DESPERADOS

From the R.M. Dolin novel, "What Is to Be Done"
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Chapter 27: Desperados

For any late afternoon, particularly one that hasn’t seen rain in over a month, the Al Azar’s unusually busy. Armando’s more than annoyed his bar’s become a destination but being busy isn’t all bad given his surging patronage includes Miguel alone at the old man’s table tossing back shots of Armando’s best blue agave as he stews in silence. Ruben’s at the far end of the bar with an associate who looks even more un-salvageable and the two Mexicans have returned with two compadres. Four Texans stand at the center of the bar attempting to order. “Not only do I not have it,” Armando informs them, “I’ve never heard of it.”

“And nothing on tap?” The tall Texan re-checks in frustration.

“I got Corona in bottles, Tecate in cans, and Coors light.”

“No bud?” The short fat Texan inquires.

“God no! None of that rice patty crap in my bar.”

The tall Texan points at yuppie beers in glass door cooler. “What about those?”

“Those?” Armando acts surprised. “Special order for some event.” He could have sold the beers, but then they’ll tell others and pretty soon all he’ll have is yuppie beer in his coolers, and the people who drink that crap at his bar.

“Corona’s in bottles?” The tall Texan asks.

“And Tecate’s in cans.” Armando answers.

The tall Texan looks at his three colleagues. “Four Coronas it is.”

Armando grabs the Coronas pleased to so easily screw with Texans. “And take off those silly masks, you look ridiculous.”

“What about the Govenor’s mandate?”

“To hell with her, you wanna drink beer in my bar, lose the masks.” Armando stares at them to convey his seriousness. When they hesitate, he adds, “you won’t find any pandemic police here.”

The short fat Texans takes off his mask; the others follow his lead. “I see you have a Hold’em table, mind if we play a few hands?”

“No Hold’em, only Omaha.”

“That’s a random rule?”

Armando laughs. “Just screwing with ya dude, you know, on account of being Texan and all. But I do have a poker group coming in an hour.”

The tall Texan tosses twenty dollars on the bar, which means the rat bastard’s not tipping. The first three Texans grab their bottle and walk to the poker table.

“Do you have a glass?” the rugged blond Texan asks.

“No.”

“So, in this entire bar there’s no beer glass.”

“Your beer’s already in glass, what purpose does giving you another glass serve other than to transfer your beer from one glass to another and in the process create something I have to wash?”

“Beer’s better in a glass.”

“Which is why the wise folks at Corona put their beer in bottles. This is a serious Cerveza bar, Cabron, you see anyone drinking from a glass?”

The Texan considers insisting but since this bar openly patronizes illegals it’s probably a no-nonsense place. “Gracias,” he says grabbing his bottle.

“True dat.”

Like most PhDs, Jake can be counted on to time his arrival within minutes of his target, which means he’s decided to pregame. “Looks like my Internet advertising’s paying off,” he announces saddling up to the bar.

“I’ll thank you to wipe that shit-eating grin off your face.” Armando leans over the bar. “Even got Texans, the rat-bastards wanted that yuppie shit you guys make me stock.”

“Oh, the horror!”

“Where does this end, Cabron, where does it end?” Armando gestures toward Miguel.

Jake sizes up the situation. “Okay. . .” Armando scratches his left shoulder so Jake notices what’s down the bar. “How long they been here?”

“Two beers for them, four shots for Dario’s cousin.”

Jake pats Armando’s shoulder. “I’ll find out what they want.”

Armando busies himself at the middle of the bar, discretely placing his hand on the shelf to reconfirm the shotgun. Jake approaches the four Mexicans. “Hola mis amigos.” He shakes hands with the two regulars. “Barkeep! Cuatro cerveza por favor es mi hombres.”

“You want four beers?” Armando mocks.

“Si, Cabron, and put it on my tab.”

“You don’t have a tab.”

“That’s why I like this bar,” Jake tells the Mexicans loud enough for Armando to hear. “I can buy cerveza for mi hombres and put it on a tab I don’t have, that’ll be part of my next Internet Ad for sure.” Jake saunters down the bar to Ruben and his associate. “Barkeep!” he shouts slapping his hand on the bar. “Whiskey for me and beer for my horses.” He smiles at Ruben. “Or would you rather be a mule?”

