by I N Foggarty
This was it he thought, absentmindedly taking a draw from the fag butt. Months of planning hinged on the next hour. After tonight they would be playing in the major league. When the rough revving of the engine sounded he breathed a sigh of relief. They had made it past the gate and into the dock, so far so good. Without saying anything he looked at each of his assembled men in turn. They were all good men, each and every one of them. Friends to each other and to him; he wouldn’t have had it any other way. In fact, he had told Sergio outright that if he was to lead the party then he would be choosing the men himself.
To his left sat Jose, his second in command and the one through whom they had thrashed out the terms of the deal. Across from him sat Enrique or as everyone called him ‘el Niño’. Beside him and directly across from Ramone himself was Juan and to his left Diego, the youngest of the group. Finally, on Ramone’s right-hand side, Paco one of their newer members yet one who could drink with the best of them.
On the subject of drinking for a group so used to laughing and joking over a few, there had been only sparse chatter since they had embarked upon the drive down to the dock. Indeed Ramone knew it had only added to the feeling of uneasiness that had existed since departing. Though there had been little he could do about it. Small talk was not his strongest quality at the best of times and tonight he could ill afford to let himself get distracted by anything.
Beneath the Lorry, a dull continual thudding replaced the typical tire on tarmac sound. They must be moving out down the jetty now. This was it. In an hour it would all be over…
“Ramone.”
Ramone jerked his neck around to look through the gap between the rear of the lorry and the front cab. The driver stared back at him...
“Ramone,”
…the man said again though his voice sounded throaty and nothing at all like how it should have. “The fucks your problem?” he replied as the outline of the driver grew fuzzy and light began to shine around him.
“Ramone, you lazy pereza, wake up…”
Ramone’s eyes snapped open and he jumped. In front of him where the driver whose name he had suddenly forgotten had been was the grizzled face of a balding Hispanic man. Before he could react the man flicked a damp towel at him. “You’re lucky I did not kick you out last night. Now get up.”
The man’s throaty voice might have been grating but Ramone now recognised both it and its owner, Ronaldo. Los sin techo’s very own internal sorrow merchant, barterer of information and most importantly purveyor of liquor. Sitting up from the awkward position he found himself lying in, the first thing to catch his attention was the heat. Lacking windows of both the with and without glass variants the bar/club often got a bit stuffy in the evenings when it began to get crowded but never could he recall it being so suffocating during the day and not while empty.
He swallowed, the back of his throat dry and his tongue like sand and ran a hand through his hair. “Why’s it so fucking hot?”
“’Ottest day of d’e year my friend. Only you’ve missed most of it.” A glance up at the clock that hung behind the bar told Ramone that the man spoke the truth; it was almost three in the afternoon. “I tell you it’s a cold day in ‘ell when Sergio is about before you. D’ough I guess it explains where all this ‘eat came from, eh my friend.” Ronaldo’s chuckle broke into a hacking cough. For a moment Ramone watched him pick his way between the scattered tables and enter the room beyond the bar that housed his kitchen.
From the surface of the wooden monstrosity that separated the patron from poison, a small metal fan whirred vociferously and Ramone could tell it was struggling to keep up with its owner’s demands for maximum power. At least it would provide some reprieve from the heat while he figured out what to do he reasoned. Forcing himself to shake off the ill effects of last night’s binge he got to his feet and awkwardly made his way over to the bar stool nearest the fan; it creaked when he sat down.
Spreading his elbows out over the faded wooden top Ramone gazed up at the dusty bottles of spirits that hung on the back wall and tried to figure out which combination of them might desensitise his brain to the effects of the heat. In truth, he didn’t even know what half this stuff was. Spirits had always been Sergio’s drink; he much preferred nice cold beer. The distinctive sound of crockery being slid across the bar brought him out of his musings. “You might ‘ave missed breakfast but it’s never too late in the day for coffee and bacon.”
