The Manuscript

by Russell Blake

  There’d better still be some emergency vodka stashed in the freezer, or he’d never make it.

  He regarded his bloated, ravaged countenance in the mirror. A network of ruptured capillaries lent him the flushed glow of a seasoned vagrant, with skin of a yellowish cast that was disturbing, at best. To say he looked like shit was pejorative to excrement.

  He was a complete mess.

  Al flicked a speck of vomit from the corner of his mouth and splashed some lukewarm water on his face, knocking his toothbrush into the noxious toilet in the process.

  Superb. Thank you, God.

  He considered his reflection once more. This had to stop. He’d never seen anything looking so bad that was still breathing. It couldn’t continue. And then he grinned, a lopsided smirk devoid of humor.

  Albert Ross, proud member of the U.S. Diplomatic Corps in shit-swamp Panama, Central America, at your service.

  <2>

  Ernesto gripped the metal handle for support, swaying with the rest of the passengers as the brightly painted bus bounced along the dusty, rutted street. Faded Spanish advertisements for breath-freshening gum and miracle kitchen cleaning products punctuated the ever-present graffiti scrawled over every interior area of the vehicle.

  Most of the occupants were dark skinned Panamanians wearing colorful shirts or dresses, as if the vibrancy of the colors could ward off the stifling temperature. A few intrepid tourists sat towards the front, their pale skin and floppy hats proclaiming them as aliens in the tropical landscape. The rich aroma of coffee sloshing in Styrofoam cups mingled with less identifiable odors in the confined space, and for those unaccustomed to such constant humidity and heat it was almost unbearable. But for the locals, this was merely the start of another workday – a Friday exactly like thousands of others before it.

  The creaky fifty-year old conveyance might have seemed primitive to outsiders but for the commuting laborers it was a blessed alternative to walking miles in each direction to and from work. Sure, air conditioning would have been welcome but compared to trekking two hours to get to a job that barely paid for food, water and shelter, the ancient converted school bus was welcome progress.

  Ernesto tuned out his fellow travelers and watched the scenery go by. Every day it was the same cast and the same landscape. There was the graveyard followed by several barrios leading to a haphazardly laid out strip mall, and then increasingly condensed homes of progressively larger size. He knew how close he was to his exit point by such landmarks. When the old pink shack appeared with its rows of chickens roasting on the makeshift grill, Ernesto rang the bell to signal his stop fifty yards past it.

  For eight years now he’d taken the same bus to this very stop and it never once occurred to him to question whether his life had turned out the way he’d wanted, or if some alternative, better reality could be his with just a little more initiative or effort. No, Ernesto was comfortable in his role. He was a cook – not a chef or a showman – just a cook; like his father and mother before him had been in his native Colombia. He actually felt he had it pretty good – his current job was hardly demanding; creating three meals a day in a large colonial villa a quarter mile down a side road from the chicken shack. True, the cuisine requests had seemed odd at first, but he’d long since become accustomed to preparing the largely-vegetarian fare and it was second nature to whip up a lentil soufflé or zucchini curry.

  Beyond those simple culinary exercises, work was invariably tedious. He was the only kitchen staff and, but for the small black and white TV he was allowed on the counter by the refrigerator, he would have died of sheer boredom. Still, many workers had it far worse; and the pay was good, as were the hours. Nine to seven, six days a week, with Sundays off – he always prepared Sunday’s meals on Saturday so the staff only needed to warm them in the microwave.

  Ernesto had mixed feelings about his existence in Panama. He lived in a small row house in an outlying barrio. It wasn’t bad – had running water – and four years ago they’d finally installed electricity. To an outsider it would have been a frightening area; run down, poor and dangerous, but to Ernesto it was simply where many people like him lived. Sure, it had its fair share of crime – mainly burglaries at night, and assaults on weekends when disagreements broke out after a long day’s drinking – but he knew all his neighbors, and they watched each other’s’ backs.

  He wished he’d met and married someone special and started a family but with his schedule and limited means there hadn’t been a lot of prospects. Even in Panama, a chubby, thirty-seven year old cook who spent his free evenings and discretionary income at the bordellos in town wasn’t at the top of the food chain for desirable mating material. Besides, the barrio women were usually dark and coarse and illiterate. Ernesto considered himself superior to them.

  Originating from Colombia, with light brown skin and green eyes, Ernesto not only knew how to read and write but also had a vocational skill that earned him more than most in his circle. Getting trapped in a marriage with a flat-footed mestizo girl who’d swell to two hundred pounds within a few years of their nuptials wasn’t for him. He preferred the company of the professional ladies of the city, and if he had to pay, well, that’s why he worked and made money. It wasn’t like he had an extravagant lifestyle; no car, a few hundred dollars a month rent between him and his roommate, thirty dollars for utilities, and the rest for entertainment, with a small portion set aside for savings with the local loan shark

  Nobody used banks in his neighborhood – they asked too many questions, were suspicious of cash and paid laughably low interest. In virtually every barrio in Central America the neighborhood convenience store ran a profitable side business lending money; and they tended to be trustworthy custodians for savings. He methodically gave the local market owner $200 each month, as he had for three years, and earned fifteen percent annual interest. Sure, the owner lent the money out at sixty percent, but Ernesto was satisfied with a quarter of that as his cut because the owner took all the risk. And Ernesto was building a nest egg. Perhaps one day he could return to Bogota and meet a nice girl – someone with an education who worked in a shop or an office – his savings could easily provide the beginning of a life together. But for now, a little paid romance twice a week did the trick.

