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Bingo Gringo

Leave it to the Gutter to prove that old adage,

Guns don't kill people. People kill people.

Bingo Gringo by Earl Javorsky

I know I’m in too deep.

They’ve given me a gun. It’s a huge gun, a Desert Eagle, a hand cannon really, and they’re behind me now as we walk into the park.

They slashed my brother Tom’s throat while he was working undercover. They don’t know he was my brother, but they know I was a cop. They think that ended when I got popped for selling them back their own heroin from the evidence locker.

Three months later, after a quick plea, I wound up in County. We had made sure it looked like a weak case, and my one-year sentence meant I’d be out in less than half that. They approached me, as we had hoped, the day I got put in Gen Pop. The guards had kicked the shit out of me, but six guys had my back the whole time, including a sniper in the guard tower. The whole setup was to make me believable as a cop gone irredeemably bad, one that might make a good asset for the Colonia Chiques. Before the guards dragged me away, a short, muscular guy came up to me. His face and shaved skull were covered with scorpions and spiders killing each other. He told me to reach out at @homiedaveputnam. Fucking bangers wanted me to tweet them.

They knew I still had people in the Department. What they didn’t know was that my mission was to take down La Diabla Pequeña, the wife of Hector Cruz. She ran the crew on his instructions from prison. Word is, she killed my brother. Nobody knows where she’s from, there are no pictures of her, no arrest record, nothing. The Gang Squad figures she came up from Michoacán, which is where Cruz’s family went way back with Nazario Moreno González and La Familia.

I’ve fired a Desert Eagle before. It’s a noisy piece with a jolting kick. I’ve also seen the terrible things it can do to a human body. This one, I don’t even know if it has bullets in it; it’s so heavy I wouldn’t know the difference. The whole thing could be a charade. They did tell me, however, that there was a guy with a rifle and a scope somewhere at the perimeter, so don’t fuck around or turn the gun on the homies behind me.

The deal was, I had to shoot a civilian. And now I can see that the civilian is a kid. A kid on a swing. She’s just sitting there, with her head down and long hair drooping to her knees, swinging slightly left to right. She has cute little two-tone Buster Brown shoes and a short green tartan skirt. If I don’t shoot her, they’re gonna kill me.

The park is weirdly deserted, except for the girl on the swing. It’s a crappy little park, quiet except for the creaking of the rusty swing chains and the distant sounds of traffic. It’s not in Colonia Chiques turf, but they had cleared the area.

They told me she’s the daughter of a rival gang leader and that they were going to kill her no matter what I did. So, not a civilian. I wonder what she’s doing here alone.

A voice behind me says, “You fucking pussy out now, you’re gonna die. And your faggoty little kid, Benji.” How could they have my boy? He’s four hundred miles away with my ex, using her last name. Tom was Benji's favorite uncle, and I hate that my boy has had to live for this past year with the hideous images the ghouls in the press have relentlessly harped on. They’re why I’m here at all.

“So what’s it gonna be, pendejo?” I want to turn around and put a huge fucking Desert Eagle hole in his forehead. I want to kill my way up the chain of command to the top and put two thirds of an ounce of lead in La Diabla Pequeña’s mouth. I’ll even do it with a blank, ’cause the muzzle flash from this gun will do the job nicely.

I pull the trigger.

Nothing happens.

The girl looks up and opens her mouth in a grin that shows teeth filed to triangles and capped in silver.

“Bingo, gringo. Now you work for me.”

Earl Javorsky is the black sheep of a family of artistic high achievers. After a long stint trying to make it as a musician in L.A. and clawing his way up to mid-level management in the chemical entertainment industry (just about killed him), Earl went back to his first love—writing. He has two very different novels out: Down Solo, an oddball noir tale of a dead junkie PI, and, Trust Me, a more mainstream psychological thriller. Both are described at His last bit with FFO was called Cats-Eye. His website is at