Ramone gazed down at the plate and mug in front of him. Bacon and eggs on a bread roll with a dash of hot sauce and black coffee, just the way he liked it. It might have been basic but it was better than anything Maria had shoved in front of him after waking lately if she had even bothered to at all. Tearing off a mouthful of the roll his stomach at once recoiled then growled hungrily for the promise of food. Ramone greedily devoured the meagre meal, the hot sauce splashing across his moustache and burning his tongue. Absentmindedly he stretched out his free hand to turn the fan is his direction…. ‘Slap!’ From nowhere the bartender flicked his cloth at his outstretched hand. “Mghr!” Ramone declared in irritation as he tried to curse at the bartender and eat at the same time.
“Touc’ my fan and I’ll feed it your ‘and.” Ronaldo looked at him sternly and Ramone withdrew his hand. “And you owe me four dollars.”
“Fuhh…Off,” Ramone spat, swallowing hard. He knew there would be little point in arguing. Like most bartenders, Ronaldo had a memory like a steel trap and had been known to bar people for disputes over lesser sums.
“It ain’t a soup kitchen I’m running ‘ere. You pay your tab before you leave or I ‘unt you down and take it from your still warm corpse. And just be thankful I make you something after you came waltzing in ‘ere last night demanding I feed and water you like a common ‘orse.”
Taking a drink of the scalding coffee Ramone used his free hand to this time go inside his own pocket and find the man his money. “Here,” he said between mouthfuls as he held out four grubby dollar coins.
The barman turned up his nose but snatched them anyway. “And you should be grateful I tell you d’is, but Sergio’s waiting for you in ‘is office.”
Ramone’s face fell slightly at the reminder of his inevitable clash with Sergio. He hadn’t forgotten about it per se just forced it down into the dull depths of his mind beneath multiple pints of beer, smokes, his fight and physical moment with Maria and then some more beer and more smokes. A night of drinking had at least soothed his temper though he was not sure if his fight with Maria had taken precedence. It would be unwise for him to be fighting everyone in his life at the same time. Still, it by no means meant he would be rolling over the second he walked into Sergio’s office. “He’ll wait till I’ve finished my coffee.”
He took another long drink and realised that the wait wouldn’t be much longer. Slamming the mug down with more force than intended Ramone stood up and stretched his limbs. Fishing inside his pocket he pulled out his packet of tobacco and cursed; empty. He swore to himself but before he could get a good rage going Ronaldo interrupted.
“For d’e road my friend.” Ramone looked up to face the barman and saw the singular cigarette he held out. “On d’e ‘ouse,” he then added with a yellow-toothed grin. “Only tell Sergio ‘e owes me for d’e bottle ‘e took last night. I know it was ‘im who lifted it.”
“Good luck,” Ramone replied, taking the smoke and placing it between his teeth. “He still owes Maria for the bottle he swiped from her liquor cabinet six months ago. She went ape when she found out… and blamed me.” As he spoke the thought of Maria brought about images of her face from the previous evening and of her ultimatum; be at Olivia’s party or they were done. An empty threat. He lit the smoke. Maria threatened to kick him out every other month but yet he still hung around; like a bad odour.
Still, he would be best not to push his luck. He did not relish being on the wrong end of the woman’s temper for a week or two. Turning away from Ronaldo and his stuttering fan Ramone made
his way to the door. Time to deal with Sergio.
Hitting the fan
Towards the northern reaches of the city, the blazing sun bombarded both the cracked sidewalk and the dilapidated collection of wood and masonry that formed the headquarters of Los sin techo. The building lay virtually lifeless as it baked in the heat. Lacking any obvious form of air-conditioning, save for windows that had long since lost their glass, had led to the heat becoming unbearable and thus the exodus of the vast majority of the denizens within. Resulting in the normal hive of activity being reduced to a standstill. The workers electing to take their chances outside in the direct sunlight that, ironically, proved cooler than inside in the shade.
