All Due Respect Issue 2 (15 page)

No, said Frank, that wouldn’t be okay, but Vera snorted and then brushed past him, catching a glimpse of his quivering face. In the street, however, she hesitated, unsure where to go next. Between herself and the hotels up the block sat several men—five or six lounging on the sidewalk—and they each held a bottle of beer. The man closest to her raised his bottle, and his companions at once copied the gesture, the toast made, as one of them said, in honor of her anatomy. Vera sighed. She almost wished she could change her sex whenever she traveled, because as a man she would have a significant advantage. She’d be able to roam and explore without being under constant threat.

She returned to the vestibule.

Frank had been watching from the doorway. “So,” he said, “looks like you’re stuck with me.”

“For what? Your great protection?”

“You told me yourself. A woman traveling alone in these countries…Especially a pretty, blonde-haired one. You’re exotic down here.”

“Screw you,” Vera said. “I was doing all right before we met. If I can manage in Mexico, I can manage anywhere else.”

She tilted her chin and stomped toward the basement. At the end of the hallway, she bumped into Man-Man. He had been listening to the quarrel, but Vera didn’t care about that. She excused herself for having dashed off and accepted what she assumed was a standing invitation.

“No problem, no problem,” Man-Man said, chuckling, and he led her across the floor to the hammock. She laid down her knapsack. The brightness of the moonlight in the cellar had softened.

“I’m exhausted,” Vera said.

Frank barged in, determined to see why she’d come to the Belizean’s dwelling.

“Such concern,” she said. “But don’t worry. This guy right here might be able to do the procedure. Then you’d be off the hook.”

Man-Man had moved to the window and Vera heard him choke and cough, perhaps in an attempt to stifle laughter.

“It amazes me,” she said, turning to him. “Frank thinks it’s been a good idea to have British soldiers here. We met a man before who
loves
the British.”

“I don’t want to get into it,” Frank said.

“I’m sure you don’t,” she said. “It’s a strange attitude for a black to have.”

Frank thrust himself forward and his eyes went hard. One of his fingers prodded her chest.

“What do you know about Belize?” he said. “Tell me about its history. You have the easy answers of a white liberal and skin-deep knowledge of the subject.”

“And you, because you’re black, you’re an expert?”

“No, but I’ve read a few things.”

“Starting with what? The Uncle Tom guidebook to good behavior?”

His fist smashed her stomach. The blow sent her reeling backwards, and a shove knocked her down. He dived on top of her, snarling abuse, slapping with both hands, and Vera, overwhelmed by the onslaught, shrunk into a protective position, both arms lifted to shield her head. Man-Man collared Frank and she was aware of Frank throwing elbows at him in return. The Belizean swore. Frank started hitting her again. A rapid shuffling of feet (Man-Man running?) and a loud scraping noise (metal on wood or cement?), and the next moment Frank yelled, his body jerking upward. Confused, Vera uncoiled. She saw the blood. In the left sleeve of Frank’s white shirt it formed a thick stripe, and Frank backed away from the machete, now directed at his groin.

“Come in here again and I’ll cut off your balls,” Man-Man said.

Frank pressed his right hand to his damaged shoulder, and with a hunched gait, a series of crablike lurches, retreated into the passage.

Vera stood. “You went too far,” she told Man-Man. “That wasn’t necessary.”

“I didn’t cut him that bad. It only looks bad.”

“He’ll go to the police.”

“Not for that.”

“You bet he will.”

“Naah,” said Man-Man. “Americans don’t trust the police in other countries. Isn’t that true?”

Vera gave a grudging nod. “I suppose,” she said.

Half-turned to the window, to the tawny moon, Vera put one hand over her stomach. She didn’t feel terrible pain, but feared Frank’s first blow might have done her harm. The son-of-a-bitch: He had, with that punch, been trying to ensure that he got off the hook.

“Guatemala in the morning,” Man-Man said. “Unless your plans have changed.”

“They haven’t.”

Vera kicked off her sneakers and slumped into the hammock. She examined the bruises on her arms. They were purplish welts, hideous to behold, and until they disappeared she would have to endure the sweaty oppression of long-sleeved blouses.

Man-Man whistled and she turned in the hammock to look at him. He stood by the rear wall cleaning his machete with a tattered cloth.

“Anyhow, if he goes to the police, I’ll talk to them. I know them well. I know everyone in this town.”

Vera didn’t respond. A peculiar feeling, part disappointment, part humiliation, gagged her. She ran her hand over her stomach, hoping, praying almost, that no injury had been done, and she tried to imagine what crossing the gulf would be like.

