Scarface

by Paul Monette

  Still, Omar had a much worse time of it than Tony. Since he was so nervous to begin with, he could hardly stand still when the Shadow was in the room. Omar looked like he itched all over. But then, he’d had a bad time of it ever since they left Miami. Sick in the plane to Bogota. Groaned all the way from Bogota to La Paz. Sick all over himself in the helicopter ride up the mountains to Cochabamba. Besides, he was tense and annoyed just being with Tony. He hadn’t wanted to bring him along at all, and he’d tried to convince Frank that Tony was too impulsive, that he couldn’t shut up, that he paid no attention to forms. Frank was insistent. Tony had done such a good job on his first three runs to Bogota, it was time to move him closer to the source. Frank wanted his input.

  So that is how Tony Montana happened to be walking through a coke factory with the biggest playboy in Cochabamba, maybe in all of Bolivia. The four of them—Sosa first, then Tony and Omar, with the Shadow so close behind them they could practically feel his breath on their necks—walked through the processing lab, following the drug from step to step. There were four black coal-fired stoves, each with a massive iron kettle on the flame, bubbling with coca paste. Chemists in white lab coats worked side by side with mute, barrel-chested Indians. Along one wall was a row of brick ovens, where the refined cocaine was dried.

  Tony missed nothing. He felt as if he was being let in on the secrets of some vast magician.

  “So between here and my other factory,” said Sosa, “I can guarantee production of two hundred kilos—that’s refined—two hundred kilos a month. Problem is, I got no steady market. Some months I can’t move fifty keys, other months I gotta do two, three hundred. Crazy, huh? How can you do business that way?”

  “Hey, I know what you mean, Mister Sosa,” Omar replied unctuously. “We got the same problem up in Miami. Month to month, you never know what the demand’s gonna be.”

  Sosa gave him an icy look, as if to say he didn’t need another parrot. In his limp suit, with a wet cigarette clamped in his nervous fingers, Omar was hopelessly out of his league. He’d been one step behind from the moment he staggered off the helicopter. But Tony still held back, letting the two of them talk. He paused for a moment at a long table just beyond the ovens. The Shadow stopped beside him. Refusing to be intimidated, Tony pinched up a sample of the dried coke and snorted it up his nose. He smiled at the dead-eyed Shadow, to show that he liked the product. He said in a low voice: “Somehow, pal, I don’t think you and I are gonna get along.”

  As he caught up with Sosa and Omar, he realized the Bolivian was wasting no time. He was already talking the deal. “What I’m looking for,” he said to Omar, “is someone to share the risk. Like I want a guarantee. Say a hundred and fifty kilos a month.”

  “Well, that’s an awful big commitment, Mister Sosa.” Omar was so nervous his fingers were shaking around his cigarette. “It’s too bad Frank can’t be here to discuss it in person.”

  “It certainly is,” replied the Bolivian with a trace of sarcasm. “I would have liked to meet him. I thought I was going to.”

  Omar seemed not to know what to say. Tony took a step forward. “He wanted to meet you too, Mister Sosa. But he’s got a trial comin’ up. It’s not so easy for him to get outa the country right now.”

  “Mm,” said Sosa, for the first time taking a good look at Tony. At least this one wasn’t shaking.

  “But don’t worry,” continued Tony. “Omar and me, we got the power to make a deal. Frank’s real serious about his relationship with you. He respects you very much.”

  Omar’s eyes went wide with shock. He was speechless. Sosa visibly relaxed his hostile stance. He suggested they move on to lunch. The four men exited the factory, which looked from the outside like an oversize Quonset hut with a row of brick chimneys along one side. The jungle came right up to the building on two sides, and there was a wide grassy field in front. Half a dozen trucks were parked there, ready for transport. Sosa led the way to his Jeep. The Shadow drove, and Omar sat beside him. Sosa rode in the back seat with Tony.

  They made their way down a tortuous winding road with deep canyons on either side. The Andes rose around them, green and empty and jagged, alive with birdsound. The road passed under an arch of black-green trees with twisted trunks that oozed gallons of yellow pitch. At last they came to a “gate,” a camouflaged spot where a group of guards stood watch, peering out of the bushes onto the paved main road. These guards were dressed in quasi-military gear, and each held a submachine gun. They parted a curtain of branches, and the Jeep turned onto the road, heading up the mountain.

