In the Doorway
Across the street, standing in the doorway of a seedy little cantina, was a greasy-looking pointy-nosed beady-eyed criminal if ever he had seen one.
This maggot will know just where to go to get around whatever military obstacles are in the way.
He tipped his hat to Sensei and sauntered across the cobblestone street to the wiry ruffian, who had no one in sight to back him up. Randy respected him for that. He admired lone operators; in fact had a romantic notion of the lone criminal, consciously developed with himself in mind of course. As he neared the man he eased into the first Spanish he had spoken in two years, consciously infused with brutal Anglo offense, which he had originally adopted to show disdain for the language, but which was now woven into his 21st Century Spanish vernacular. “Good day man.”
The man was taken aback not only be his ability to speak Spanish, but by his ‘smooth’ undermining of the language as well, wincing at each oddly emphasized word. Randy thought perhaps that the man knew English by the way he looked at the others before responding. But, if he did he decided to proceed in Spanish to keep the conversation between the two of them, “A good day for business Capitan.”
Yes, here is your man, your ticket to the dark underbelly of this windblown cluster-fuck of a God-forsaken Spic town.
“Man, I need to arrange for passage to Buenos Aires for my boss—the tall old one; not this fat son-of-a-whore or this other stupid American. Can you help me?”
Look at Sensei with his mouth open, impressed by your mud-speak fluency.
The man narrowed his eyes to slits and Randy just wanted to fill the space between them with a .45 caliber slug, but he restrained himself. In the back of his mind though, at this incidence of indigenous calculation, when the local mud-person was figuring out exactly how he was going to enrich himself at Randy’s Arуan expense, Randy decided to kill him. He did not know when it would happen, perhaps after they parted with a handshake, but the man was dead already; a bag of trash awaiting the trash man.
A double-tap it is for you my friend.
After a long considered moment the man introduced himself, “I am Alfonso, Americano. I deal in wine and women. What you ask is dangerous and will take a few days. In the meantime it shall be best if I conduct business as usual. Also, Americano, include these two; the Servant Mouse and his Master Hog. That shall give us a cushion, someone to betray to the authorities should things go badly.”
He locked eyes with Alfonso and searched meaninglessly for a clue to his own fate.
Yes, he is a slime-bag. You can deal with him and discard him.
You know this is beginning with the same subtext as an excessively violent made-for-video action flick.
So what? I am ready.
Just stay sober, stay cool, and do him before he does you.
Timing, it’s all about timing. Isn’t that what Sensei always says?
Finally he extended his hand and Alfonso took it in his own soft greasy mitt. “Deal, Alfonso, wine and women for two nights for my friends and I, then we are off across the water.”
Alfonso’s eyes were suddenly magnetic. “Deal Americano. Step into my cantina. You will want the fat Indian girl, Puni. She is obedient. Your boss I think should want my cousin Efretta. She is good-looking. The other two brown girls are diseased. Might I suggest they pleasure Servant Mouse and Master Hog?”
Randy patted him on the back as he towered over him—he was far taller than anyone in this town except for Sensei—and continued in Spanish, “I’ll pass the women around. Just keep the cigars and wine flowing. Also, my boss gets the good room. I’ll be out in the hall.”
“No room for you Americano? What of the Indian girl? Granted she is nothing but an animal—look who is talking—but it would be impolite to ask her to sleep on the floor.”
He just wants the money for her room.
“I will pay for her room man, and she may sleep in it. But I stand before my boss’s door.”
That’s right, try and murder a man who sleeps on his feet.
“Agreed Americano, a loyal First Man you are.”
Remember that Alfonso—remember that!
With a last pat on the maggot’s back he turned to Sensei and the two despicable Americans from this past and managed a smile, which he somehow felt was crooked, before he switched to English, “Well gentlemen, my fine friend Alfonso here is supplying room, board, booze and whores for the next two nights, and getting us a lift to Buenos Aires on the third day. Keep quiet about the passage in front of the locals. It‘s illegal I think, and just enjoy the accommodations. It’s on me.”
They all filed past him—including the tiny orphan stevedore—into the smoky interior of the stale smelling cantina as he held open the door. They were all thanks and pleasantries over his springing for accommodations. He had his reasons though. He wanted to be the target, the one perceived as having the money. If they were to be robbed he wanted someone to try it on him. Not because of some macho self-image or hero fantasy; and God only knew not out of the goodness of his heart. The fact was Randy was so damned selfish he found it difficult to look out for others, to even focus on their predicament. If an attack came it was best if it came right at him, so he could react with the selfish whip-fast survivalist instincts that had kept him alive in a hostile world for forty years.