Ruben glares angrily at Jake. “I ain’t no freaking mule.”

“You sure? Ya got this whole, moonbeam home in jar, aura about ya.” Jake learns straight away from the rage in Ruben’s semi-healed eyes that he’s under orders to behave. Given Jake’s frivolity, Armando uses green bottle bourbon with crescent shaped cubes in the cocktail he puts on the bar besides two Coronas. “Well hang in there, Festus, someday you’ll get the call. In the meantime, this round’s on me.”

Ruben’s about to respond but can’t resolve his dilemma; if he accepts the beers he can’t start a fight, it’s the code of the West. He desperately wants to throw down, but Miguel was very specific about avoiding conflict. Based on that, and that alone, he accepts the beer.

“Put em on my tab.” Jake instructs.

“That you don’t have.”

“No credit? What kind of gin joint you running?”

“One that always collects.”

“One hand, pot-limit Omaha.”

“And when I win, Cabron, I’ll require pink slips.”

“It’ll never get to that,” Jake looks at Ruben. “In your wildest imagination, could you see me of all people loosing at cards?”

Ruben’s lost, with every fiber he wants to throw down. It’s an instinct no different than breathing. ‘Soon,’ he plots, ‘you’re as good as dead.’

Jake causally leans against the bar sipping his bourbon. “I have to say Festus; you heal up nice.” Ruben is about to react when Jake interrupts. “Barkeep, a shot of whatever el Jefe’s drinking.”

“I know, put it on your tab.”

“See, how well he’s trained,” Jake taunts Ruben. He grabs the tequila but can’t help taking a parting shot. “I’ll put a good word in for you with el Jefe; about the mule matter we discussed.”

Ruben glares at Jake, the only thing metering his rage is Miguel’s assurance that once their business is concluded, he’s free to do whatever he wants with this smart ass distiller and his friends. It’s insulting to be called a mule, smuggling drugs over the border is a job for Mexicans. Ruben does however, aspire to become a Coyote, believing he’d be good guiding illegals across the border. He knows desert topography and how to deceive Border Patrol; someday he’ll earn permission to start a Coyote business.

“Cousin Vinnie,” Jake sarcastically sings approaching Miguel’s table. “What it be?” It’s apparent to Jake from the four empty shot glasses that Miguel’s here for a purpose.

“Keeping it real, and the name’s Miguel.”

“Really, it’s not Vinnie?”

“Got a cousin Vince, but I doubt you’d know him.”

Jake pulls out a chair and sits down. “Does he work at the Lab?”

“Sells crack, blow, and weed to Labies, so yes.”

Jake slides the shot glass he brought toward Miguel. “Probably don’t know him, I’m strictly a bourbon man.”

Miguel shoots the tequila straight away, setting the empty next to the others. He signals for another round. “Dos porfavor.”

“Hope ones not for me.”

Miguel sits up in his chair. “You refusing to drink with me?”

“I’m already drinking with you; I’m declining to drink tequila. You Mexicans have pretty messed up DNA that somehow makes that shit palatable.” Knowing his comment will be both insulting and provocative provides Jake a means for determining Miguel’s level of intoxication.

“First off old man, I ain’t Mexican. Got it! Second, tequila is the best liquor there is.”

“I’ll give you it’s better than Scotch, and regarding your Mexican versus Hispanic thing, point well taken. It’s a classic ‘if and only iff’ condition.” Miguel looks clueless. “It’s like saying all bourbons are whiskeys but not all whiskeys are bourbons.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“All Mexicans are Hispanics, but not all Hispanics are Mexicans, i.e., I’m agreeing with you. So, while I apologize for the Mexican comment, the tequila critique stands on its own.” Jake sits back, screwing with Miguel now is way easier when the stakes aren’t so high.

“Here you go boys,” Armando says with faux charm. “Two shots, that’ll be fourteen dollars.”

Miguel pulls out a wad of bills, peels off a twenty, and tosses it on the table. “Keep the change; use it to get a radio that plays New Mexico music.”

