La Pistola

by Alvaro Huerta

My father never left home without his gun. It was a sleek .38 Special revolver, which he tucked in his left cowboy boot whenever he took a walk in our neighborhood, East L.A.’s notorious Ramona Gardens housing project.

My father had grown up on a small rancho in Michoacán, where rural communities are famous for their family feuds. My father, the eldest of ten, had led the Huerta-Gomez feud during the 1950s. It took the lives of dozens of family members on both sides and forced
many to flee.

After losing his brother, Pascual, my father moved the family to Tijuana and then to L.A. Little did he know that he had relocated his kids from one violent place to another.

When we first moved into Ramona Gardens, my older brother, Salomon, and I didn’t leave our house for a week. Once we did, a local posse of kids confronted us. Tomás, the leader, arranged a fight with my brother and me. It was a traditional welcome to the neighborhood.

One day, Tomás and Fat Ritchie decided to swing my younger brother, Noel, from his arms and legs until he cried for help. My father ran out of the house to save his wailing son. As he pushed Tomás away, Tomás’s mother attacked my father from behind. Like a Mexican luchador, my father slammed her to the ground—and fled the scene.

Later that evening, my father got word that Tomás’s older brother, Chuco, a respected gang leader who had done time for attempted murder, was looking for him—to take revenge.

Unable to locate my older brother, my father summoned me
to his room.

“Alvaro, come to my room, I need to talk to you.”

“Here I go,” I said, wondering what I did wrong.

“Take this gun,” he said. “Put it under your belt in your backside. I want you to come outside with me. We have some business with Chuco.”

It was cold that night as my father and I walked around looking for Chuco. My knees began to shake and my heart pounded as we approached a bunch of homeboys drinking beer.

“That’s them,” my father said.

“I think we should call the cops,” I said.

“What for?” he said. “Don’t you know that the cops are just another gang? I’m just going to talk to Chuco to straighten things out. Wait here. I’m going to talk to him man to man.”

My father walked straight toward the homeboys. He had a small bag in one hand.

“Chuco, is that you?” he asked the homeboys.

“What is it, old man?” came a voice from the darkness.

“Can I talk to you?” he said.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” said Chuco. “I already know the story.”

My father slowly reached into the bag.

“You better stay back,” Chuco said, putting his hands in his pockets.

Instead of reaching for my gun, I froze and braced for the worst.

Undeterred by Chuco’s threat, my father pulled out a bottle of Cuervo Tequila.

Slowly, Chuco took his hands from his pockets and reached for the bottle.

“You have a lot of guts, old man,” he said, giving my father an abrazo.

“So, everything’s O.K.?” my father asked.

“Everything’s cool,” said Chuco. “You could have called the cops, but you approached me like a man, so I’m going to forget what happened.”

Relieved, my father turned to me and said, “Let’s go home before we miss Bonanza.”