Medianoche didn’t answer. He found everything about Señorita Raven distracting. Her lips. The swell of her breasts. The way her backside shifted in her wooden seat.
Medianoche shifted, adjusted his eye patch.
She said, “He has so much information on all of us. Just curious. He recruited me.”
“Where did he find you?”
“After I was kicked out. He came to me. Had no money. Was about to be . . . homeless. When Uncle Sam has used you, chewed you up and spat you out, nothing left to do but join the other down-and-out soldiers living congregated and sleeping on cardboard on Skid Row. Was about to consider being a stripper, robbing a bank, or making money on my back. But I guess with . . . this on my face . . . the only option would’ve been to put on a mask and rob a bank. Or get a job at Mickey D’s on State Street in East Saint Louis and sling drugs from the drive-through window. Lot of people sling drugs out of fast-food spots. That was another option.”
“Be grateful.”
“I am. But was wondering, since we’re a team, why does he get to sit on the package?”
“Stand down.”
“What if he ran off with it, double-crossed all of us?”
“Stand down or get the fuck out of this café.”
“What if he took the package he had and left?”
“It’s no good without the other part, you know that.”
“What if he negotiated with the people who have the other half?”
“We don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
She was as unstable as nitroglycerin.
She said, “Mind if I order a Quilmes?”
He moved the barrel of his weapon away from her direction. It was hidden under the table when the waiter came over, took her order, then left. From afar it would’ve looked like they were on a date. But he knew the men thought she was a working girl. Local coffee shops were a good place to find women in search of men. Café Orleans, Café Exedra, many others had been great places to pick up some freelancing hookers. It was that time of the night.
She said, “I heard he was a pederast.”
“Stand down.”
“And that servant . . . heard he was military . . . discharged for his . . . sexual activities . . .”
“Soldier . . . stick to your own business.”
“If that’s his thing, that’s his thing. I mean he is the man in charge. Just asking. Nothing surprises me. Not passing judgment. In ancient cultures, probably even before your time, kings and emperors used to have men
and
women at their disposal. Concubines and catamites. And wives. I love Greek mythology. Zeus was seduced by his cupbearer. A god that was on the down low. Nothing is new under the sun. In Rome it was cool for Roman men to get down with slaves, as long as the Roman man was the man doing the poking. Like they do in prison. Same thing. He who pokes is the king. He who gets poked is the may-tag. They could butt-fuck the men slaves, but if they butt-fucked a regular nonslave man, they were put to death. And, oh, a man who liked to get down like that and was on the receiving end of the butt-fucking was called a pathicus or cinaedus. Means he was on bottom. Means he was the bitch. Means he was weak.”
“Your mouth will be the end of you.”
“Intelligence is always intimidating to those who aren’t.”
“Nothing intelligent about being vulgar.”
“Was trying to keep the conversation on your level.”
“That mouth will definitely get you put in an early grave.”
“Not with the things I can do with my mouth.”
Medianoche stared at her.
She smiled.
The waiter was back within the minute, a minute Medianoche had spent ignoring his target and staring at Señorita Raven. Nothing was said when the waiter returned with a bottled Quilmes for Señorita Raven. Nothing was said as the waiter opened the top and poured a taste of the beer into a glass. The waiter nodded, bowed a little, smiled, then left.
Señorita Raven picked up the beer, ignored the glass, sipped from the bottle.
Medianoche shook his head.
Señorita Raven sighed, put the bottle down, picked up the glass.
She asked, “Better?”
“This isn’t East Saint Louis.”
She nodded.
Medianoche asked, “No more bullshit. No jibber jabber. Why are you following me?”
She shrugged. “Wanted to watch you from a distance.”
“Revenge?”
“For what?”
“Our moment on the elevator. When I had to put your young ass in your place.”
“Water under the bridge.”
“So you say. Women never let things go.”