Jake smiles at Armando. “We were just discussing how New Mexicans are not Mexicans so ergo, tequila’s not your native drink.”

“I drink Coors, like homies are supposed to.” Armando immediately gets Jake’s screwing with Miguel and that’s got to have entertainment value. He hangs around hoping to join the merriment but after an awkward silence realizes he’s the reason for the awkwardness. “Well gents, as much as I’d like to stay, I have a bar to run.”

As soon as Armando departs Jake decides to get whatever has to transpire over with. “For what pleasure does the Al Azar owe your presence?”

Miguel tosses back a shot. “We all have bosses, que no? Mine is one you cannot say no to.” He studies Jake but cannot get a read. “Long story short, I need my whore back.”

Jake takes a deliberate sip of bourbon to conceal the extent to which he’s been thrown off his game. He quickly generates no less than a dozen potential scenarios for how things might unfold; each ending with someone getting hurt, usually him. ‘It’s been a long freaking time,’ he thinks. ‘All the way back to my rodeo days with no evidence to suggest my ability to take a punch has improved.’ His analytical mind tells him to get through this negotiation and then go straight to the police. The non-rational part, where ego, pride, and idealized conviction reside, implores him to respond in contradiction to his self-interest. “No,” he slowly answers.

Miguel leans forward lowering his voice. “Perhaps you do not understand, Senor, my bosses are every powerful. You can deal with me in a mutually beneficial way.” Miguel throws back the next shot. “Trust me, you want to deal with me.”

“You’re the one who lost, whatever issues your boss has are with you not me.”

Miguel’s twisted smile fuels Jake’s expanding angst. “If it were only that simple. We are a small valley and I don’t want it said I welsh on bets. That kind of thing is bad for business, so, I’ll trade another girl, even younger and prettier with a lot less mileage.”

“I’m good.” Jake calmly answers even though his nerves are awash in entropy.

“You’ll get board as she grows familiar. That’s the unfortunate fact of how things are, which is why most my clients are married.” Miguel waits for Jake to respond but only gets blank stares. “How about this, you trade now for a younger prettier girl and when that grows old you can trade one more time at no charge?”

“Not interested.”

“You’re not like into her are you old man? Trust me, that never ends well.”

“I enjoy her company.” Jake realizes he exposed a truth he was unaware of. “After all,” he adds trying to sound in control. “I’ve already invested in her cocktail training.”

“Well, I need her back.”

“So, your bosses don’t have a problem with you giving me a girl, just not her?”

“Apparently, they’ve never interfered before.”

“What kind of sick demented bastard are you?” As soon as he spoke, Jake realizes he shouldn’t have challenged Miguel like that.

Miguel’s impulse is to violence; for the pleasure he’d derive and the broader point that must be made. He can’t allow people to talk to him like that and if not already in deep shit with his bosses, he’d ignore their order. When his bosses find out Sympatico’s gone, they’re pissed, which is odd since they expect him to routinely disposition inventory, either within the network or through outside transactions. They at least understood failing to tell him she was unique was their bad. They were, however, equally clear that failing to get her back would have consequences. “I can buy her back if that’s better,” Miguel offers.

In his agitated state Jake’s not filtering. “I’m sure you’re unaware, but in the civilized world people are not bartered.”

“You are wrong about that, Senor. What she does and how she came to be doing it, is no different than what you do at Los Alamos and how you came to be doing it. She sells her body; you sold your mind. You may have entered the deal more freely but in the end we all belong to somebody.”

“I don’t accept that analogy.”

“Of course not, but tell me this, what’s the difference between a homeless bum and the King of England?” Jake’s about to respond when Miguel continues. “Not a God-damn thing! They’re both whores sucking on society’s tit, and the only difference between them and whores is whores provide value.”

“Does your analogy extend to our oligarchy?”

“Olha what?”

“The puppet masters controlling politicians.”

“Politicians clearly provide no value.” Miguel asserts. “They’re certainly whores. So sure, yes.”

“Interesting, we actually agree.”

“The only difference between your whore and say a college athlete is I never filled her head with false promises. Hell, when you put me next to the NCAA and I’m pretty damn righteous.” Miguel stares at Jake. “Do those who own you fill your head with promises? Do they wrap you up in honor and patriotism?”

