El Pozolero
by Christopher Edwards
When Tommy finished, he sucked in a deep breath. The room stank of sweat, sex, and blood. He looked over at his brother, the only other conscious person in the room. The girl, he didn’t know her name, lay limp on the bare mattress. Her name wasn’t the only thing he didn’t know about her, but it wasn’t the most important thing he didn’t know. The most significant piece of information Tommy and Tony hadn’t bothered to process was that she was dead.
Neither of them realized this critical detail until their chemical-fired lust wore off from lack of fuel. Crank had kept them going for hours. Now they were spent. Now they’d finished with her. Now she was dead.
Tommy shoved a thick finger into the pockets of his grimy jeans, searching for one last rock he might have overlooked. His brother Tony said something that didn’t quite make it through the whine of his fading buzz.
“What?” The question came out as a croak. His tongue pawed at the roof of his mouth, failing to produce any moisture. He tried again. “What?”
“I think she’s dead,” Tony said.
“Bullshit.” Tommy leaned forward and slapped the girl hard on the ass. “Wake up.”
“Oh, fuck me,” said Tony. “There’s shit coming out of her nose, bro.”
Tommy rolled the girl over. On the mattress was a pool of blood and mucus. More bubbled from the girl’s nose and mouth. Her eyes stared up at him with blank intensity.
“Give her some Narcan,” he said and sat back down, fingers already resuming their fruitless search.
Tony grabbed fistfuls of his greasy hair with both hands. “I used the last one we had a couple days ago. I was gonna grab some more tomorrow. What are we gonna fucking do?”
Tommy paused his search and glared at his brother. Tony tended towards paranoia when he was high. He shrugged. “What have I told you about getting so worked up over shit?”
“Bro, she’s fucking dead.”
“I can see that.”
Giving up the search, Tommy settled for a cigarette. He took a few draws, his eyes flicking from the dead bitch to his nervous brother who was becoming more agitated.
“Bro…what the fuck? Bro, I mean what the fuck?”
He carried on like that while Tommy smoked. He lit another and decided he’d had enough.
“Tony.” When his brother didn’t stop, he shouted. “Tony!”
Tony stopped, eyes wide, head cocked. He looked like a startled animal.
“Tony, sit…the…fuck…down.” The cigarette danced to emphasize each word.
Tony stared at Tommy for a few heartbeats, then took a breath and sat in the corner.
Tommy needed to think. Most of the crank had worn off. His brain was scrambling in slow motion. The cigarette helped but he needed to clear his head. His mouth was still so dry he had a hard time prying his lips apart to speak.
“Where’s the whisky?” he said.
“Kitchen.” Tony’s eyes were still locked on the girl.
Empty beer cans rattled as Tommy shoved them aside to grab the bottle of Jameson from the counter. He swigged it straight. The whisky burned his throat. After a few minutes, his mind began to clear.
They had to get rid of the body. The easiest way was to load her in the car and dump her in an alley. But with all the surveillance cameras these days that was more dangerous than you’d think. Not to mention all the DNA he and Tony had left inside her, hell all over her.
He took another long pull of Jameson. What they needed was a way to get rid of the body that would destroy the load of evidence they’d left behind. Tommy chuckled at the pun…load.
“What’s funny?” Tony said.
When Tommy looked up, he realized Tony was still naked. “Nothing,” he said. As he headed to his own room. “And put some goddamn clothes on. I don’t wanna be staring at your dick all day.”
“But she’s still in there.”
“Like I give a fuck. I swear to God, man-the-fuck-up and quit being such a pussy.” He slammed the door to his bedroom behind him, annoyed at how much that had sounded like Big Tony. Tommy had always sworn he would never be like that piece of shit. But here he was doing the same shit, saying the same shit, wishing he could catch a break. If he didn’t have to carry his fuck-up paranoid brother around, maybe he could get ahead a little.
Tommy let that thought percolate while he pulled on a t-shirt. He wondered if that was how his sperm doner Big Tony, he never called him dad, had thought about him and his brother.
He shrugged off the stray thoughts and got back to the problem at hand. They could burn the body. But he’d heard a story about the cops still being able to get DNA off a burned corpse. They didn’t have access to an industrial furnace, so fire was iffy.
Then it came to him. He grabbed his cell and dialed.