“I’ve been around men like you all my life. If I wanted revenge for every man that pissed me off, there would be no one left for us to procreate with.”
“You sure about that?”
“You saved my life. I’m sure. I owe you one big-time.”
“The truth in exchange for the payment on saving your ass.”
“Fire away.”
“On whose orders are you playing Dick Tracy?”
“No one’s.”
“Whose orders, soldier. You’re not that fucking dumb. Neither am I.”
“Just wanted to watch you. Study you. Become a better Horseman. I say that on my mother’s grave. On my sister’s grave. I say that on all the graves of the women before me.”
“And keep an eye on the package.”
“That too.”
“Well, you can see I don’t have it.”
“But you know where it is.”
He remembered her up on that roof. How she had come from above him, the direction the Uruguayan had fled, where the helicopter was flying in for package pickup. She stared into his eye as if she were reading his mind.
He said, “Explain to me why you were close to the roof. Explain to me why you were heading in the direction the Uruguayan was fleeing to catch that chopper.”
She shrugged. “Got lucky. Didn’t know how high you had chased him.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
He stared at her. Her face was as unmovable as the monuments in the city. The shrapnel was her graffiti.
She said, “I was wondering if you were about to snatch the package and catch that chopper yourself. Afterward, that is. You broke away from everybody. Like you were John fucking Wayne. Yeah. I wondered if you were about to pull a double cross. You shot at that chopper really fast, hit that spotlight like it was a signal to abort the mission.”
“Never question my loyalty.”
“Then never question mine.”
Medianoche glared, watched her hold his long stare.
He said, “You seem to know a lot about the package we’re after.”
“Only what I’ve been told, sir.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
“It was somebody’s big payday.”
“You’re very concerned with other people’s money.”
“Told you, was almost homeless. Almost pimped myself out. Don’t ever want to be that depressed again. Anyway. Poor people always think about what they don’t have.”
“The kind of money that would make you want to keep an eye on me.”
“Maybe.”
“Or The Beast.”
“Not at all, sir. The Beast does nothing for me.”
“What does that mean, soldier?”
“Nothing. He needs a new hairstyle. One color. Either black or white. That patch thing looks silly. Like something out of a cartoon. I’d never tell him that. He’s a fucking lunatic.”
Medianoche didn’t argue.
She said, “I think we got off on a bad foot. I have a difficult history, you know that.”
He nodded.
“And I said some stupid and immature things about . . . your injuries. You almost died and that should not be made fun of. No more than . . . than what I went through should be taken lightly. I was knocked unconscious. Thought I was dead. Woke up and didn’t recognize my own face.”
He didn’t nod.
“Well, sir, maybe we could share a
mate
and reconcile our differences.”
“
Mates
are for friends.”
“I was willing to make an exception.”
“Finish your beer, drop twenty-five pesos, and move on.”
She sipped her beer, put the bottle to the side, sat back, her posture mimicking his.
She said, “Just wanted to thank you for saving my life.”
Medianoche looked at her wrists, the cuts on her arm. “Anything else?”
“No, sir. Just . . . well, any pointers? Critique on my performance?”
“Learn some respect, learn to shut the fuck up, you might live to see twenty-five.”
“I’m twenty-six, sir.”
“Then live to see twenty-seven.”
Medianoche regarded the Italians speaking in Spanish, evaluated the room, then looked at his watch, compared it to the time on the wall before looking at Señorita Raven again.
He looked in her eyes. The alcohol she’d had earlier made her glow.
She’d distracted him enough.
Medianoche stood up, adjusted his suit coat.
He said, “Excuse me for a moment.”
“Sir, no problem, sir.”
Medianoche went toward the kitchen.
He put his gloves on, then removed the gun from its holster.
Capítulo 23
el hombre muerde el perro
Medianoche’s uncompromising
death-stare was on the waiter.