Jake sits back lowly sipping bourbon. “Wow, you nailed that cogent thought with both insight and clarity and I have to say, it surprises the shit out of me.”

“What can I say, amigo, I’m a man of many talents.”

“If you weren’t you, we’d have pretty engaging conversations.” Jake sets his drink down and looks earnestly at Miguel. “The problem is, you’re a worthless piece of shit and you’re not getting her back.”

Miguel’s anger explodes into rage. He swings his arm madly across the table sending shot glasses flying. The loud crash of glasses careening off nearby tables and bouncing on the hardwood floor stuns the bar to quiet. Ruben and his associate shoot off their stools ready for action. The Texans and Mexicans stare with wary uneasiness unaware Armando discreetly reaches below the bar finding first the baseball bat, then the shotgun. “There are many things I know old man,” Miguel seethes, “and some things I do not. I know I will have the whore, one way or another.”

Miguel can beat a man without concern. He can cut someone and feel nothing. He even has on occasion killed without remorse. But this, this is personal, and he makes no effort to reign in his rage, rolling in all the undiminished anger he’s been holding since Cinco de Mayo. “What I don’t know is if the ambulance takes you to the hospital or straight to the morgue.”

Having already ascertained that Miguel is under orders to resolve this quietly, Jake is not as rattled as he would otherwise be. “That would not be a wise play,” he offers running a bluff. Regardless of how things end between you and me, it’s unlikely you leave here alive, we’ve prepped for this scenario.”

Miguel wants more than anything to go off on Jake. It’s a desire intoxicated by rage; an unfiltered rage compounded by the possibility Jake’s probably right; especially after what happened last time. Miguel dances along the edge of following his bliss and fearing what would happen if he disobeyed orders. He attempts to stand but has to lean on the table for stability. “What this negotiation needs, is a pause, so you can better consider my offer.” He adjusts his pants and centers his shirt in an effort to pull himself together. “The thing you need to know, old man, I will have the whore. Now, you can either get something in exchange or not, but it doesn’t change the outcome. Personally, I hope you make it difficult. I would very much enjoy that.” Miguel re-steadies himself. “Come to the ranch, I have many girls who can fulfill your needs, however twisted they might be.” He shoves off from the table, propelling his unequal walk to the bar where he collects his minions.

Armando stands behind the bar watching Miguel and his men file past. “Adios muchachos, don’t come back soon.”

Rather than react, Miguel muscles the fortitude to continue out the door, his suffocating rage needing to breath. Ruben drops in behind but stops next to the Mexicans and hands each of them a business card. On the card, with both graphic imagery and explicit language, are details of what’s being offered at Miguel’s ranch. While the imagery is multi-lingual, the text is all in Spanish. One of the first-time Mexicans quickly reviews the card before erupting off his bar stool hell bent on following Ruben outside. The younger regular manages to get between his compadre and the door but it proves insufficient. The angry Mexican pushes the younger regular out of the way with passion fueled ease. Before he explodes through the door in pursuit though, he’s grabbed by his two other friends. An intense argument ensues in which the angry Mexican passionately attempts to persuade his friends to confront Miguel. Eventually, they talk him down, but only after a dramatic, and at times physical, back and forth.

Armando walks to their end of the bar pretending to wipe up condensation rings. “Patience is a difficult virtue,” he tells the angry Mexican, “perhaps one most difficult.”

The angry Mexican glares back barely understanding what Armando says. The Mexicans assume since Armando doesn’t speak to them in Spanish he can’t, so they freely debate their choice not to confront Miguel. After serious discussion, they agree to wait. The older regular retells his version of Cinco de Mayo and the bad blood between Miguel and Armando, causing the angry Mexican to nod to Armando in respect. The four illegals shove Ruben’s business cards down the bar in disgust and depart.

The Texans decide now’s also a good time to leave. As they file out however, the tall Texan notices Ruben’s business cards with their eye-catching graphics and picks one up. The more he reads the more excited he gets. “Hey y’all,” he calls after his buddies. “I figured out what we’re doing tonight!”