Up on the top floor, Sergio Gutierrez was enduring a fight that may have been repeated in multiple offices across the city that day. “Work God damn you,” he spat in frustration, slamming his meaty fist down on top of a rickety old tower fan. The internal workings crunched under the force of the man’s blow. Then with a jittery crack, stuttered into life. A twisted smile formed on Sergio’s face, “Is a’bout bloody time.”
Satisfied with his handiwork the stocky fellow crossed the distance between the now working fan and his desk. He would have liked the fan closer to his desk but it had taken him so long to find it in the first place that once he discovered that the cable was too short he couldn’t be bothered hunting for an extension cord. He could have moved his desk but the damn thing weighed a tonne and he had no desire for such exertion in this heat. Besides, there were many other things he would have liked. First on that long list, a building with bloody air-conditioning. However, like it or not, one had to live within one's means; he had learned that lesson the hard way.
He sighed as he lowered himself into his seat and immediately sat forward again with a stifled roar. The surface of the chair felt like touching a hot plate but damned if he was going to find an alternative. A man’s office symbolised his authority and the desk and chair were key to this. No one would take him seriously in a fabric thing with stuffing hanging out. The leather may have been old and battered but it served as his throne, the vessel from atop which he ruled. With this point to prove he forced his back against the scorching leather upright with more force than needed and tried to get comfortable. Putting his feet up onto the desktop he could already feel his sweaty shirt, today a blue and white Hawaiian affair, melding with the seat. Where the hell had this heat come from? They had endured weeks of wind and pissing rain and now all of a sudden it felt like the goddamn height of summer, and they were only into the second week of May. Still, it didn’t compare to the scorching summers they used to have back home.
He had just started to get comfortable when…
“BBRRRing, BBRRRRing...BBRRRRing, BBRRRRing.”
“Aww for fuck sake.” Sergio slid his feet from the desk surface and allowed them to land heavily on the floor as he lurched forwards and picked up the baking plastic handset. Why did people always wait until he had gotten comfortable before calling?
“Wot up Serg?” the high chirpy voice of Tanya said the second he brought the handset to his ear; he groaned. If it weren’t for the fact that the bitch was so good at her job, amongst other things, he would have put a bullet in her a long time ago; if only to spare himself from her irritating vivacious voice.
“…t’ hell d’you want Tanya, I’m busy.”
“Someone’s all hot and bothered today. You want me to send you a Popsicle or something to help cool you off?” In the background, Sergio could just make out a low humming sound, which he would bet the entire contents of his bottom desk drawer on, coming from a large and properly functioning fan. He’d bet his Desert Eagle on her having a large cold drink beside her too. Why did Tanya always seem to get the luxury while he, the boss, was stuck with a hunk of junk and a sweltering base of operations to work from? So much for his authority. “Stuff your fucking popsicle,” he spat in annoyance. “What d’you want?”
“Lots of things that I’m sure you wouldn’t be interested in,” came the short reply. Immediately the heat rushed to Sergio’s face. He swallowed a lung full of air and prepared to bellow. His caller seemed to realise this and spoke quickly.
“I’ve got an update on the big money spinner I told you about on Sunday. So I’d appreciate it if you’d cool on the techy, Boss.” The last word was elaborated. Clear cut but with a hint of something else. Not quite sarcasm, but nothing tangible for him to put his finger on and call her out over.
He allowed the air he had taken in to escape with a sigh and rested his elbows on the desk. His memory of Sunday was a hazy blur, consisting of a headache, wonky drugs and alcohol. Amidst it all, he had a vague recollection of Tanya calling him with some sort of business proposition. Something about two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars… Sergio snorted at the thought. While big money opportunities still turned his head, he’d heard far too many of Tanya’s ‘way cool’ business ventures in the past to react with any sort of enthusiasm. Such opportunities rarely presented themselves without a hefty amount of risk, and risk was for young, foolhardy men who had yet to learn the life lesson of ‘atenerse a lo que sabe’.
“Why don’t you remind me?” he asked, even though he knew he would probably regret it. “What sort of opportunity?”
