Sometimes when I was little I’d go with him to the naval base, and he let me play in a warehouse full of torpedoes while he worked. I entertained myself with a simple game that could keep me captivated all morning long: bounce a plastic ball against the head of the torpedoes. That was it. The torpedo warehouse was the closest his job got to anything warlike or dangerous. As far as I knew, he had never even been out to sea. He’d gone into the service in search of opportunity—something to do—and he ended up working at Talcahuano Naval Base. Some nights as a guard, mostly as a waiter—“steward,” I think was his official title—in the mess hall. He washed and ironed his navy-blue uniform himself, and he wore it under his white waiter’s apron with all the haughtiness of an officer.

I never knew why they laid him off. My sisters said it was because of a dumb accident in the mess hall, something about an altercation with a captain. Whatever it was, starting then, the resolute soldier’s gaze that had captivated so many people became blank and indifferent.

It was the middle of January when Pancho announced his plan to us. That morning, Marquito and I were sitting at the foot of the steps. Marquito was the Carrascos’ cousin. He was twelve, the youngest of the group. He lived close by, on Cahuello (“Horse”), and like me he spent all day at his cousins’ house. At first his mother had sent him there so her sister could watch him while she worked, and then he became one of us.

While we waited for the Carrasco brothers to wake up, we were trying to translate the lyrics of the Smiths’ song “The Headmaster Ritual” into Spanish.

Before the semester had ended, Pancho and I had stolen two English dictionaries from school. The idea was to translate the lyrics of our favorite bands over the summer vacation. Back then we were hooked on the Smiths. There was a music store in Conchester—our nickname for Concepción—and we’d spent so much time there looking and admiring without buying anything, the sales guy had offered to record whatever albums we wanted; we only had to bring him blank cassettes. We whiled away whole afternoons talking to him. He told us that Morrissey had named his band the Smiths because it was one of the most common and unrefined last names in England, and he thought it was time to show the vulgar side of the world. Our eyes shone when we heard stories like this. We wanted to be like Morrissey. We felt just as common and just as superior.

Pancho burst through the front door of his house. “I’ve got it all planned out,” he said.