* * *
Miguel backed the minivan into the driveway. The house was in an older neighborhood. Most of the houses on the street had their driveways in the back. Almost all of them, including this one, had privacy fences that enclosed both the backyard and the driveway. This was also beneficial for what he had to do. It limited the ability of a passerby to see any activity at the back of the house. He switched off the van and got out.
A couple of houses down, a dog started barking. A distant siren blared to life and then faded into the night. Miguel scanned three hundred and sixty degrees. A man shouted at the dog. The dog yelped and fell silent. Miguel crossed himself, kissed the pendant of Sante Muerte that hung around his neck, and approached the house.
The back door opened before he could knock. It was the older of the two brothers, Tommy. Technically the smarter of the two, Tommy was one of the lower-level dealers who distributed the latest products from Mexico to the east side of Indianapolis.
Miguel slipped inside, stepping into the kitchen. He took in the cans, the cigarette butts, the overflowing trash. The floor was sticky under his shoes. Inwardly he shuddered. Filth disgusted him. These white trash vatos were the definition of filth. The house was rank, and the two brothers smelled even worse. It was so bad the scent of his $200 cologne was lost in the miasma of rotting food and body odor.
Miguel followed them to the bedroom. On the bed was a body wrapped in a blanket that had been knotted at both ends to keep it from falling open. The knot at the top hadn’t prevented the long dark hair from spilling out. At the bottom a single foot poked free.
“Any ID or anything else with her name on it?”
“I don’t think so,” Tommy said.
The other brother shrugged and shook his head.
“Conchole, cabron!” Miguel said. “Don’t think so?” He hated dealing with amateurs. Miguel locked eyes with Tommy.
“Hey man. She...came to party, ya know? We never seen her with a bag or anything. We don’t card at the door, know what I’m saying? If she had one, we never saw it.”
“Clothes?”
Tommy poked his chin at the blanket. “Wrapped up with her.”
“What are you going to do with her?” This from the younger one.
“Tony…” Tommy said, giving his brother a look that said ‘shut up.’
Miguel turned to Tony. Sometimes a little education was beneficial. “I’m taking her to El Pozolero,” he said.
“Where is that?” Tony said. “L-pozlaro.”
“Not where,” Miguel said. “Who... En Inglés you say The Soup Maker.”
“What’s a soup maker?”
“El Pozolero is a man who makes soup.” Miguel smiled. “But not the kind you’d want to eat.”
“Soup?”
“He cuts up the bodies into pieces, then dumps them in a barrel full of acid. Soup.”
Tony’s face went white.
“Do you need help carrying her?” Tommy said.
Miguel stared at him. “Este basura…isn’t my problem till it’s in the van. Carry it yourself.”
He wouldn’t touch her until he got to Tio’s, and only then after putting on latex cloves and a Tyvek suit. He went back out to the van and waited.
The brothers came out with the body. Miguel opened the van’s rear door. After they deposited their burden in the back, Miguel slid the makeshift flooring over the body, forming a compartment that hid anything inside it from casual view. When it was closed, he went around to the driver’s side.
“Hey man,” Tommy said. “Thanks for taking care of this little problem. I owe you one.”
“You both owe me,” Miguel said. “Do you understand what that means?”
“Yeah, I just said I owe you one.”
“Both of you owe me. And you owe me until I say the debt is paid. If that doesn’t work for you, then you can take that dead puta back in your shithole house and deal with it yourself. Or hand me $10 grand right now and we can call it even.”
Miguel’s eyes bored into Tommy. When he didn’t blink for a long time, Tommy swallowed and looked away. Miguel flicked his eyes to Tony who was looking down at the shadows skulking around his feet. Miguel got in, started the van, and drove away.
He drove down Massachusetts Avenue until he reached his Tio’s business. The sign out front said, Enrique’s Tires. Below the name was a picture of an exploding tire, a phone number, and the words se habla Español printed across the bottom.
Once inside the compound, Miguel drove past the working tire shop to a ramshackle building that sat behind the rest of the business surrounded by layers of cracked swollen pavement. The redbrick structure boasted an ancient smokestack that loomed over the property like a specter. Despite the age baked into the bricks, a well-functioning garage door opened with smooth efficiency when Miguel clicked the remote affixed to the van’s visor. He backed the van into the dark opening then shut the door with the remote.