  Sosa asked Tony how he’d come into the business. Tony gave him an animated account, telling stories of his reefer days, of his time in Angola and then Marseilles. Sosa listened with interest, delighted by Tony’s enthusiasm and sense of adventure. About two miles up the road they entered Sosa’s compound, where a vast and improbable colonial mansion perched on a high plateau, ringed by terraced gardens and overlooking a giant panorama of mountain and canyon.

  They left the Jeep in a shaded portico and proceeded down a high vaulted interior hall to the dining room. It was cavernous, the walls hung with huge paintings from the Spanish classical period, portraits of princes and allegorical extravaganzas. The long table was set at one end for three, with an ornate candelabra, gold-rimmed dishes and heavy silver. The Shadow sat by himself in a corner beside the mantel, arms folded and staring out the windows at the mountains. Omar and Tony sat on either side of Sosa at the head of the table, while a stream of servants brought in course after course. They ate in regal silence for a while. Three different wines were served.

  At last Sosa turned to Tony. “If Frank Lopez can guarantee me a hundred and fifty kilos a month for one year,” he said, “plus an escrow account in dollars in the Bahamas for fifteen percent of the action, well then I could sell him a key as cheap as nine grand.” He drained the last of his Chateau Lafite. “He’d have to pick it up here, of course.”

  Omar couldn’t stand the pressure any more. He blurted out: “But if we do that, then we take all the risk of delivery ourselves. Besides, we’d have to cut out the Colombians. You know what that means?”

  Sosa seemed offended to be asked such questions. Tony spoke up with a shrug. “It means we go to war with ’em,” he said. “So what? They’re all animals anyway.”

  Sosa smiled. “If we cut out the Colombians,” he said carefully, “we take risks on both sides.”

  “We’d have to split the risk,” said Omar, scrambling to find a negotiating posture he could defend. “If you could guarantee the delivery as far as Panama . . .”

  Sosa laughed. “Panama? That’d be fifteen grand a key.”

  “Fifteen grand!” cried Tony. “You gotta be kidding, Sosa. We still gotta take the stuff in. You know what it’s like in Florida these days? The Navy’s all over the place. They got frogmen. They got EC-2’s with satellite tracking. They got Bell assault choppers, up the ass they got ’em. It’s not easy any more, y’ know. It’s no duck-walk.”

  There was a pause following this outburst. Omar was horrified. But Sosa seemed to take it all with a bemused smile. He liked Tony’s intense and impulsive manner. Once again he ignored Omar and turned to direct his next proposal to Tony. But suddenly there was an interruption, as an aide came in from the hallway and nodded to Sosa. Excusing himself, Sosa stood up from the table and moved to join the aide at the end of the room in the bay window, near where the Shadow was sitting. The aide was a tall black man with close-cropped hair and horn-rim glasses. He looked peculiarly intellectual in the circumstances. He engaged Sosa in a low and murmurous conversation.

  Omar leaned across the table to Tony. He whispered: “Shut up, will ya? I’ll do the talking.”

  Tony shrugged. “Talk faster, then.”

  The horn-rimmed man gave a paper to Sosa, and as Sosa leaned over to sign it, the aide happened to glance down the dining room table. When his eyes fell briefly on Omar, he gave a small start. His eyes narrowed as he t
ried to put something together.

  Omar said to Tony: “You just leave it to me. Wait’ll I tell Frank how you been buttin’ in. He’ll have your ass.”

  Tony shrugged again. At the other end of the room, Sosa returned the signed document to the black aide, who whispered something in Sosa’s ear. Sosa hardly reacted at all. His eyes darted down the table to Omar, then he nodded and waved the aide away. He glanced down at his Rolex as he returned to his place at the table.

  “Where were we, gentlemen?”

  “Panama,” said Tony. “You’re looking for a partner.”

  “Look, Mister Sosa,” said Omar, fuming at Tony’s interruption, “we’re gettin’ ahead of ourselves here. I come down to buy two hundred keys. That’s it, that’s my limit. I got no right to negotiate for Frank on anything larger than that. Neither does Tony, I don’t give a shit what he says. So why don’t we . . .”

  “Hey Omar,” said Tony, “why don’t you let the man finish? Let’s hear his proposition.”

