They took separate tables. Medianoche and The Beast at one table.
The drop would take place here.
Señor Rodríguez and Señorita Raven sat at another table for four, not too close, their helmets in chairs. The music was loud enough to steal the clinking of forks on plates, loud enough to hide the sound of wooden chairs being moved on the cobbled sidewalk, loud enough to hide conversation. People smiled and took pictures; some took video as the dancers danced the tango, applauded the spectacular and jaw-dropping moves. Medianoche sat with a hand over his chin and mouth, hid the movement of his mouth, in case anybody on deck was skilled at reading lips. The Beast did the same.
Medianoche said, “Looks like something is on your mind.”
“I came here as a young man. Before hyperinflation damn near killed the country.”
“You came here a while ago.”
“When Buenos Aires was still Buenos Aires. When every night in every barrio, there was dancing in the streets, not some fucking place that had McDonald’s and Burger King on every block. Then I got that dishonorable discharge for a bullshit sexual misconduct charge. That blemish left me unemployable. Then I left my wife and kids.”
“They left you.”
“Same difference. They loved my money and hated my military ways. Ungrateful bitch and the kids she turned against me. After all I had done for her. Hateful bitch. Nothing more torturous than a loveless marriage. That is hell on earth. For everybody.”
The Beast’s mood had brought Medianoche back.
He looked around La Boca. Always aware of his surroundings. Habits of a soldier.
There was another mild aching in his eye socket, a pain brought on by the weather. The overcast weather made his deadened nerves struggle to live again.
In North Carolina, he had awakened in Presbyterian Hospital. Head in bandages. Tubes in his arm. Dryness in his throat. Forty-three days had gone by. A month and a half in a coma.
They told him that it was a miracle he was alive. Doctors had never seen anything like it. As if he had simply refused to die. He didn’t give a shit about miracles. Wanted to know what had happened. They told him that he had been left for dead with a .22 bullet in his head. Wallet and money gone. Said he had been robbed. The rest he couldn’t remember. Chalk it up to part of his brain having a goddamn hole in it. The memory from that day had been blown away. Police wanted answers. He told the cops to get the fuck out of his room.
End of story.
A miracle. Doctors and nurses came and stared at him. Brought in students; young snotty-nosed fucks who barely had pubic hair were taking notes. They all stared at the miracle.
Over and over telling him that he should’ve been dead.
But he wasn’t dead.
He had made a call to The Beast. The Beast had come to rescue him, had flown in from Istanbul and arranged for him to leave the hospital without notice. Barely out of his coma, his partner in crime came for him.
That was loyalty. That was what was missing in the world.
Loyalty.
He had been driven to a safe house one hundred miles away from Charlotte, taken to Columbia, South Carolina, recuperated on the soil where Union general William Tecumseh Sherman had shot his load and wreaked havoc on the State House during the Civil War. The Beast had looked out for him. Arranged a private doctor. Made sure he had what he needed. His nurse was a pretty girl who wore a short dress and a tight top that read DIAMONDS ARE PRETTY AND SO ARE PEARLS. BUT THERE’S NOTHING LIKE A CAROLINA GIRL. She was from Cape Verde, her heritage Portuguese and Creole. She was at his side, paid to give him whatever he asked for. His healer. She had taught him Portuguese. He taught her the art of sex. Soon he was sitting in a rocking chair, jaw tight, frowning out his window, seeing the world through one fucking eye.
The Beast had come to his rescue, then flown to Russia, to China, to Peru, then come back to South Carolina to check on him. Had come back to him with an offer.
The Beast had said,
“I’m putting together a group.”
Medianoche nodded.
“How many?”
“Six. What do you think?”
“Four is manageable.”
The Beast nodded.
“You game?”
“Code name?”
The Beast smiled.
“Since it’s four,
The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse
.
”
Medianoche hummed.
“Like the movie.”
“What movie?”
“The Glenn Ford movie. Came out in the sixties.”
“Never saw that one.”
“Rudolph Valentino was in a movie with the same name back in the twenties.”
“The Italian who pretended he was Spanish and took the tango to America.”
“My old man liked Valentino movies. Big Valentino fan. I liked the one with Glenn Ford.”
“Was talking about the four horsemen in the Bible. Chapter six. Book of Revelation.”