When he got to the room, Frank discovered that the wound was a short slash, nothing serious. He unzipped his knapsack, took out the first-aid kit, smeared disinfectant on his shoulder, and applied gauze and adhesive tape. The pain had diminished, and he had an erection. He didn’t like having it. While slapping Vera he’d been on the verge of release, but the stab, the unceremonious stab, had interrupted him. Frustration lingered in his blood; sleep, rest, would be impossible tonight. He went outside wearing a black T-shirt.

I might’ve killed it. Better have, or else my own flesh and blood will be walking around in the world somewhere. Unbelievable…

He found his glass where he’d left it on the drunken man’s porch, between the two stools, but the rum bottle and the Coca Cola bottles were empty. The man lay swathed in his hammock. Frank shook him awake. No sooner had his pink eyes cleared than he crowed with the satisfaction of a cynic proven correct.

“What happened, American? The little lady broke it off?”

“Yes.”

“I told you. White bitches.”

Frank recounted what had happened, holding Vera responsible for his wound.

“If she’d accepted my apology, I wouldn’t have been in the guy’s basement. How could he not get mad? I even punched him once.”

“You’re an honest man,” said the Belizean. “Want some rum?”

“Absolutely.”

He sat down and the man came out of the kitchen with a fresh bottle.

“Soda?” Frank said.

“All gone.”

“Straight’s good.”

Glass in hand, Frank ruffled the dirt with his sandals. He picked up a stone and flipped it toward the road. “Who says the baby has to be born?”

“What?”

“You talkin’ to yourself, American.”

Frank realized he had been and shut his mouth. But the Belizean had given him an idea.

Could he?

How?

He shouldn’t even be thinking about it.

Yet that would clean the mess up.

“Man-Man’s my friend,” the Belizean said.

“Man-Man?”

“Where your girlfriend is.”

“The guy…How’d you know?”

“He texted me.”

“Texted you? When?”

The Belizean took a cell phone from his pocket.

“He’s a jack of all trades, Man-Man. For the right price, he can do you lots of things.”

Vera
had
promised to get an abortion. When they returned to the States, in a month, at a clinic, but now she was changing her tune. A unilateral decision to keep the baby and she was dumping him in the process?

No fucking way.

He finished his drink and refilled his glass, downed that. Poured again.

“I have traveler’s checks in the room,” he said. “And credit cards on me.”

“Make sure you sure, American.”

Frank drank, reflected. He put his glass down on the ground.

“I’m sure.”

“I’ll text my buddy back,” the Belizean said. “See how we gonna work this.”

Sunlight woke Frank. He felt his temples throbbing and stabs behind his eyes. A dryness in his throat. The sky looked clear, and something was digging into his shoulder. Where in the hell…?

Ah, yes, he must’ve fallen asleep outside.

The discomfort came from a rock beneath him, and he was lying on the ground.

“Feel okay, American?”

The Belizean, peering at him from his hammock. Now Frank remembered: they’d polished off the bottle and he’d said fuck it and stretched himself out in the dirt.

That was after their discussion about…

“Did you talk to him?” Frank asked. “You did, right? It’s kind of hazy.”

“He took her.”

Into the gulf but not across. One shove off his open motorboat, perhaps preceded by a blow to the head.

Frank sat up, to find himself facing a girl. She was standing in the yard with them. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, wearing a basic yellow frock, thongs on her feet, hair in braids. No make-up, neither ugly nor pretty, with weight in her hips and a timid stare on her face.

“This is my niece,” the Belizean said. “She’ll go with you when you go home.”

Frank didn’t understand and his face must have showed it.

“Your travels are over, mon. Time to catch a flight back to New York.”

Was the girl twenty-five even? Probably more like twenty, a good ten years younger than he was.

“She won’t be bringing much. A suitcase or two.”

The girl said nothing but kept her eyes on him and Frank pulled himself to his feet.

“Let me get this straight—”

“It’s simple,” the Belizean said. “She needs a green card.”

The girl and the man had family up in New York and all of them expected a wedding invitation. Nothing fancy—a civil marriage ceremony would do. As long as they did the marriage soon and got the green card process started.

“And if anything happens to her, American, anything at all…”

“Yeah?”

“We’re a tight family.”

Frank had envisioned putting this whole trip behind him, blotting the experience from his mind. It had been a nightmare he wanted to forget.

“Don’t look like that,” the Belizean said. “You still got your life. You still American. You just tied to our country now.”

Scott Adlerberg
lives in New York City. He is the author of the Martinique-set crime novel
Spiders and Flies,
available from Amazon, B&N, and wherever books are sold. His short fiction has appeared in
Thuglit.
He contributes pieces regularly for the Criminal Element website and blogs about books, movies, and writing at Scott Adlerberg’s Mysterious Island
(
scottadlerberg.blogspot.com
).
Each summer, he co-hosts the Word for Word Reel Talks film commentary series at the HBO Bryant Park Summer Film Festival in Manhattan.

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