Sitting in the darkness, he took out his cell phone and sent a single text. Thirty seconds later it buzzed a response. It was time to get started.
* * *
The overhead lights were humming when Enrique entered the old building’s subbasement. Miguel had already lowered the body down on the makeshift elevator they’d rigged up. Tonight’s ingredients lay wrapped in a filthy blanket on the floor next to an empty plastic barrel. Imbedded in the flooring was an industrial sized drain that would carry away any excess fluid.
He flexed his shoulders inside the Tyvek suit and grabbed an electric saw from the table set against one wall. Judging by the size of the blanket’s contents, this would be more of a cup’o soup job. He chuckled at the stray thought. Down the hall he could hear Miguel bringing the container of acid. He reached down to tug free the knots on the blanket.
Enrique had never kept count of how many bodies he’d gutted, dismembered, and stirred into the acid soup. It had never bothered him. Men, women, the occasional child, none of it even tickled at his sense of revulsion. The only thing that mattered was the profitable addition to his regular business.
When the corners of the blanket, freed of the hasty knot, fell back from the dead girl’s face, Enrique immediately, and violently, vomited into his surgical mask. The saw clattered to the floor. He swiped the mask aside and staggered to the drain. Even after his stomach had squeezed itself empty, he continued to wretch.
When it was finally over, he felt Miguel’s hands supporting him as he staggered away from the drain, away from the body huddled on the floor. His lungs strained to pump oxygen into his body.
“TÃo, qué pasó?”
Enrique couldn’t speak but gestured with one hand back towards the body.
Miguel moved to the girl. His eyes widened and he felt his hand reach for the nickel 1911 that was normally tucked into his waistband. His gloved hand rasped against the plastic as it tried to find the pistol. It took him a long time to look away from a face he’d known her whole life. It was Enrique’s youngest daughter, little Louisa. She’d been missing for about a week. Now she was fresh ingredients for the soup.
“Quién?” Enrique said.
“Dos hombres muertos.” Miguel’s fingers reached up and grasped Sante Muerte squeezing the pendant through the plastic suit.
“Bring them to me…Alive.”
* * *
Tommy downed the last of the whisky. His head was pounding. Scarface was playing on Netflix. It was the chainsaw scene. He watched as the blood spattered the faces of the characters. That was some hardcore shit. It was one of his favorite parts of the movie.
Tony was passed out on the couch next to him. Tommy kicked him. “Hey. Wake up. We need more booze.”
It took a few more kicks to rouse his brother. When he sat up, he looked around in a panic.
“What? What happened? What the fuck happened.?”
“Jesus, chill out. You ain’t getting chopped up in a bathtub. Wake up, we need more booze.”
Tommy’s phone vibrated. It was Miguel. He frowned at the screen.
“Hello?”
“I need you for something.”
“For what?”
“You don’t get to ask questions.”
“Okay.”
“Do you remember the place we met?”
“Yeah, that t…”
“Don’t say it on the phone. Be there in an hour. Both of you.”
Tommy glanced at his brother who was staring into space, barely conscious. “Look man, Tony isn’t up for much right now. I’ll handle whatever you need.”
“I’m not asking.”
Tommy sighed.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Tommy said.
“One hour.”
The call went dead.
“What the fuck?” Tommy said.
Thirty minutes later, Tony was awake enough to walk to the car. They got in Tommy’s Dodge Charger, and he pulled out into the alley. They headed towards the Mexican tire shop where he’d first met Miguel.
Tony was slouched in the passenger seat, eyes closed. Halfway to the tire shop and he was snoring, useless as usual.
The shop, when they arrived, was dark. Tommy pulled up to the gate. After about five minutes, Miguel appeared from the shadows. He grabbed the gate and walked it open, the razor wire bobbing back and forth. He opened it just enough for the Charger to pull in, then closed it behind them.
Tommy rolled down the window, but Miguel just walked back the way he had come, one hand gestured for Tommy to follow. When they reached the back of the shop, Miguel indicated that Tommy should pull up to a garage door on the old brick building at the back of the property. The door opened and Tommy pulled in.
“Shut it off,” Miguel said.