  Such were Ernesto’s thoughts as he strolled towards the familiar high-walled compound. He punched the red intercom button by the ornate iron gate and the overhead camera mounted at the top of the support beam swiveled towards him. Just as it did every day. The lock buzzed and he entered the grounds. It was a large piece of land, no doubt had belonged to a wealthy colonial landowner back in the day. There were a number of buildings scattered around the two story main house – several garages, servants’ quarters, a kennel and stables, and a large corrugated steel storage shed he knew was used as an office. He believed the place was owned by a powerful Gringo because there was always an armed retinue of at least four Gringo guards patrolling the interior, day and night, often accompanied by several large German Shepherds.

  Armed compounds weren’t particularly unusual in Central America, given the often bloody manner in which the narcotraficantes settled their disputes, along with the ever-present danger of kidnapping for the wealthy and their families. Ernesto had grown so accustomed to the presence of the gunmen he barely registered them beyond giving them a salute or a wave, which they always reciprocated. The entire time he’d worked there he’d never heard of any altercation or problems, so the sentries and high walls topped with razor wire had obviously served their purpose. This was one the of the last places on the planet anyone would want to rob. There were far easier targets.

  He’d never met the owner he’d been cooking for – not once in his eight years at the villa. Clearly the man or woman had reclusive tendencies. Fine by him. His weekly salary was always paid in American dollars, and never late, so as far as he was
concerned things couldn’t have been better. He simply had to follow the written menu that invariably awaited his morning arrival but was largely left to his own devices beyond that. The shopping was done by parties unknown and the pantry and large double-width refrigerator were always brimming with fresh supplies. It was like working in a small hotel – he kept to himself, stayed out of the way, did his job, and everyone left him alone. His contact person was a bi-lingual Gringo named Stanley, who checked in with him several times a week in addition to handing him his pay envelope.

  This morning was Friday. Payday. Ernesto knew that at 10 a.m. on the dot, Stanley would enter the expansive kitchen, chat for a few minutes and then give him his wages – always in twenties. The routine never changed.

  But today the activity around the villa was unusual. Four new vehicles sat by the garages – big SUVs, late model, with their rear deck lids open. The sentries no longer carried their weapons and were ferrying crates and boxes from the house. There were at least fifteen unfamiliar people helping move the items, some of which were large trunks.

  Ernesto was troubled. This was a first.

  He entered the kitchen and placed his backpack onto the counter by the TV as he did every day before approaching the large island to see what the day’s menu consisted of. But today there was no menu. Instead, there was a handwritten note in Spanish, signed by Stanley, along with a brown envelope. He picked up the note and read the terse missive.

  “Ernesto, your services won’t be required any longer. Sorry for the lack of notice but I just found out last evening. We’re moving on Friday. The envelope has two week’s pay in it. Good luck finding another position. You’re a good cook.”

  Ernesto opened the flap and peered inside at the paltry wad of twenties. Unbelievable. He was now unemployed, even though he’d never missed a day’s work – except when his mother had died – and all he got by way of thanks was one lousy extra week’s pay? Ernesto sat heavily beside the island and read the note again. Stanley hadn’t even bothered to show and personally deliver the news – Ernesto just got a short letter. Why not just text message him on the bus on the way in? What a thoughtless way to reward almost a decade of loyal service. Gringos were all the same. You couldn’t trust them; they viewed anyone foreign as beneath contempt – just cheap little robots for their own convenience, unworthy of the most cursory consideration.

  He deserved better than this. Whether Stanley wanted to talk or not, Ernesto intended to have a conversation with him. This wasn’t over – not like this. For the first time after his eight years in the compound he shouldered his backpack and moved through the connecting double doors into the hall that led to the main house. It was buzzing with activity; men hastily carting boxes from the house to the vehicles. Ernesto was invisible to them; just another of the locals hired to move their belongings and clean up after them. He realized he had no idea where to find Stanley – even if he was still in the villa. His indignation rapidly fading, he stopped outside one of the open doorways halfway to the main wing. Glancing inside, he saw several monitors, some audio-visual gear and a case filled with about a dozen late model video cameras.

  Ernesto looked up and down the hall. It was temporarily deserted. Overcome by an impulse he didn’t completely understand, he leaned into the room and grabbed the nearest camera, hurriedly stuffing it into his bag before closing the lid on the camera container. He scanned the hall again. Nobody had seen anything.

  He stood for a moment in the hall, internally debating his next move, when a man in one of the house ‘uniform’ windbreakers rounded the corner. The Gringo stopped when he saw Ernesto and spoke to him in rapid, clipped Spanish without any hint of an accent.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

  Ernesto’s righteous indignation buckled, replaced by fear of being caught. “Er, nothing, sir…I was actually looking for Mister Stanley…”

  “Stanley? He’s gone. Who are you?”

  “Ernesto. The cook. I really need to speak with Mister Stanley…”

  “He’s gone, and he’s not coming back…just like you.” He narrowed his eyes. “You shouldn’t be here. You need to leave the area right now.”

  “But I–”

  “I’m not going to repeat myself. Get out of here – now – or I’ll have you removed by the guards.”

  Ernesto weighed his anger at his abrupt termination against the likelihood of being prosecuted for stealing an expensive piece of electronics.

  Discretion won the day.

  “All right,” Ernesto protested. “But you tell Mister Stanley the way he treated me isn’t right. It isn’t right.”

  The man regarded him with a stony stare and pointed to the kitchen door.

  Ernesto got the message. He turned and slunk back down the passageway, through the kitchen and out of the compound.

  Eight years, and the fuckers boot him out just like that.

  Chinga tu Madres, Putas.

  Table of Contents

  Go to the King of Swords excerpt