  Omar’s nerves exploded. He half rose out of his seat and spat the words across the table. “You got no authority here! You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. I started you in this business, Montana. Maybe if you shut the fuck up you’d learn something.”

  Tony remained completely calm. “Listen, Omar, Frank’s gonna love this deal.” He glanced at Sosa. “If you guarantee it as far as Panama. Nine grand a key, no more.”

  Omar was speechless. He had no control over Tony, and he knew it. He turned to Sosa and practically pleaded. “Look, if you want I’ll go back and talk to Frank about this. It’s just not something I can do on the phone. You gotta try to understand my position. Tony here don’t got no responsibility. I do.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Sosa, suddenly adopting a conciliatory tone, as if Omar had been through enough. “Why don’t you go right now? My chopper can take you to Santa Cruz. I’ve got my own jet there—you’ll be in Miami in five hours. Talk to Frank, see what he says. You can be back here for lunch tomorrow.”

  “But—but—what about the two hundred keys?”

  “Consider that deal made.” Sosa stood up. Omar and Tony followed suit, for there didn’t appear to be any room to refuse. “I want you to leave your partner here,” continued Sosa. “He and I can work out the Panama route.”

  Omar and Tony exchanged a troubled look. Suddenly it seemed to both of them that Tony was in some danger. But after all, they weren’t on the best terms themselves, Tony and Omar, and anyway Tony was much too tough to balk at this point. So they walked Omar out through the garden to the wide west lawn, where the chopper was already whirring. Omar seemed almost delirious at the thought of getting away. He didn’t even show surprise when he saw the horn-rimmed aide sitting beside the pilot. He shook Sosa’s hand and nodded to Tony. The noise of the chopper was much too loud for them to talk. Omar stepped inside. Tony and Sosa stepped back.

  They’d forgotten the Shadow, who’d crossed the lawn ten paces behind them. Now he stepped past Tony and Sosa and hoisted himself through the chopper’s opening, just as it started to lift off the ground. The ripple of a puzzled frown crossed Omar’s face.

  As Tony and Sosa made their way back to the house, Tony could see a woman on horseback emerge from the trees at the far end of the lawn. An image from deep in the past flashed across Tony’s mind: the soldier’s wife who used to pick him up in the afternoon behind the stables. His scar tingled for a moment. Sosa led him to an outdoor gallery off the dining room, where the servants were laying out coffee and fruits. Tony grabbed up a peach and bit into it. He watched the helicopter disappear over the mountain’s rim.

  He turned and looked at Sosa, as the playboy poured out the coffee. All day Tony had been aware of Sosa’s elegant manners, his tailored clothes and refined tastes. He knew that Sosa kept apartments in New York and London and Beverly Hills, that he bred race horses and collected paintings in the six-figure range. If Tony felt like a two-bit hood the night he met Frank Lopez, he felt doubly so here in the presence of Arnoldo Sosa. He longed to possess this kind of sophistication. No detail escaped his notice. It was as if he was memorizing the other man’s life, so he could some day reproduce it in a kingdom of his own.

  “Hey Noldo,” he said, playing the name like a chess move, “you know why us Cubans are all screwed up?”

  Sosa smiled as he spooned in sugar. He didn’t seem to mind the familiarity. “Why, Tony?”

  “ ’Cause the island’s in the Caribbean, the government’s in Russia, the army’s in Angola, and the people all live in Miami.”

  Sosa threw back his head and laughed. Tony flushed with pleasure. Just then he felt like Sosa’s equal, or at least that there was a chance he would one day close the gap. For this was the life he wanted, down to the tassels on Sosa’s lizard shoes. He stood taller, trying to mimic the other man’s posture. He held his cup precisely the way Sosa did.

  “Very good, Tony,” the Bolivian said. “I’ll have to remember that.” Suddenly he looked over Tony’s shoulder with an expectant smile. “Now you will meet my queen,” he said, not without irony.

  Tony turned as the horse and rider cantered up the lawn. They came to a halt just beyond the gallery. A servant walked out and took the reins as the woman dismounted. An exotic, dark-eyed senorita, haughty and strange and distant. She carried a riding crop, which she flicked against her leg as she approached.

  “Gabriella—my rose,” said Sosa, almost quivering with pride. “How was the trail?”

