It amazed Francisco how reluctant the white people were to shoot back. A lot of the gringos had guns when the gangsters entered their homes. But most white people wouldn’t pull the trigger. His men were ready to pull the trigger in the first instant of confrontation, and it lead to many unnecessarily dead whites, though that didn’t matter to Francisco. The evicted white people were likely to starve in a week or two anyway.
Killing the residents proved disgustingly easy. It wasn’t until an hour or two later, after the area had experienced extended gunfire, that some residents began to shoot from their windows as the gang approached. Rather than execute the white people in their living rooms, Francisco ordered that all residents be permitted to walk away, so long as they went shoeless. He had made the decision on a whim, but it turned out to be another stroke of genius. Somehow, sending white people away shoeless lit a fire in the hearts of his Latino fighters.
He didn’t want to wax too dramatic, but this was a glorious day to be a Mexican, and watching the shoeless exodus of white people, abandoning their haciendas, made the perfect picture of social justice. Generations from now, children would read about this day in their history books. As his men fought their way through one of the richest neighborhoods in Salt Lake City, they took up the chant: “¡Vive Villa!” Whenever he heard it, Francisco felt the pull of fate. He was the right man at the right time.
His lieutenants marshaled their forces, moving the conquest steadily eastward through the wealthy neighborhood. They had experienced only a few casualties, three men shot by homeowners. A Latigos victory seemed assured.
Francisco ordered the finest homes to be left untouched so that the mothers of his fighters could enjoy them, furnished and pre-supplied. Francisco sent a runner back to the Salt Lake County Fairgrounds and ordered Bastardo, his man coordinating the fairgrounds, to send families of his lieutenants to the staging area at the LDS Hospital on “C” Street. He could see no reason not to move families into the haciendas they had already taken, making the most of any food and supplies left behind.
A couple of hours later, two school buses arrived carrying Latino families. His men had cleared almost ten blocks from North Temple to the top of the Avenues and east all the way to “K” Street. The Latino families could barely hear gunfire as they came down off the bus and were led away by his men, a few at a time.
One of the most impressive homes, an old-time mansion, had been set aside for Francisco’s mama. She climbed off the bus, holding the handrail as she took the last step down.
“Mama, come see. I’ve found a new home for you.” Francisco held out his arm.
She took his arm, apprehensive. “But I was comfortable in our home in Rose Park. You didn’t need to get me a new one. And where’s my food? I have a good stock of frijoles and rice set aside back at our home.”
“Si, Mama. I know. The boys are bringing your clothes and your frijoles. They’ll be here shortly. Come see your new home.” He led her away from the bus drop-off.
They walked a block and a half to a three-story home owned by one of the old Mormon prophets of years gone by.
“Oh, Francisco, it is so beautiful. I don’t need a home like this, but it is pretty to look at.”
He didn’t argue; he just walked her through the gates and into the rose gardens.
“Dios mio, the roses,” she shouted in glee. “How can these gardens be so lovely?”
Francisco grinned. The whole revolution drew down to this moment―his mama enjoying a beautiful rose garden, no doubt every rose bush planted and pruned by Hispanic men. His mama deserved this home and this garden as much or more than any human being alive.
She had suffered through Francisco’s many incarcerations and through the death of his father. She had taken tireless care of her children and her own mother. Thousands of meals. Thousands of hours doing laundry and washing dishes.
Wasn’t this justice? His sweet mama enjoying her sunset years in this rose garden?
“But, Pancho, where is the family who lives here?” she asked as they walked through the stained glass front door. Pictures of happy white people lined both walls of the entryway.
“Mama, they’ve traded houses with us. They’re ready to live in a smaller house now.” It was a small lie, but essentially true.
A cloud passed over her face, distrust of her oldest son lingered on her brow, but she moved deeper into the house, oohing and ahhing at the delicate craftsmanship of the small mansion.
“Señor Francisco.” One of the young messengers approached him cautiously. “Crudo is asking for you to come up to “K” Street. He needs your orders on something he’s found.”
Francisco knew better than to ask what. Crudo had always been his most reliable lieutenant and he would never call him forward without good reason.
A pickup truck appeared, sent by Crudo. Francisco grabbed the lever-action rifle and a bandolier of bullets he had found that morning and climbed into the passenger seat.
The truck turned uphill and carried them to the top of the Avenues to an otherwise uninteresting home. Crudo met Francisco in the front yard.
“Pancho, I thought this might be worth your time. It’s around back. The family’s inside the house.” Crudo led Francisco through a small gate in the side yard around back to a tiny garage that opened onto a narrow alley behind the house. The garage looked well-kept but, strangely, it bristled with antennas and solar panels, like someone’s private, cobbled-together cell tower.
“¿Que cosas?” Francisco wondered out loud. “What the hell is this?”
They stepped through the small door into a room packed with gadgetry. An old white man sat on a stool, with a Latino guard standing over him. The man’s face was twisted into a look of fierce defiance, his eyes boring into Francisco with hatred.
Francisco almost laughed. The man had to be eighty years old.
“You go ahead and kill me. I’m ready to meet the Lord and the Prophet Joseph. Get it over with.”
Francisco couldn’t help himself; he had to laugh. “Señor,” Francisco used a title of deference, “we’re not going to kill you. If we wanted to kill someone, we’d kill your family.”
The old man’s face came undone, like it had been held by a drawstring in back and someone suddenly cut the cord. “Don’t you touch my family!”
“Señor,” Francisco began again with feigned gentleness, “I will personally protect your family. But I need something from you.”
“What?” the old man sneered.
“I need you to tell me about this.” Francisco motioned to the equipment. “What does it do?”
The man began slowly, but picked up speed as he explained. He couldn’t help his enthusiasm when it came to the shelves of gadgetry, even when discussing it with a mortal enemy.
Francisco understood only half of what the old man said, but he didn’t want to interrupt. The value of the find was becoming increasingly apparent as the man blathered on about his roomful of toys.
Francisco interrupted with a question. “So, are you saying this equipment can talk to people anywhere in Salt Lake, and then listen to people anywhere in the United States?”
The old man went off again, talking about weather conditions, line of sight, repeaters and a bunch of other jargon that didn’t mean anything to Francisco. The gist of it was, yes, the equipment could communicate with Francisco’s men all over the valley, as well as listen in on events across the globe. But they would need more handheld radios in addition to the four little radios lined up on charging stations on the old man’s desk.