The Supremacy License

by Alan Lee

  “This stalwart gentleman is Julio.” Hubert indicated the tall Hispanic man. “One of our guests.”

  Manny said, “Buenas noches, Julio. De dónde vienes?”

  - Where are you from? -

  Julio kept his thick arms crossed. “Sabes de dónde soy.”

  - You know where I’m from. -

  “Honduras?” said Manny.

  The man nodded. Kinda.

  Manny inserted his hands into his trouser pockets. “You don’t like me, Julio. Poor judgment on your part. Might get you hurt.”

  Julio remained stoic. And stupid, he thought. Clearly he met Manny at the door to impart a message—don’t mess with us.

  Manny cared little for threats.

  Hubert let them into a towering vestibule cooled by breeze coming from the shade. The floor was travertine and another fountain churned here. Divans and settees arranged in sitting spaces. Dueling stairs led to upper levels, and below them Manny spied modern chandeliers in the far rooms. Classical music emanated from the corner.

  Manny caught his own reflection in a mirror. Olive khakis, ivory jacket, pressed shirt and tie. Hair sculpted without being shiny. The outfit was slim fit and bordered on being too tight, finding that sublime manicured look so many men couldn’t attain. Should he have worn socks with his loafers? No. Why tinker with perfection.

  “Hubert, your house is sexy as hell,” he said.

  “Thank you. I’ve never heard it described thusly, but I agree with the sentiment.” They paused at a security checkpoint, manned by two armed sentries. They dressed like Hubert but with assault rifles. Ruined the look. “A thousand pardons for the inconvenience, but I’m sure you understand. We are a private residence and take a great deal of precaution.”

  “Understood.”

  “Your phone, shoes, belt, and anything in your pockets must remain here. Then you’ll be subjected to a scan, I’m afraid. At the far side, we’ll provide you with fresh slippers and belt. And, of course, your weapons will be confiscated until you leave.”

  Manny didn’t move. He kept his hands in his pockets. He swiveled to cast a glance at Julio. “Seems I’m outnumbered and have no choice.”

  Hubert smiled politely. Julio did not.

  “However. I’m reluctant.”

  “Rules are rules, Mr. Martinez. And you’re far more outnumbered than you realize.”

  “I’m here to meet Catalina García,” said Manny. He felt Julio flinch. “You prove to me she’s here and I will comply with your rules. I’ll strip nude if you like.”

  Neither man moved, but they shared a look. The sentries watched Manny impassively.

  In his ear, Sounds tense. Be careful, Sinatra.

  He let ten seconds tick before saying, “Come on, gentleman. You know Catalina. Tall brunette Latina. Even prettier than your house. Had a nose job recently.”

  From inside the house, laughter bubbled over like music. A woman emerged beyond the staircase. Such a woman. Her hair fell like spun satin, brown dyed dirty blonde. Heart-shaped face. A natural arch to her eyebrows. Strong architecture in her features, confident smile. Time had been good to her; she still resembled Eva Mendes, he thought, but more organic. She wore a golden dress—the bodice was tight, as though made for her and it probably had been; the hem swished at her knees. Her high black strappy heels clicked, as a femme fatale’s should.

  “Manuel,” she said, striding closer in that catwalk motion only confident and graceful woman achieve. “No one has dared mention my nose in three years.”

  “Cowards. I liked your old one better.”

  “Liar.” In Spanish, she said, “The breasts are new too. Perhaps you want to insult them also?”

  “I am a gentleman. Maybe later.”

  She came into his arms and kissed his mouth. With her heels, she was only two inches shorter. He embraced her and they stayed in that position, entirely insular, for half a minute. Friendly, affectionate, wary. Manny kept the torrent of emotions at bay, but only through discipline and a trickle of anger he let seep through. Anger as armor.

  She stepped away. Cleared her throat. “It is good to see you, Manuel. I like your hair.”

  “Obviously.”

  “You must surrender your items to these nasty gentleman,” she said and she undid his jacket button. “Here, I will help.”

  “Help me undress? If you insist.”

  In his ear, Oh my.

