Roachkiller and Other Stories by R. Narvaez

told me all about the family. But what you been up to? You never said nothing about you.”
    “You got the double five,” she said. “Lo veo todo.”
    “Maybe. Maybe not.”
    “Embustero,” she said.
    “So how you been?” Roachkiller said.
    “My fingers hurt me a lot, nene,” she said. “And my leg pinch me.”
    “The old aches and pains, huh, Abuelita.”
    “Si, mijo,” she said, then slammed down a three-five. “Now you got to put the double five.”
    “But you never get no trouble, living in this old building, in this bad neighborhood?”
    Then she looked up from her dominoes. In her one good eye was the saddest look. Like all her life was not there. It was just for a second. And then it was back, like it was on fire.
    “Your abuelita is fine. Now put down the double five.”
    Right then Roachkiller knew, knew from the look on her face, the way she sounded, that Don Moncho was not making up some story.
    So Roachkiller put that double five out.
    “Te lo dije,” Abuelita said. “Lo veo todo.”
    She won one, two, three after that. That was all right. Abuelita was everything, God bless her. She never did no one no wrong.
    Roachkiller was a little punk when he was a boy. Stole, fought, sold drugs. Abuelita, she knew. But she didn’t say anything. Turned the other way. Then what happened, the thing Roachkiller was best at, that he had mad skills for, was killing. It just came easy. Don Moncho caught on to that, and Roachkiller had steady work for a long time. If Roachkiller wanted to do it anymore now didn’t matter. There was one more man Roachkiller had to make dead. D-E-A-D.
     
    *  *  *
     
    Don Moncho, he was being hassled by a landlord. Ain’t that funny for a man who used to run the neighborhood? But things change. A lot of old-timers still respected him, but the new people coming in, buying up houses and shit, they didn’t give a fuck who he was. They just saw an old spic.
    The landlord’s name was Michael Raskin, and he lived on the Upper East Side. Roachkiller got in there as a maintenance man. Some shit never changes.
    Roachkiller rode up the elevator, no one looking. Found the door, tripped the lock, got inside. It was mad quiet. Except for this dude’s air conditioner. He kept it running all day. Sweet cool in that nice-ass place. Nice thick rug all the way through, big-ass TV in the main room. But the kitchen was smaller than a bathtub. Rich motherfucker probably ate at restaurants all the time.
    Big pictures on the table. Big bald guy with a goatee. That was the guy. Roachkiller waited in the bedroom.
    The landlord came in, talking. He wasn’t alone. Some chick was with him. Not the scene Roachkiller wanted to play. But if that’s the way it had to be. That’s why Roachkiller had some of Abuela’s old stockings. One went over Roachkiller’s head.
    Chances are the girl would head to the bathroom, the guy to the kitchen or big-ass TV.
    “I need a drink,” the girl said.
    “I gotta go to the can,” the guy said.
    Okay, other way around.
    Roachkiller stood behind the door. When the guy came, Roachkiller got the knotted-up stockings around the guy’s throat. Held tight. Kicked the door closed. The guy was big. Hit back with his elbows two, three times.
    Felt something crack.
    Held tight.
    He pushed Roachkiller back into a lamp. It smashed. “Mike, you okay?” The girl banging on the door. Up against the wall now, still holding tight, feeling something in his throat give. 
    “Mike?”
    He was down on the floor, done, Roachkiller thought. But that guy was strong. He was up again, took a swipe at Roachkiller, tore half the stocking off. Got him back by the stocking around his throat again. Tight. Tight.
    Snap.
    The girl was screaming now, wild and shit, making no sense. Loud. Not cool. Roachkiller was only here to kill the guy. Just the guy. But Roachkiller couldn’t let this lady call the cops. Even if she only saw another Puerto Rican face behind a ripped pair of his