  “Dusty,” she replied, not even glancing at Tony. “We were up in the north pasture. The grass looks awful—needs more sheep.”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  Already she turned to go. “We have the Rinaldis at eight,” she said, unutterably bored.

  “Gabriella? I want you to meet an associate of mine. From Miami. Tony Montana . . .” He motioned the two of them together, though neither moved an inch. “My fiancée, Gabriella Sardina.”

  “Hello,” said Tony.

  She nodded briefly, completely uninterested. Then she went away into the house, and Sosa watched her go with a strange and wistful look on his face. He seemed totally unaware of how rude she’d been. He suddenly looked very unlike a playboy. In spite of the lean and powerful body, Tony could see he was forty-five. He wasn’t young any more.

  “I like you, Tony,” he said, moving to pour another cup of coffee. “You don’t tell lies. It’s too bad the same thing doesn’t hold true of your partner.”

  “Huh? What are you talkin’ about?”

  “Omar,” said Sosa. “He’s scum.” Tony looked bewildered. “My associate recognized him. They knew each other several years ago, in New York. He was an informer.”

  Tony bristled. “Listen, I don’t know anything about that.”

  “I know you don’t, that’s why I’m telling you.” Sosa’s voice was calm and friendly. “Omar put Vito Duval and the Ramos brothers away for life. My associate barely managed to escape. Omar was a fool not to recognize him today.”

  Instinctively Tony looked up at the sky, just in time to see the helicopter come sailing over the mountain again. It was still pretty far away, but Tony could see it was trailing something from a rope or cable, as if it had just picked up someone stranded in the jungle. He turned with a questioning look to Sosa, who was smiling and holding out a pair of binoculars. Tony took them and trained them at the mountain, where the chopper was sweeping down toward the lawn.

  “Garbage must be eliminated,” said Sosa.

  Omar hung by his neck from the end of a thick fisherman’s rope. His face was blue, and his tongue lolled out. He hung like a broken puppet. Then the body hit the ground as the chopper came in for a landing. Tony lowered the binoculars. Sosa watched him closely for a reaction. Tony looked back at him, no emotion at all. Sosa moved to refill his coffee.

  “So how do I know you’re not a nark, Tony?”

  He lifted the cup to his lips with an almost feminine delicacy. Out on the lawn they could
hear the chopper’s rotors winding down. In a sudden flash of temper, Tony walked up and batted the cup out of Sosa’s hand. It smashed on the tiles at their feet. A look of panic crossed Sosa’s face. The servant woman behind the table went scurrying into the house.

  “Listen, you jerkoff,” Tony barked, “I never hit on anyone in my life didn’t have it coming to him. You hear me? All I got’s my word—and I don’t break that for nobody. I never trusted Omar. Like you say, he’s a piece o’ garbage. For all I know he’s the guy who set me up and got my buddy Angel killed. That’s history. It’s a tough business, right? Omar’s dead. I’m here. You wanna go on with me, you say so. You don’t, I walk outa here—and you can kiss my ass.”

  There was a sound of running behind them. The Shadow had bolted out of the chopper as soon as it touched down. Now he tore across the lawn, as if he knew his boss was in grave trouble. He was ready to break every bone in Tony Montana’s body. Sosa and Tony faced each other grimly. In a moment Tony would have to turn and fight the Shadow. He was a bare ten feet away when Sosa held up a hand and stopped him in his tracks.

  “It’s all right, Alberto. Leave us.”

  Obediently the bodyguard turned and trotted back the way he came. Sosa stepped over the litter of broken china and poured himself another cup of coffee.

  “I think you speak from the heart, Tony. But I say to myself: What about this Lopez? He has chivatos like that working for him, his judgment must stink. I say to myself: What other mistakes has this Lopez made? How can I trust this organization? You tell me, Tony.”

  “Hey, Frank’s real smart,” said Tony. “Don’t blame him for that animal. It could happen to anyone—even you. I’ll talk to Frank myself. I’ll fix it up between you. We gotta make this deal.”

  Sosa smiled. He motioned to Tony to sit down and passed him the bowl of fruit. Out on the lawn they could see three of Sosa’s paramilitary guards carrying away the remains of Omar, the man they called the Monkey. Hummingbirds buzzed the jasmine plants that bowered over the portico.