  13

  Catalina led him through a tour of the house. Not all of it, he knew, only the sections the stewards allowed. Hubert brought them champagne aperitifs as they investigated salons with leather settees and ottomans, and indoor gardens with jardinières and mosaic tiled walls.

  She’d grown harder. Gone was the youthful buoyancy, the emanating optimism. Her energy took the form of determination now. Her eyes pierced instead of hoped. She wore self-possession like a crown. Yet she clung tightly to his free hand as they walked and Manny’s long dormant affection erupted like a backdraft. He’d once loved this woman and he hadn’t dared since, with anyone. Love was too great a cost to bear.

  She wore no lipstick. For him? He always hated it. She now wore only mascara, other makeup unnecessary.

  They strolled through the impressive labyrinth, the house even larger than it outwardly appeared. Julio followed everywhere, glaring.

  Manny said in English, “Your henchman seems perturbed.”

  “He doesn’t like you. He was on the plane when we left and had to listen to me cry. Plus, you are with the police.” She shrugged a shoulder, which he found charming. “So…”

  Manny called over his shoulder, “Ay, chupacabra, I’ll behave. Give the lady and me privacy, sí?” They moved down the hall and Julio followed. “You are warned.”

  They were also tailed by two other guards, who kept a respectful distance.

  Catalina led him into a library and she pointed at a turbulent painting on the wall. “An original Thomas Hart Benton, from the 1920s. Henry Hill brought it during a stay, decades ago. He worked with the Lucchese crime family.”

  Manny sipped his champagne and set the flute down. “How do you know?”

  “I received the same tour you’re on. And I find American organized crime more interesting than my country’s. The cruelty is more…tasteful. It’s something of a tradition, at this house, that guests leave a gift.”

  “What did you bring?”

  “Tuberose bulbs, from the executive garden of Honduras.”

  Manny didn’t reply. He pivoted smoothly and kicked Julio between the legs. A snap kick, making solid contact through his slippers. His target’s face went purple and he emitted a strained hissing. Manny knew the feeling—an overwhelming agony, incapable of being shrugged off. Julio slumped to the ground.

  “Now.” He retrieved his flute. “Cheers. To privacy.”

  Catalina wore a wicked smile, as though pain was a guilty pleasure. “You still fight dirty.”

  “Not dirty. Efficient. He was warned.” He offered her an arm and they left the library and its prone occupant.

  “He will get revenge, Manuel. And I cannot stop him.”

  “Your mission in Honduras went well?”

  “Ten years ago? The coup was a success. We used our new congressional influence to arrange contracts with traffickers around the world. Hired enough local warlords for protection and underbid the old guard.”

  “Trafficking narcotics.”

  “I wish you had joined us. It was a costly mess and very bloody. We could have used you.” She squeezed his bicep. “You’d be rich now.”

  “You’re the only Honduran export I give a damn about. Keep your money.”

  “The business is hard. My brothers began dying, so I married into another family to bring peace.”

  “All your brothers are dead?” asked Manny.

  “No. I still have one. And other family, like Julio.”

  “And your husband?”

  “He was murdered.”

  “Who killed him?”
r />   Her lips twisted, a tight angry smile. “A lady never tells.”

  Goosebumps on his arms. She killed her own husband? Good hell, what happened to the girl he knew in Los Angeles?

  She continued, “I quit the drug trade years ago, after your Drug Enforcement Agency got too close.”

  “They send you their best.”

  “Yes.” She squeezed him again, walking close enough that he felt the heat she emanated. “They did.”

  In his ear he heard pulses. Your side of the conversation is fascinating.

  Manny took a deep breath to mask the pause as he listened. “I’m not DEA.”

  “I know. I watch your career with interest from afar. Your talents are wasted in your position, Manuel.”

  “I enjoy what I do.”

  “So?”

  “It matters. To me.”

  “Working for the American government.”

  “Democracy is one of the bright lights keeping evil at bay.”

  She laughed softly through her nose. “You don’t believe that. You are too violent and raw. Roanoke’s not even a very big city. And you live with another man.”

