THE STORY OF VICTOR CALDERON
With a leather briefcase of money reflecting off his sunglasses, the new King of Calico slammed the trunk in satisfaction.
He was called Victor Calderon. His rap sheet would tell you that he was a pimp, shylock, and narcotics trafficker. His tax statement would classify him as a lucrative oil man, a landlord, a store owner. But he would cooly dismiss these titles. If prompted, he liked to tell people he was just a washed up gangster from 5th ward, Houston-town. He liked to say, “I caught a share of breaks, but I’m small time.”
But in his heart, he was a true bastard of free market; an equal opportunity carnivore. He had holdings (both legitimate and nefarious) in most of the major cities of the southwest– El Paso/Juarez, Tulsa, Austin/San Antonio, Sante Fe, Denver, Las Vegas, and as far west as Los Angeles. In L.A. his stake was small– just a faint whisper. He owned a gentlemen’s club, where he spent his time micro-managing heart-robbed concubines. His most recent recruit was easily his most vulnerable: A failed ballet dancer called, “Sage” Her eyes had true, classic beauty, but a nomadic, dope-sick lifestyle had started to fade them into something joyless. She signed on to dance at Calderon’s place, on the sole condition that she was only expected to dance. Calderon gave her his word before he left L.A.– telling her to “stay strong” in his absence.
He know she would soon be broken. The initial resistance and kick back she put fourth would tire out. It wasn’t long and she began to sell off parts of her self to vicious appetites and dirty wallets. Victor was delighted. His experience knew that she would now be soft in his hands, soft like butterfly wings in his fingertips. After months on the stage, Victor called from Las Vegas and told her she was to be relieved the next day. To calm her fury he quoted the numbers of her paycheck and promised her furlough.
“I know you’re tired of this. I’m tired of it too. But you’re going to walk out of there with some money. You’re coming back to Texas, to my spots. It’s time you rest for the next month. It’s my first order of business. I’ll be by tomorrow, stay strong.
But there would be an unforeseen delay that turned one night in to 6 months .
He was two hours outside of L.A. when he steered his Lincoln off of Route 66 for gas. He had caught Route 66 via Arizona, to make the drive more peaceful. In the raw warmth of desert air, he felt most at home.
The valley’s bravado had put him into a trance, and he wandered around dazed for 15 miles. He pulled in to gas station, and caught his bearings. After a look at the road map, he was sure that he was in one of the two sun burnt towns outside of Barstow. He wondered what kind of bad things went on in a town like this. He watched the road for a while, his senses grew keen. The familiar, savage hunger took over him. It was the same hunger of a starved coyote in heat, surrounded by gentle dogs.
Victor was born a bad seed, and he become a bad man. Prison, the ghetto, and summers in the country had fostered an ability to swindle most people. Though some country folk were too guarded to fall for his gab, they were exceptions: he knew how to hustle a small town. It was custom to scout new towns, and while he walked down Main st. an uncanny brilliance began to shoot through his eyes. Numbers and margins danced around his head as he appraised foreclosed silver mines, worn copper mills, perpetually unfolding derricks– typical real estate licks. Clearly there was money here, yet no signs of obvious dirt. So back at his car, he decided that this deaf-mute town called Calico must be a clean hold out. Some towns on the map simply don’t break bread with the devil. He started to the highway when his eyes caught something. He took his shades off. There was a house in his sight that stood out.
Then he saw some traffic head towards it, and he noted the time of day. The house was about a mile out of Calico, just past the town. It was beyond an arched bridge that crossed a veiny, deep, jet-black river. Another rogue truck honked and drove by, loaded with young men in collared shirts. This gave him more than a hunch. He followed behind the caravan and crept down the main artery of Calico. His eyes remained stolen by the shadowed mansion perched at the end of the boulevard.
And It would be at this quiet brothel that Victor would learn the inner workings of the town. He got comfortable and threw money around like empty promises. He was always scouting for who held real juice in this yellow ghost town. 2 hours west, Sage was dying inside. Each night, she danced in the dark, praying and hoping for mercy, while the man who could give it was ingratiating himself with the people of Calico. He had moved up the hierarchy. Like a chess master using pawns, he used the Madam and lowly miners for introductions to the sheriff, the sheriff for the land owners. After some time, he was properly introduced to Calico’s 1%, The Five Dukes.
