts a small pot of water, and empties a pouch of instant coffee for one, in a neon green plastic glass and another in an empty plastic Caf Presto jar. Agustin, the grandfather, had some tin propped up as a room in a corner of the precarious metal cube; the other back corner was behind a makeshift curtain that hung from a nylon rope tensed between two nails. His leg had been amputated as one of his many losses to diabetes; he barely ever spoke and spent his evenings watching some Chuck Norris flick on TV, in the company of Betos lifelong peers; bad-ass Managua reggeaton gang-bangers. Viejooo. Says, Beto: ya est tu caf. It was any day; Managua was certainly different than what my mother would tell me. Beautiful parties with the General and thieves were punished severely. Fresh off the plane, when I spoke not one word of Spanish, the mysterious forbidden country was for the first time real. My parents never came back, when they talked about returning to Nicaragua, it seemed to be all they ever wanted. Hows your head from last night? Saturday evening at the Saras; vegetarian pasta, beer, and attractive women to read off the menu. I sat with Urania and Yelba, and the Saras would go back and forth, playing different pirated CDs and talking to boys who visited the girls as a group, each guy making progress or not, with the girl (arranged, for each friend). Theyd crowd near a red hatchback that brought the boys. Beto showed up wearing some intensely blue jeans, a Dacron Fubu shirt and his special occasion silverplated chain. Later, the girls went to watch a movie in our room, under a large blanket in the AC. We drank some liters of beer and knocked back fiery shots of rum. I told a few stories about back in the day when I sold cars in LA and partied week-ends in Vegas. He told me stories that hed heard all his life about the war, and gang fights in our barrio. A quiet kid, but he has tossed a stone or two for the hood. Thank God I stashed enough for a joint. Cokes still got me jumpy. Ill take you your Mara at around one; lets see right now its almost ten. A glittery Tweety sticker on betos phone sparkled from the shadows, in Carlas house where he talked his business. Id scratched some cords together and bought five slot machines to put in little grocery stands around our proximity in Managua. Beto would go on a borrowed Chinese motorcycle in exchange for some gas (that I would have to buy), check on the machines, pay the shop owners, and bring any

available money. He introduced me to a guy from the Oriental Market, who either makes the machines or refurbished them. A balding guy, graying on the sides wearing a belt, a tucked-in beige shirt with rolled sleeves, loafers and gold around a front right tooth. About the same age as me, but smaller and thin. Carlas daughter had a baby with Beto, the 37 year-old grandmother sold weed with her man El Caballo. The little brother Nehemas, watches a drug bust on Channel 8s Crnica. Betos phone rings, Yamil: Estoy en el Chalecito. A Little beer place, half a block away from El Gato Volador, in old downtown. Plastic tables on the sidewalk, a long walkway that ends on a pink dining room; inside there are two arches almost covered by fake roses and popped pink and white balloons, and most importantly an excellent beans cazuela. Yamil would wait there for Beto instead of at his place. Urcuyo, whats up man? wheres Beverly?. Hey DEA, wheres AMW, baby? Is he still going back next week to North Carolina? snickers Urcuyo in his stylish Ricky Ricardo English. Urcuyo is Urcuyo Maliaos boy. He was just in to buy some cigarettes he left his girlfriend, a 15 year-old crack addicted child he brought back from Great Corn Island, tied to the bed with his tube sock. Yamils remembers the day Urcuyo told the story of when Somoza stabbed his old man. A lot of the people who knew about the incident, said that the stabbing was the real reason of why Somoza made Urcuyo Maliao the only 48hour President in Nicaraguan History. They were at a party all the Ministers and several high ranking government officials were mingling having champagne and horderves. All of the sudden someone gave Somoza some bad news about a terrorist attack from the guerrillas. Somoza was infuriated; he got up and stabbed Urcuyo Maliao. At the time Urcuyo was in his twenties and attending West Point, a little after the incident he got booted out because he was lazy and partied too much. Of the more menacing members of the family; Urcuyo gets his fun money from a brother who lives in Connecticut. A downtown house from a military dictatorship era: a red and weathered 60s carpet a ruined small