1984
“Aqui viene el Leon.”
Here comes the Lion.
The words seemed to hang over the tiny Miami storefront. Oscar, Pepe’s boss, spoke to them almost nonchalantly. Because, on any other day, this would be normal. Perfunctory. But something felt off to Pepe Otero, and even at his young age – barely past fourteen – he could sense it.
Pepe’s job was, ostensibly, working the counter at Internacional, a diner/restaurant on Bird Road in southwest Miami-Dade. The place was cramped and tiny. Pepe did his job – wiping down counters, taking orders, running drinks out to the tables, and serving as a backstop to the actual waitstaff. He did the stuff even the waiters couldn’t be bothered with – taking out the trash, cleaning up the bathrooms, ushering out the drunks and druggies when it got to closing. Internacional was not a destination, even in this suburban swath of Miami. The food was mediocre at best, the service lethargic on a good day. It was forgettable, which is just how Pepe’s actual bosses wanted it. But people came, people ate, and money was made. And even more money came in.
As off the beaten path as the restaurant was, the money that came in needed to be off the books.
The restaurant, like many other places around Miami, was a funnel – un pasaje. The businesses ran like any other spot, but it was a mirage. Even Pepe, at his young age, knew that there was no way the money – the actual money, the money people paid to eat at Internacional – kept the lights on. Paid the salaries. Bought the food that was made and prepared. It just didn’t add up.
If Pepe hadn’t pieced it together from that, then the weekly visits would have told him plainly what was going on. The tan, well-manicured men in crisp, dry-cleaned guayaberas, smelling of tart cologne and moving with the ease and grace of someone who’d already knocked back a few Cuba Libres. Pepe rarely had the opportunity to just sit back and listen to the men – to hone in on the pitter-patter Spanish, the hand-waving and gesturing that was synonymous with Cubans across the city. The visits were brief. The envelopes were thick. Pepe understood.
It was so commonplace that the visits started to feel casual. Like a cousin coming over for a few beers before the game, or sitting on the porch with your abuelo and watching las jevitas walk by. That’s probably when the trouble started, Pepe would guess. But he didn’t know that until later. Right now, it just felt like more of the same. Another visit. Except this was anything but.
“Oye, aqui viene – no lo ves?”
Oscar’s question was directed at Pepe, who was wiping down the long counter that ran the length of half the restaurant and greeted all who entered. Oscar wasn’t looking at Pepe, but he was certainly talking to him.
The chime sounded as the main door swung open, and Pepe watched as the two regular “agentes” walked in – Juan and Diego, both potbellied, shiny-looking, and terrifying, Pepe thought. But they had company this time. Pepe recognized the man accompanying them. He was tall, a bit younger than his counterparts but still their leader – well-built and considerate in his movements, like a racehorse being shown the stables. Pepe had to stop himself from staring at the man.
El Leon.
But if he was here, something had gone very, very wrong.
“Bueno, El Leon! Que me cuentas, acere?” Oscar said, trying to keep the tone light. But Pepe could hear the slight crack in his voice. Could almost see the line of sweat sneak down the side of his face as he leaned forward on the counter. “Hace que, cinco años? Como estan esos niños? Y tu mujer? Es tan -”
El Leon raised a hand, the only part of him that changed from one second to the next. His face remained placid. His hair, shirt, mustache, and reflective sunglasses almost frozen in time. Unflappable. Pepe had heard the word somewhere. Read it in a book at school. El Leon was unflappable. He now knew where he’d gotten the nickname. Oscar “El Leon” Alfaro looked like he was stalking his prey – sizing it up. Pepe felt his blood freeze as the man spoke – his voice low and rumbling, like a bass drum being hit, louder and louder as it got closer.
“Tenemos que hablar, Oscar,” El Leon said, waiting for the door to close behind him. Juan and Diego scanned the rest of the restaurant. Not seeing anyone else, they nodded for their boss to continue. “We have to talk. Now.”
“Pero claro, Leon, lo que tu quieres,” Oscar said, scoffing to himself, as if someone had asked him if he drank water. “Somos familia aqui. Esta es tu casa. Y la casa de Angelito.”
Angelito was the boss of bosses. The man who got to decide where all that extra money went – and who got the biggest slice of the pie.
A loud thwack echoed through the tiny restaurant. Pepe turned toward the sound – watched as El Leon’s hand rested on the just-wiped counter, his body leaning over, inches from
Oscar, who was now standing ramrod straight.
“Angel has no say here,” El Leon said. “Me entiendes? Understand?”
Oscar shrugged, as if to say, come on, let’s talk this out – but El Leon hadn’t come here to talk, Pepe realized, seconds before he felt his stomach flip, and his own control of his body waver. Jesus, was he going to piss himself right now, he thought?
“Y tu?” El Leon said, turning toward Pepe, as if seeing him for the first. “Who are you?”
Pepe started to respond, but Oscar interjected, again with that nervous, dismissive laugh.
“Ah, that’s just Pepe – he works here. Like my utility infielder. Does a little bit of everything,” he said. And, as if to emphasize how harmless Pepe was, he added. “He don’t know nothing, Leon. He doesn’t understand nuestro negocio.”
Pepe backed away slowly, trying not to let his sneakers squeak on the restaurant’s faded, gray linoleum. But before he could take another step, El Leon spoke.
“He’s about to learn,” he said.
The rest happened fast. Too fast for Pepe to process.
Juan and Diego reached back toward their belts and came back – guns in their hands. They pointed them at Oscar, who was shaking now, hands up, nodding vigorously. El Leon leaned in closer – his face inches from Oscar’s, his eyes wide, mouth just a line.
It was almost imperceptible, the nod El Leon gave his men – but Pepe saw it, felt his body jolt with the sound of the muffled bullets releasing. He watched as Oscar fell backwards, as the tiny specks on his white apron became red circles, bigger and bigger the further back the man fell. The crash and clang of plates and cutlery seemed to amplify everything as Oscar hit the ground behind the counter, stunted by the plastic grating over the floor – meant to catch any water spills. It had never been meant to catch blood, Pepe thought, as he felt the warm trickle of his piss slide down his leg – turning his light gray pants a faded, warm black.
He must have been whimpering, Pepe thought, because El Leon turned to him then, a bemused grin on his long, reptilian face. He was closer now, Pepe could see the pockmarked trail of scars down each temple. The chipped incisor. The way one eye seemed to squint a little more than the other.
“Te measte, niña? Did you have a little accident?” El Leon said.
The words were cruel, but the delivery was flat. Pepe felt shame, but he couldn’t help himself. He was shaking now. He knew his mouth was open and he was backing away, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t want to die, he thought.
Then that motion – the slight tilt of the chin, as El Leon turned toward Diego and Juan, and that was when Pepe knew what was coming. He tried to think about something – something important and meaningful. Of his mami. His feet in the sand in Cuba. The sounds of Havana. His first meal in Miami. The sun on his face as he waited for the bus to bring him home. But he didn’t get the chance. The bullets hit him square in the chest, and as he felt himself being shunted backwards, everything went black.
Aqui viene El Leon.
Here comes the Lion.
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