Medianoche nodded. Shook hands with The Beast. Gentlemen’s contract. Deal signed.
Just like that, The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were born.
Memories dissipated.
Medianoche adjusted his eye patch, focused on the mission.
Señorita Raven was staring at him. Her face tight.
Again he looked around. Searched for an enemy underneath gray skies. Again he saw the Turkish woman who spoke in French, saw Özlem walking inside the colorful Caminito Havana with her friends.
Medianoche and his mercenaries sat and ordered food, passed up the Spanish, Italian, and
Porteño
dishes for grilled chicken and French fries, watched the tango show. The men in black pants, white shirts, and black vests. The women in dresses so tight, they told the truth about what was or wasn’t underneath.
The tango dancers came over to the tables, hats in hand, those hats turned upside down accepting tips, taking photos for pesos. Dancers went to Señorita Raven, spoke with her, their faces amazed when she spoke. No doubt surprised that an Indian girl was fluent in their version of Spanish. The man smiled at her. Smiled at the assassin who had wavy black hair and shrapnel in her skin. Smiled at her like she was the most beautiful girl in La Boca. He held her hands and motioned toward the stage. People applauded and encouraged her to go to the raised platform. Señorita Raven glanced toward their table. The Beast nodded. It was okay.
Medianoche grunted. “Watch that arrogant bitch get up there and fall flat on her face.”
“She’ll be good for a laugh or two.”
“The tango is for a woman who knows how to follow a man. Not for her. She’ll collapse like the banks in Reykjavik. Her dance will be as useless as Iceland’s currency.”
Señorita Raven was helped up on the three-foot-high platform, a small stage that was probably nine feet by six. The dancer asked her something. She nodded and smiled. She was actually pretty when she smiled, despite the disfigurement.
Medianoche watched her, saw how she became feminine, adjusted into tango position. Her upper body was straight and tall. Knees bent and over her toes, weight back on her heels. Looked as if she was about to sneak up on someone without being seen. Her partner put his hand on the middle of her lower back. Señorita Raven adjusted her left hand, made her hand flat with the fingers straight. Then she placed her left hand around the man’s right shoulder, her thumb against the lower part of his shoulder, her hand parallel to the floor. Medianoche nodded. The bitch had that much right.
The dancer’s left palm and the palm of Señorita Raven’s right hand connected at eye level. Again Medianoche nodded. Any beginner’s class would teach her that much. Señorita Raven adjusted, stood a little to the man’s right side, where the woman was supposed to dance, always to a man’s right side. Like a good woman. The music played and the house singer came out, an octogenarian dressed in a gray suit and fedora, Carlos Gardel brought to life once again. The band played. The old man performed a wonderful ballad. “Mi Buenos Aires Querido.” Medianoche waited to see Señorita Raven choke. Waited for her to make a fool of herself. But the man led her, and she followed. She moved with fluidity, maintained eye contact.
Tango.
The dance of passion. A dance where the man pursued the woman.
Not a dance where the woman tried to outdance the man.
Not a competition.
A dance where a woman remained modest, moved with sensuality, every move saying that she hadn’t decided if she wanted to surrender herself. Every move saying
convince me.
The octogenarian sang, his baritone voice ancient and mesmerizing.
The dancer held Señorita Raven, his pursuit subtle, intensions known but not obvious, their movements slow and deliberate. Their passion escalated, intensified with the music. Señorita Raven was lifted, and she kicked her feet in a fast motion. There was applause. Medianoche looked around. Everyone was watching. Other tango dancers applauded. It wasn’t a flashy dance. Señorita Raven moved her body in a sexy way, a subtle way, like the Spanish girls, perfect posture, went into the air and kicked her feet on her final turn, she amazed the crowd. The dance ended with Señorita Raven on one knee, her partner holding her across the small of her back, her back arched as her black hair fell away from her face, a dramatic and romantic finale that said she had been seduced, that he could have his way with her, that he could do whatever he fucking wanted to do.
There was a loud applause, cameras flashed as Señorita Raven was led back to her seat. When the dance was over, the man always walked the woman back to her chair. He returned her to where he had found her. A gentleman’s dance. After the sensuality, the man remained the perfect gentleman.
Medianoche saw Señorita Raven staring at him.