courtyard, the back wall has a battered cement Manneken Pis rip-off with twisted iron rods sticking out. The walls have large fractures from the earthquake in 72 and the stairs a precariously shaky. Its half a block away from the crack sellers. On the street, a couple of nearby Pharmacies dont mind selling Urcuyo his roofies and ritalins. Urcuyos pad is also conveniently located near El Chalecito. Urcuyo likes to call Yamil, DEA and Americas Most Wanted (AMW) is an American who also lives in the neighborhood. He started that joke when he noticed that Barry kept changing the day he was going back home. Barry really was always less than happy to hear that joke, but it never prevented him from being around for the last couple of years with no plausible excuse. Yamil would see Barry from time to time, and Yamil was also aware that Barrys story makes no sense and that Barry is not really going to tell anything to anybody. According to Urcuyo, Yamil is a former DEA agent, simply because he knows, he can smell bacon. Urcuyo sits at Yamils table and lights a Windsor, that shit in Haiti is because Chavez wants to control drug routes for FARC. Fidel started that shit before, with Nicaragua and Cuba, he killed Ochoa for

bullshit. Pablo Escobar was working with Fidel too. The Sandinistas still traffic through the Miskito Cays and Little Corn. Even Humberto Ortega made his millions doing that business and selling weapons all the way to 1995. Says Urcuyo as he makes eye contact with a weathered picture of Chayanne on the pink wall. Look at all the people with Daniel posters on their houses and the liberals fighting each other. Good luck taking Daniel down again, Nicaragua is never going to have a decent situation, all people care about is todays gallopinto. They get more shit beating protestors up for Daniel than holding down a 2,000cord job. Old Man Bolaos really fucked up putting Arnoldo in jail. Wendy Yahaira walks to their table, a dark girl, who descends from uprooted Chorotegas. Lives in a shack she rents for C$ 300 a month, with her three kids. Her brother, a transvestite hooker, watches them during the day and the eldest, 7-year old watches her little brother and sister at night. She has an order of tostones for Yamil. He signals for another Victoria Frost and Urcuyo asks for a half liter of Flor de Caa Grand Reserve with a Coca-Cola, a tub of ice and some limes. Beto, walks into El Chalecito with Yamils smoke. Light from a skylight gently gleams as dust particles dance around floating in a diagonal long sallow cube. Just behind are Urcuyo and Yamil; fat, old and lounging on their plastic chairs. Beto steps around an orange cat that naps in the doorway, he catches a glimpse of his sneakers golden tint as he intentionally steps exactly where the skylights ray reaches the ground. At home he would often gaze stoned, at some puddle of petrochemical, into its transcendent kaleidoscope rainbow, sensing an ethereal and luminous state. Beto locks fists with Yamil: Its scarce at El Caballos. I could only get you a half ounce for 200. The butchers didnt have any, at ENABAS theyre only selling crack, the Pop Bellies are only selling 16ths at 20; man thats like two joints. Yamil raises an arm in the air and loudly whistles to the kitchen. Wendy Yahaira peeks out the door. Yamil holds up his beer and signals two with his other hand. Beto hints at the rum. Yamil nods and pours a shot. Urcuyo raises his glass. To my love, a mi amor and giggled like a moron. The older men took a sip of their drinks while Beto downed his shot. Yo lo que quiero s, es un harn como el de Yamil. Said Urcuyo, as he held his laughter back and tried to act out a less than believable sigh: Man! Yamil, visibly pissed, answered with his funky accent in Spanish: Es su hermana, se queda con nosotros porque est estudiando. Beto watched his friend trying to explain himself. But secretly, Beto wasnt at all sure what to believe either. Esas carnitas de monte, son ms naturales mi hermano. Cuando les brotan el capullito nadie les dice nada. Si acaso, les recetan su rienda o les ponen un seor de marido. Added Urcuyo. Beto and Yamil, both knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that any joke about Urcuyo would pale in comparison to that mans deranged life of vice. Yamil found it pointless to argue with a madman. And Beto enjoyed having Yamil too busy to push his fat ass around and pontificate about experience vs. youth. Yamils old age and all the friends he keeps losing to death; seem to conjure up a frightened facet of his personality: a chicken-shit Foghorn Leghorn who by all means refuses to give up fronting restlessly.