Tommy did, then killed the lights. A set of fluorescent bulbs fluttered overhead. Miguel approached as Tommy got out of the car. Miguel held something up in front of his face. Due to the dim lighting, he couldn’t see what it was. He heard what sounded like an aerosol can discharge and felt a cold mist hit him in the face.
“What the…” That was all he got out before a well of darkness swallowed him. He didn’t even feel his head bounce off the floor.
* * *
His eyes split open. A bright light crashed down, and a fierce cold washed into them. When he tried to cover his face with a hand, he found his arms were bound behind his back. A question formed in his mind and tried to crawl up his throat, but as his mouth opened, the cold flooded in. The only sound he could manage was a drowned choke. A gargled scream clawed its way past his teeth. The cold vanished.
Tommy opened his eyes again. His body a cold puddle on a hard surface that seemed to spin and lurch. There was a musty smell like an old basement with a hint of bleach mixed with something else he couldn’t place. The scent seemed to burn as he drew it into his nostrils. Overhead was a bright light. Beyond the light was darkness. It hovered, coiled like a nest of storm clouds. As he watched, the darkness pulsed with a presence. The bright light shrunk as the darkness grew, becoming a tiny pinprick engulfed by greasy tendrils. As terror took hold, Tommy lost control of his bowels.
“El está listo.”
The disembodied voice jarred him from his contemplation of the hellish clouds swirling above him. His neck strained as his head spun trying to find the source of the words.
“Who’s there?” The whimper vomited from his mouth forming green slime. It hovered in front of his face for a moment before dissolving into smoke.
A chuckle wiggled out from somewhere between the light and the darkness. It fell onto the floor next to him with a wet splash.
He realized sound was taking physical shape. “What…?” More green goo spewed from his lips.
Droplets of water somewhere to his left became silver roaches that scurried across the floor in a steady stream. The scuff of a boot behind him rent a hole in front of his face. Inside more creatures wriggled.
“Bienvenido.” The greeting, scaley consonants coiled blood red above his face, flicked at his ears with a forked tongue.
“Where am I? What is this place?” His mind grasped for a reason to explain the nightmare he found himself in. If you could somehow combine crank with DMT to create some kind of super hybrid hallucinatory reality, maybe you could build something like the freakish hell he now found himself. The alternative was even worse. Maybe this was hell, or the gateway to it.
“Sit up, cabron.” Chilled fingers took hold of his shoulders and wrenched him upright. The voice softened to something more slippery. “Tienes hambre?”
Tommy’s head snapped around and he searched for whatever was purring the words at him. Finding nothing but that infinite darkness waiting, he closed his eyes.
“Yes,” he said. “I am hungry.” And he found that it was true. The question had somehow conjured a debilitating hunger. He was famished. His stomach clenched and snarled.
That reptilian chuckle came again. “Entonces, comes mi amigo, comes.” The voice said. “We have plenty of meat.”
Tommy found that he could now move his hands. Something was thrust into them, a bowel. The copper tang of rare meat wafted up his nose. His hunger intensified and his fingers plucked a morsel from the bowel, plunging it into his mouth. It was a little undercooked for his liking but the hunger that raged in his gut didn’t care. The flesh was warm and juicy. The more he ate the more his stomach shrieked for more. His teeth tore through the hunks of meat like a masticating blender. Fat, gristle, and small bits of bone clogged his mouth, but he didn’t care. He sucked it all down, trying to fill the raging void at his core.
As he ate, he noticed that the darkness overhead grew with every bite. With each swallow it crawled closer to reality. By the time the bowel was empty, nothing else mattered.
“Es bueno?” the darkness asked.
Filled with awe, he could only nod.
Tommy raised his face to the dark awareness above him. He grinned his thanks, teeth shining bright and red. He held up his bowel in both hands.
“Is there more?” he said.
Tendrils of black smoke from above formed into fat flies that buzzed around Tommy’s head and fell to feast with him as more flesh slopped into the bowel.
“Oh, si. Siempre tendremos mas.”
If this was hell, at least he wouldn’t starve. Tommy wondered briefly if Tony was hungry. Then with a shrug, he decided he didn’t care.
More for me.
Christopher Edwards is a former Homicide detective. He lives with his wife in Indiana where he dabbles in photography and is doing his best to become fluent in Spanish. His fiction has been published in Esquire, Pulp Modern, and Needle: A Magazine of Noir among others.