The Dukes oversaw all action and vice in east San Bernardino county. They talked business with Calderon, always walking away impressed. Their operation was known as the Victorville Co-op at high noon, and as Southside Assassins by midnight. Over decades, they had stockpiled a small fortune, property deeds and a cache of arms. They generated revenue by monopolizing narcotics, refusing the escorts from neighboring cities, and keeping outside influence out of their business. The most violent it ever got was if a young boy was roughed up for petty gambling debts or someone commit insurance fraud to cover a vig. One night a Duke bragged about this, and Victor showed that man his prison tattoos in a play to silently seal his dominance. He said, “these are the scars from another life, ya know? Bad scars, I hate them. But they’ll always be on me”.
They were buying in to him more, day by day. Calderon’s temper stayed cool like a well trained Doberman waiting to bite. Then one night, he was fully in. Calderon was a regular, the unofficial 6th duke. He spent a month building more trust and rapport. Each night he grinned as they obliviously laughed at his anecdotes, laughing to their grave. They were like blindfolded fools waltzing in a shack with a rattle snake.
Like any real confidence man, Calderon’s mouth could harm you more than his trigger finger. Behind his mouth was a calculated mind of boundless apathetic greed. You couldn’t stop this kind of evil: The madam and the fallen angels of the cat house were wise enough to remain weary and fear him. For the most part, they kept distant. Yet fear still couldn’t fully relieve them from the power and intrigue of his mystique, it couldn’t sequester years of filling heads with just the right words at the right time..
And The Dukes fell victim much easier. Calderon carried himself savagely intimidating and masculine, but spoke his peace with a city slick vocabulary. It proved to always allow him an advantage. After five months, the time came when that advantage materialized in to real upper hand. That upper hand was the perfect pitch to the dukes. The Pitch was a crime of opportunity, a set up which he advertised and sold after hearing them weigh out the risks of robbing a bank. They argued pros and cons over poker.
Victor chimed in, and asked a series of loaded questions. Once he was sure just how pathetic their actual trigger time was, and sure that they had no cartel ties, he stuck in his fangs. Victor knew their power was grandfathered in, and their wealth was rat holed. He told them how much money he made on his first robbery. Wide eyed, they asked Victor if it was worth it.
Victor pretended to deliberate, knowing they were hooked. “ I like you boys, and I normally wouldn’t do this, but ya’ll have shown me well and hospitable. Robbing a bank depends on a schematic, a blueprint. In houston, I could hawk a print for 1/2 a million, but I’d consider selling you boys a heist”
They jumped on it, and Calderon put the price tag of $40,000 a head on it (a small investment for a half million dollar score) He guaranteed the strength of the heist by offering his cut of the heist up front The dukes rejected as an absurd notion ”Victor you’ve shown yourself a real man of brass and nobility, we trust you” Victor continued to sell, “Well, the least I can do is drive get away.” obliterating any fraction of suspicion.
A week before the heist, Calderon made his next move. Over bourbon and beige white cocaine, he calmly suggested they prepare wills to be safe. He said, “A bank robbery is a bank robbery. There is always risk in this” The Dukes ears perched. “Go on” ...
“You wouldn’t want your family’s mineral rights or the holdings in the mine to go to the state, now? would you, Chuck?”
“And George, what would happen to your wife and kids if you took a bullet? Do you have all that oil protected?”
This would make Victor’s time in calico a life long pay check. The Dukes bought it, the poor fools. They weren’t ready. They just weren’t prepared for this kind of slick. They agreed to let Victor handle all of their legal paper work, and send it to his “ big shots” in L.A.
The day of the robbery, the men looked sick as they drove out. They rolled in to Barstow, armed with mac-11′s, a Beneli Shotgun and a couple snub nose revolvers. Before walking out, the dukes bowed and began to pray in the car; praying for their families, their safety, and thanking God for the chance. The men said “Amen” and ran out towards the bank. Calderon watched as they dry heaved onward, choking on fear, yet remaining determined.
As planned, they stormed the front door, masks on, and scanned the lobby with their barrels. It took them three seconds to notice the 3 man posse of state troopers–Three crooked badges that Mr. Calderon kept on payroll. In vicious rapid fire, The Co-op was struck down by the gun. The thunderstorm of bullets chopped them down, until they fell. After the hot slugs officially ended the reign of these kings of Calico, Calderon drove back to town, directly. He headed for his room at the brothel, and finalized the dukes’ wills, signing his name on their deeds and holdings, right as word of the botched robbery arrived back at the Brothel..