Usually with Yamil, it was orbiting around either when he was young he made a ton of money and didnt care about anything, that the other Nicas are good for nothing retards (his girls favorite), formal education is bullshit and that hes superior to all the new generations. Betos grandpa in contrast, was in a more serene stage of his senility. Agustin had come to terms with his own mortality and felt fortunate to have Beto taking care of him. Beverly, is really Shauna, but Urcuyo calls her Beverly; like Beverly DAngelo: I wanted to fuck her as gestures it with his arms, he told Shauna about the fantasy during a shower together at the beachfront Morgan Hotel. Shauna had managed to release herself from Urcuyos tube sock and was looking for some money or a gold chain. There was a craggy round wooden table with a fun land; of plastic jars and blister packs, cigarette butts, spliff roaches and crack pipes. The world had ended she was sure of it, she had been floating peacefully when an earthquake of insane proportions had the earths core spitting fire into the heavens and completely annihilated Managua and the world. The windows were gargoyle-proofed by a neighborhood welder, and the door was locked in; she started kicking it, hard. Shaunas long nappy blonde hair was tossed up like Don Kings; she had a terrible headache and had been sleeping-off a two day crack binge for the last 18 hours. On the end of the room there was a long counter top made from bad 70s Formica in the middle of it: a sink. A pair of 2x4s propped the whole thing up. In front of that there was a TV. On the other side: a queen size bed with some raggedy red blankets over a nude mattress. Cho! bombo-cloth! she hissed and started packing her dirt cheap perfumes, some clothes and the crack pipes in a kiddie backpack, except for the best one (she puts that one in her bra). When that old man gets back and opens the door she is getting the hell away from that room and him: enough foolishness! That afternoon was the last time Yamil ever saw Beto alive. He went home with his bag of herb watched American Gladiators on one of the Sandinistas TV channels. Had a terribly al-dente chicken, ketchup and salty Nicaraguan dry-cheese casserole. Yamil and the girls fell asleep; his ass had to be on the floor and taking calls at 7:00 AM. He packed half an ounce of bud hes selling to some UAM students at work. Hey old man, your head is extra-shiny today! -Motherfuckers. Mrs. Sponge was packed and Harley Rodriguez had too many beers, he figures he really needs to get some coke and a dude called Mississippi; who delivers 200s to the club is not answering his phone. Harley hops into his Hyundai, and heads towards old downtown passing through the earthquake ruins. A couple of caballito consuetudinaries watch Harley fly-by with his shitty-ass rear wing slashing the 2:00 AM breeze. He makes a turn at the Montoya statue and heads towards Betos place. When he got there, Shauna was sitting on the curb; she was now 17 and hustling. Agustin and she had an arrangement. After one day escaping from Urcuyos room she starred in a week-long orgy with Betos boys in the crack house. They decided she should stay around and kick it with Agustin. The arrangement worked for a few months that the old man was able to survive. You is American? Shauna asks Harley. Naw baby, Im a Nicoya. Wheres Beto? he says as he notices her beautiful body in the scum Him no here, what you want? I buy for you, no? he unlocks the door and decides to let her deal with the coke people and any potential ninjas from the barrio.

He steers towards the pupleria and asks her: What happened with Beto? Him dead, I never get for know him. Them say him liver mess-up. At that moment Harley hears something accelerate and hit the brakes with violence; its a Police Hilux, two crackhead cops jump out of the truck-bed with guns and head towards Harley and Shauna. Harley was completely sober; all the beer seemed to vanish from him. They found weed in a matchbox sticking out of the ash tray, and pretended to call on their radio. Harley says: No hay problema oficial, yo le ayudo y usted me ayuda and reached for his wallet, he gave each cop a $20. Shauna runs towards the passenger seat of Harleys car and gets in. She hadnt seen dollars since her Beverly days with Urcuyo. Harley suddenly remembers he has kids and a girlfriend he does not want to call from the police station; he decides to first ditch the cops and then Shauna. A couple of blocks away, he pulls over and says please get out, I want to leave now. She looks at him What you going give me? Twenty dollar, no? They took everything, please let me go home. She looks around for anything she can use to stab him nothing she mumbles; nothing he confirms.