Cabeceo.
Unbroken eye contact, not hostile but sensual, like they were at the
milongas
, where not a word was spoken when someone was courting for a dance. Or saying that they would be willing to dance with you.
Señorita held her eye contact.
Medianoche looked away.
Rejection.
The Beast looked at his watch. Then he looked at his other soldiers.
Medianoche said, “She likes attention.”
“Her skills are excellent, but she is young and difficult.”
“The soldier is trained in combat, but she’s not pretty enough to win Best in Show.”
“She might be full of shrap, but she can tango like an Argentine dancer.”
“A dancer is only as good as the partner they dance with.”
“You should dance with her before you kill her; that’s if you end up putting her down.”
“Can barely stand the sight of her. She reminds me of my last ex-wife.”
“Maybe she’ll be the next one.”
“I’d kill myself first. I wouldn’t fuck her if she was the last bitch on earth. Not even with your dick.”
The Beast laughed. Medianoche didn’t.
Medianoche saw her again. The woman who reminded him of Thelma.
She headed toward the section where the buses and taxis stopped.
Señorita Raven had eyes that took him back to Montserrat, to a woman he had loved.
And the French woman reminded him of a woman he hated.
The Beast nodded. “It’s time.”
A swarm of kids came up, homeless kids,
villa
kids, hustling for change, asking to draw a one-minute picture for pesos. Begging kids were everywhere. If they could crawl, they could beg. If they had hands, they could steal. A teenager went to Señor Rodríguez. Brazilian punk with long hair, dyed blond, twisted into a Rastafarian style. Clothes six sizes too big. Influenced by Americans who had been influenced by their own prison culture. He had the same paperback book Señor Rodríguez had placed on the table. The ruffian wore an iPod Touch too. Same as Señorita Raven’s. He smiled, broke into some juvenile rap, something about dropping it while it was hot, then asked Señorita Raven if she liked Spanish music. Medianoche couldn’t hear but read the ruffian’s lips. Señorita Raven nodded. He took his earphone and gave it to her so she could listen.
He said, “We should exchange iPods. My Spanish to your American hip-hop.”
Señorita Raven and the boy traded iPods. Then the boy traded books with Señor Rodríguez. Same book. Only the book Rodríguez held was filled with money. The payment for information that was on the iPod. The bait to bring them closer to Scamz.
Whatever the fuck that was.
Then the Rasta Brazilian walked away.
The Beast nodded at Medianoche. Medianoche nodded at Señorita Raven.
Medianoche stood up, left pesos on the table for the uneaten food.
Señorita Raven came to Medianoche, slipped the iPod Touch inside his pocket.
Her finger touched his hand. Her energy once again mixing with his.
She looked him in the eyes and said, “Sir, now what, sir?”
The Beast stepped up, handed Señorita Raven the package with the long-bladed knives.
“Señorita Raven. Señor Rodríguez. Follow the Brazilian punk back to his nest.”
Señorita Raven nodded.
The Beast said, “Have them ready for questioning. Medianoche and I have to attend a short meeting.”
Señorita Raven and Señor Rodríguez trailed the Brazilian, helmets in hand.
Medianoche and The Beast headed in the opposite direction. Near La Bombonera there was a BMW. M5. Black on black. Next to that BMW were two black motorcycles. Iron horses. The señorita and the señor. The BMW was the Beast’s machine. Medianoche was driving. The Beast owned the car. Never drove. Would rather walk or take public transportation.
They got inside the car. Medianoche started the engine.
Frank Sinatra was on CD. Picked up where he left off.
September of My Years.
Medianoche restarted the song. Took his nine millimeter out of his holster, placed it in his lap. The Beast did the same. Medianoche headed through the city, took Avenida Almirante Brown, passed miles of graffiti, public housing, cantinas,
farmacias, locutorios
, warehouses, Shell Gas stations, lave-rap,
maxikiosko, bicicletas,
cut over to Calle Defensa, rode down the narrow cobblestone road lined with antique shops until it ended at Casa Rosada, the presidential palace, but not where the president slept. Plaza de Mayo was across the street. A protest was in progress. People dressed up like rats, cockroaches, and flies. Activists from Greenpeace. Big banners protesting landfills and the government not complying with the zero-garbage law.