That night was to be his last night in Calico. He had one last task, a cherry on top before he left back to L.A. He made his first phone call to Sage since he left. He let her know he’d be in by the next morning. She sounded despondent; years older than when he left. Meanwhile, the working girls downstairs mourned--some sobbing the loss of their fathers, uncles, and lovers. Tears fell down their cheeks into stiff drinks. Calderon bobbed and weaved in and out of their grief, preparing the car with his belongings, avoiding eye contact with them.
Yet The Madam eyed him with fearless hatred. She swigged her bourbon down, and called down for her only son, (a young man called “Kid”)
“Do mother a favor and run down to Bill Curtis’s for a minute. Go play records on his jukebox until I call” The Kid asked no questions, he knew enough not to. The madam resolved that he didn’t need to see this reptile, Calderon, while he choke to death on the rat poison she stirred in his drink.
With her son gone, she walked up to Calderon, fighting back rage. She was holding his beverage and eyed the rattle snake that he is, daydreaming that she could tell him “You fucking snake. I heard your phone calls. I know what you did.” She shook out the fantasy and approached wearing a strait face.
He looked at the beverage feverishly, noting the first drink in 6 months with melted ice in it. He decided to finish his last job a bit early. So he declined on the drink, complimented the madam’s hair, and put his pistol on her. A capitalist must always seize easy money. She wanted to cry but the words fell out in a throaty whimper “ You’ve taken enough from us”
She splashed the whiskey in his face, and Calderon momentarily lost sight. He pulled the trigger, shooting on reflex. The impact blew the Madam four feet back to a love seat in the den. She was still alive and crawled off while a blinded Calderon stammered out the door. He fell, but couldn’t help but laugh. He wiped the liquid off with a bandana, spitting out everything that came close to his mouth. His vision returned within seconds, and after his initial shock, he blew a kiss towards the front door, and tipped his hat down to the red wooded bed house.
On the way out of town, he pulled in to the gas station. He filled canisters up with gasoline, lighter fluid, and put a drum of kerosene in the passenger seat. He sang under his breath headed back to the mansion.
The night was quiet in Calico, and the jet black river moved downstream with mild stillness. The moon shined down pale gray and in the deafening silence, Calderon furiously doused the parameter of the mansion. Once every drop fell on to the property he stuck switch blades in to the dead bolts of each possible exit. He lined the kerosene from the entrance to the yard, and lit a cigar.
Inside fallen angels tried to keep the Madam alive with hymns and fumbled prayers. They bandaged her up, clueless that they were now trapped in with her. Calderon flicked his cigar on the line and the mansion caught. Fire ignited and cracked the red wood planks. The shout of embers bursting drowned out faintly muffled screams of the women and the kind Madam.
As the beams began to lose their footing, Calderon drove back towards Main, still humming under his breath. He crossed over the bridge of River Calico, watching the devil in his rear view send him winks and nods of approval from the blaze. On the way out of town he noticed the Madam’s bastard son charging up hill. “The mother fucking Kid.” He saw tears had swollen the boys face as he darted passed, heading straight to where his mother was falling away in to a dead white ash. He slowed down the Lincoln, and debated shooting the Kid from Calico. But by the time his revolver was unholstered, he had vanished across river.
Back at the same gas station he had drove in to 6 months prior, he walked back to his trunk to make sure everything was there: the property deeds, mineral and oil rights, holdings/investments in the central industries of Calico town, and all the extra cash he managed to siphon during his tenure at Calico. With a leather briefcase of money reflecting off his sunglasses, the new King of Calico slammed the trunk in satisfaction. At the stroke of midnight, he began the two hour drive back to Los Angeles.
The kid from Calico, just 17 at the time, stood at the edge of town, watching a this fire burn and burn down the walls he was born and raised in. He turned his head back to town, searching for Victor. There was nothing but some dust. Dust and a speck of fleeting white coming from his Texas plates and tail lights which tinkered off back towards Route 66. Back where the son of a bitch came. He turned his head back to look at his home. It hurt to do so. Ashes swirled in the wind, and through the dry air. His eyes stung and the harsh smell of fire burned through his nostrils. He stared at the flames for minutes, his eyes getting lost in the dancing heat. As time passed, the Kid swore he saw the Devil’s face materialize. It stayed and offered him wild dreams; revenge, money, women, talent, anything a boy in that empty state could use. The kid blinked away, and instead, looked towards the sky. As the fire fell out, the Kid began to speak out. He laid out the new terms of war. A war which he now vowed to wage against God.
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