  “Mack August. He’s my friend.”

  “I remember Mackenzie. Why did you follow him to the East Coast?”

  “I had to get out. My soul was becoming ruined. Ten years running vice in south L.A. is enough. I got in my car and drove and ended up here. Life gave me three things to keep the hate away. Friendship, my career, and a love for America. It’s not much, I know. And it sounds absurd. But it’s what I cling to.”

  “Yet it’s still not enough. Is it,” she said, and her words didn’t form a question. “I know the feeling. Our youthful idols falling flat. Some nights I pray I won’t wake up.”

  “You’ll get your wish if you don’t quit the lifestyle.”

  They were underground now. Tucked away from sophisticated surveillance. She paused at a double-door entrance. “I believe it’s dinner time. Hungry?”

  “What’s on the menu?”

  She smiled again. Her teeth were perfect and brilliant. “Come sit. The company is worth the risk.”

  The dining room was grand, lit with a panoply of candles. A long oaken table stood in the middle on rich crimson carpet. A place for her at one end and his at the other. The scent of freshly baked bread filled the room.

  They entered and the hairs on Manny’s neck stood. He felt, rather than heard, a high-pitched whine. A short burst that made him shiver. The small microphone in his ear short-circuited, burning him. A tiny mark but inside his ear canal it hurt. Badly.

  Catalina watched for any reaction. Manny showed nothing. He asked, “Did you feel something?”

  “Oh yes, I should have warned you. This room is protected with small electromagnetic pulses at the doors. I hope you weren’t carrying electronics.”

  “They were taken from me,” he said. “A damn suspicious group, you criminals.”

  He was now alone in the wolf’s den.

  Poor Beck. She would be near a cardiac episode.

  They moved to the long table. He pulled the chair for her, waited until she sat, and moved to his place.

  He gestured at the arrangement. “We’re eight feet apart.”

  “It’s tradition.”

  He grabbed his plate and silverware and flute, and returned to her. He set a new place at the high-backed chair immediately to her right. “A stupid tradition.”

  “Always the rule breaker, Manuel. Even as a cop.”

  He took off his jacket and draped it neatly on the adjacent chair. He popped the cork from the chilled bottle of champagne, filled her glass, and sat.

  “Dom Pérignon Brut,” he noted.

  “The very best for you.”

  “Never tried it. Coffee and champagne, the two things America can’t do.”

  Julio returned, the pain of his injuries abated enough to allow full movement. He stood in the corner, near another Hispanic sentry. A few more minutes and he’d be healthy enough to cause trouble.

  She said, “You’re taller than I remember. Also I do not recall you being so…cultured.”

  “What was I?”

  “A mess. A handsome one.”

  He winked. “I’m still there. But I stuck out, so I became a gentleman. Or learned to fake it. Became the best American I could.”

  “After I left.”

  “I needed it. Needed to be something other than a fighter.”

  “Americans are fat and lazy,” she pointed out.

  “I’m the best kind of American. Not one who takes it for granted.”

  Switching effortlessly into Spanish, she asked, “That is why you drive the absurd car?”

  “Careful how you speak about the Camaro, mujer. It’s American as Elvis.”

  “You hate Elvis.”

  “Then it’s American as Frank Sinatra.”

  “You said the right kind of American. Isn’t a muscle car…beneath you?”

  Servers came, bringing hot bowls of gazpachuelo soup.

  Manny raised his glass to her, ceding the point. “Us Americans, we don’t make elegant cars. Besides, I enjoy the horsepower.”

  “Maybe a Cadillac?”

  “A Corvette, soon as I get a raise.”

  “Come with me, Manuel.” She clinked her glass against his. “I will make you rich. You can buy a fleet of American cars.”

  He didn’t respond to her offer. Was it genuine? They ate their soup, followed by salad. The food was exquisite; he told the servers so.

  Despite his best efforts, they fell under each other’s spell and the enchantment of halcyon memories. Old longings flared.

  His mouth watered when plates of pozole were set in front of them. He hadn’t seen this dish since he was a boy. Before he could try, Julio spoke.