“One that’s seen me back in school for the past day and a half.”
Sergio frowned slightly. Like with half of what Tanya said he could not tell if she meant literally or if it was another one of her irritating meta…meto…or whatever the fuck they were called. Still, it would explain why she had been uncharacteristically quiet since Sunday.
“What the hell are you talking about?” he barked with more force than necessary; the heat really had cut his already short temper.
On the other end of the line he could practically hear Tanya role her eyes at him; bitch. “The job involves finding a kid. Where’s the best place to track down a kid?” She paused, but Sergio declined to play along, resulting in her making an audible, “urgh,” noise. “We’re looking for a kid and the best place to find them is via their school,” Tanya finally declared, in a tone that suggested it should have been obvious and Sergio had the feeling she had forced herself not to close with the word, idiot. “This job is like totally a cinch and you would not believe…”
Sergio never heard what he would not believe as the door to his office suddenly burst open. He pulled the phone away from his ear. “The fuck d’you think you’re doing barging in here unannounced!” he bellowed in the direction of the door, his gaze shifting from the lopsided fan to the intruder; Ramone. “Get the fuck out! Can’t you see I’m on the fucking phone!”
Ramone didn’t move except to slam the door closed behind him. He looked more dishevelled than normal. Sergio knew that he had spent the night crashed out on a sofa downstairs. Maria must have kicked him out again he reasoned. As the fan turned once more it brought with it a pungent smell of stale sweat, tobacco and cheap beer. The lowlife hadn’t even bothered to shower before dragging his ass up the stairs. “I told you to get the fuck out,” Sergio repeated in a low, warning growl. He fought the urge to pinch his nostrils; the smell really was revolting.
“Ronaldo said you wanted to talk, so let’s talk.” Ramone’s tone sounded calm and steady though Sergio would have been surprised had it been anything other, Ramone being one of the few who typically remained unfazed after he had roared at them. He again felt the air deflate and with it another shred of his authority.
“Fine,” he relented. “… let’s talk. You want a drink?” he replied as he sat the phone down on the desk and reached down to open his bottom drawer.
“No,” the uninvited guest said. “Though Ronaldo says you owe him for the bottle you took last night.”
Sergio snorted at the remark and pulled out the bottle in question, a golden tequila, along with a closed top glass. The Los sin techo barman robbed him blind when it came to his cut of the bar's earnings so he made sure he got his money’s worth in other ways. Besides
, the old man couldn’t throw him out of his own headquarters so would just have to deal with it. “Ronaldo can go screw himself.” He unscrewed the cap and poured himself a generous glass. “You sure you don’t want some?”
“I didn’t come here to drink your sodden booze. I came because…. because you’re mi amigo.”
Sergio lifted the glass and took a small sip of its contents. Slowly he rolled it around his mouth, feeling the familiar burn of the liquor on his tongue. “You finally come to your senses, mi amigo?”
“Have I finally come to my senses?” Ramone reiterated and from his tone, Sergio new the question was about to be thrown back at him. “You’re the one who needs to come to his senses, mi amigo.”
In a fit of rage, Sergio got to his feet and pounded his free fist down on the desk. How dare that insolent, son of a bitch, come barging into HIS office and declare that HE was the one who needed to see sense. Amigos or not, he needed to put this upstart back into his place. “You had the audacity to leave us, then come crawling back when you could find no work. Yet I welcomed you back, gave you a job and this is the way you react?”
Both men met the others steely gaze with one of their own. Not an inch to be had in either direction.
“You call the scraps you’ve given me a job?” Ramone fired back.
The nerve with which Ramone spoke almost rendered Sergio speechless… almost. “I offered you a job in overseeing the sales. Practically the same one you had before!”
“And I told you I don’t do that sort of work!” Ramone yelled, spit augmenting the words.
“Then you don’t get paid!” Sergio bellowed, throwing the glass down onto the floor. “You either do the work I offer and get paid, or wait around until I have a scrap to throw.”