The waiter was about thirty years old. His eyes were locked on the weapon. Medianoche motioned for the waiter to come closer, and he did as he was instructed, his legs barely able to hold him up. Medianoche took the waiter’s wallet, looked inside, saw photos of him with a woman and two children.
Medianoche asked, “
Esposa. Hija. Hijo.”
The waiter nodded. “
Sí, mi esposa y mis hijos.”
It was his wife and children, a girl and a boy.
The woman’s belly was full and round. He asked, “
¿Embarazada
?”
He had asked if the woman in the picture was pregnant.
“Sí. Mi esposa está embarazada. Cinco meses.”
The waiter told him that his wife was pregnant, five months.
Medianoche took the man’s identification, the information that had his home address, stuffed it inside his suit pocket, then wiped the wallet off and handed it back to the waiter.
The waiter trembled. “
Por favor . . . Señor . . . por favor . . . es mi foto . . . mi familia . . .”
Medianoche ignored the man’s pleas, reached inside his pocket and took out a bottle.
The waiter was holding a tray, cups of coffee.
Medianoche opened the bottle, poured liquid inside each cup.
The waiter nodded, sweat sprouting on his brow.
This was South America. The land of drug runners. The land of assassinations.
Same as North America. Same as Europe. West Indies. Germany. Russia.
The waiter understood the ways of the world.
Medianoche went back to his seat, gun holstered, sat with his legs crossed.
He sipped his cappuccino and surveyed his target’s reflection in the window.
“¿
Puedo hablar
?” Señorita Raven said, then in English. “Can I talk?
Con permiso?
”
Medianoche shook his head.
His ears were on the Spanish insults directed at his country of birth.
Then he glanced at Señorita Raven.
She continued, “What do you think of me?”
“You’re nothing more than an impetuous child.”
“I have been accused of being a little too ambitious. My strength is my weakness.”
Medianoche looked at her eyes, then looked away.
She asked, “What do you think about me trying to connect with Blackwater?”
Medianoche ignored her; he monitored the Italians.
Señorita Raven said, “Guess you’re not a fan of Blackwater.”
“Blackwater shipped hundreds of firearms to Iraq without the necessary permits. Automatic weapons that ended up on the country’s black market.”
“Hearsay.”
“Weapons used against the country that manufactured them. My country. Your country.”
“That happens in every war, sir. Eventually the Native Americans upgraded from bows and arrows to six-shooters and rifles. Guess where Tonto and Geronimo got their weapons?”
“From traitors.”
“My point is this; selling arms ain’t nothing new. Every team has a traitor.”
“Not this team. Understand?”
She nodded. “I understand. My statement was about the history of war.”
“Do as instructed.” Medianoche nodded. “A soldier follows orders.”
“I thought you were more of a leader.”
“One leader at a time. And that position is taken.”
“You seem more like The Beast’s lapdog. Not like his servant. Hope that doesn’t offend you. You seem like his yes-man. You’re like a machine that does what it’s programmed to do.”
“Quit while you’re ahead.”
Medianoche glanced at the Italian men.
The fresh cups of coffee had been served. The Italians sipped.
One of the Italians coughed. Picked up a paper towel. Wiped his mouth.
Another man coughed.
Then the last two coughed.
The chatting ending when Death grabbed one man. Before the other men could respond, Death strangled each of the men, choked one after the other. Each stumbled, reached to pull out his weapon, wobbled and fell to the floor, dropped to the Spanish tile fighting to stay among the living, legs moving, kicking, knocking over the table, spilling poisoned coffee.
Then the room went quiet; the only noise heard were the few noises from outside.
Medianoche moved to the windows, closed the curtains, hit the light switch.
He came back, looked down, and saw foam present on the lips of each fallen Italian.
Señorita Raven said, “You’re working.”
“Shut up.”
Medianoche looked at his watch. Five past three a.m.
Medianoche nodded at the waiter. The man swallowed, body tense, his face the picture of horror. Señorita Raven stood, a small smile of amazement on her lips.