  “Catalina. I am done waiting. I will deal with the American cop here or outside. Now.”

  Manny set down his silverware. He asked, “Julio is your family?”

  “Cousin. I’m afraid you deserve what’s coming, Manuel. I learned from experience—don’t interfere in the petty disputes of men.”

  “What if I kill him?”

  She was breathing deeply and her rich brown eyes took on greater sparkle. The desire echoed his own. She said, “He’s not my favorite cousin.”

  “Bien. I’ll make this quick, one way or another. I want dessert.”

  “You boys and your insecurities ruin everything.” Though she sounded pleased.

  Manny pushed back his chair, stood, and set his napkin on the table.

  Julio didn’t wait; furious, he attacked Manny in the dining room. Taller than Manny, and heavier, confident of easy victory, throwing punches. Manny in a forward stance, natural for him, a little stiff, deflecting the rights, wary of any big left. Child’s play.

  Hubert hurried in. “Gentlemen! We have rules for this.”

  Manny slipped a punch, throwing a left into Julio’s stomach and circling behind. Julio grunted in pain and surprise.

  “Outside, Julio?” he asked. “For the sake of Hubert. Worried the feds will see your embarrassment on satellite?”

  “Puta!”

  “Fighting here feels like getting mud on a leather couch.”

  Julio caught him off guard, a short kick to his knee. Manny limped backwards. More punches now, Manny parrying, loosening, knees bent, left foot forward, catching the odd carom in his jaw but they were ineffectual. He was a marshal, after all—a professional absorber of punishment.

  Julio was frustrated, unable to penetrate, accustomed to overwhelming lesser fighters, his size and strength more than enough to crush most men on the planet; he moved slowly and off balance.

  Manny caught him hard on the nose and retreated again. Julio breathing heavy and eyes watering

  “Don’t stop now, boys,” said Catalina.

  Julio came on. Manny abandoned defense. Feinted a left jab. Hit him a right into the jaw. A powerful uppercut next under the chin. Enough to sunder most men and it bruised Man
ny’s hand, but Julio only staggered like an oak.

  Disaster, then. The nearby Hispanic sentry hit Manny from behind. A cheap shot. Felt like a crisp blow from the butt of an assault rifle, hard enough to daze him. Manny, lights blinking, a realization he’d fallen to the floor. The fight’s balance was drastically altered by the second assailant.

  “Nicolás!” shouted Catalina.

  Manny rolling away, trying to recalibrate the spinning gyroscope between his ears. Nicolás, the sentry, struck him another blow. The butt of his weapon cut open Manny’s eyebrow.

  Manny kicking at the man, trying to rise, but Julio hit him—an open handed slap against the ear. Tremendously painful, Manny’s whole head ringing.

  From behind, Julio hauled him up. Manny’s arms pinned. He tried to kick Nicolás again but missed and, helpless, received a strong chop to his abdomen. Grunting in pain.

  From a distance he heard Catalina’s voice. Words drowned out by thunder in his ears.

  “Again,” said Julio, nearly wrenching Manny’s arms out of socket. Julio using a snarling voice. “In the groin.”

  “Two against one?” wheezed Manny. “Make it fair. Call a few more of your friends.”

  Nicolás raising the assault rifle, prepared to inflict violent harm on Manny’s genitals.

  Manny squirming, his arms held fast. At the last second he plunged forward. Julio pulled off balance. Falling, both of them. Nicolás missed, connecting with Julio’s shoulder instead.

  The sounds of pain and exertion bouncing and clashing against the dignified air of the dining room.

  Manny up first, shoving Nicolás, who’d gotten too close. He kicked Julio in the face, busting his teeth, and grabbed the top rail of a high-backed chair. He swung it like a ponderous club, catching Nicolás off balance. The exquisitely fine chair cracked against the sentry’s head

  Hubert made a groaning noise—each chair cost five thousand dollars.

  Nicolás wobbling. Manny snapped the broken back off the chair and he brought the hard seat crashing onto the sentry’s skull. The wood split and Nicolás fell.