David Levien - City of the Sun

Don Ramon ’ s musings were interrupted by the arrival of another on the veranda. There was the telltale cough, whether an attempt at politeness or a chronic condition, Don Ramon was unable to tell. Then came the shuffling of feet on the tile, the sound of thin, cheap shoes. Don Ramon could only put the choice down to poor taste, as he certainly paid his employees well enough for them to buy quality goods. It was Esteban.

Esteban Carnera stepped out from around the potted plant and, seeing that the meal was finished, advanced.

“Don Ramon,” he began, his raspy voice scraping the adobe walls around the courtyard. Whatever he lacked in social graces, Esteban made up for in utility. He was tall and stringy-muscled like a fighting bantam and walked on the balls of his feet. His face was deeply pocked and scarred so that there was little value in his protecting his looks when it came to physical matters. Over time, Don Ramon had come to learn that this was of great advantage.

“Yes, Esteban.”

“There are men in town, going to all the places.”

“Yes?”

“They do not buy, they just look, and ask for other things.”

This in itself was not worrisome to Don Ramon. There were many kinds of clients and many ways in which they behaved.

“What kind of men? ї Clientes? ”

“No sй, Don Ramon. Ellos son gueros. ”

It had been two more days of looking around, two more nights of drinking. They figured they had seen the last of Victor. Now Behr and Paul passed the day flat on their backs in their dingy motel room, drinking the dwindling water they ’ d brought, considering their diminishing funds, and watching a national soccer game that seemed to go on for hours and hours and hours on the minuscule television set. Their stomachs rumbled, but food was not an option.

“That mescal ’ s got some kick,” Paul said, not for the first time.

“Like a damn mule,” Behr agreed.

They sent a halfhearted maid away and went in and out of sleep, interrupted by the chants and shouts of college kids across the motel engaging in a drinking game, turbo quarters or beer pong, it sounded like.

Finally the light coming in through the patchy curtain started turning color from bright yellow to pale and they began to stir.

“I ’ m hitting the shower,” Paul said, standing.

“I ’ ll go after you.”

There was a hammering at the door. They looked at each other and Behr got up. He put his gun at the small of his back in the waistband of his pants.

“їQuiйn es?” he said.

“Policнa,” came the answer. Behr swung the door open. There was a stout man in his mid-thirties standing there. He chewed tobacco and wore a straw cowboy hat, and he had a. 45 on his hip. His partner waited back in the distance in a dirty patrol car.

“їSн?” Behr asked.

“We speak English,” the cop said, “it ’ s more easy.” Behr nodded.

“I am First Sergeant Guillermo Garcia. They call me ‘ Gigi, ’ or also, Fernando.” He patted his big gut and smiled. “Now tell me what are you here for in the ciudad?”

“For the tequila mostly, it seems.” Behr smiled, blanking the cop with his eyes.

“Tequila is good, huh?” It was clear Fernando wanted more.

“And to see the sights, of course,” Behr added.

“Maybe the girls, too?” Fernando said.

“Maybe. We haven ’ t decided,” Behr said. Now Fernando ’ s face changed.

“Ah, you know prostitution is illegal here? This is an important thing.”

“We didn ’ t know,” Paul said, from the bed.

“Is that a fact?” Behr asked.

“Yes. A big crime,” Fernando said. “But it is possible to get a license. Then you do what you want.”

“Huh. Sounds like we need one,” Behr said, already reaching for his money roll. He kept it in his pocket as he peeled off a hundred-dollar bill wrapped around the outside. He handed the bill to Fernando.

“This is good. Now you have no problem,” Fernando said. “My boss will get his mordida — you know what I say?” Behr did, and it wasn ’ t because of his Spanish, but rather that almost everyone in law enforcement was familiar with the term. It translated to “little bite,” as in everyone up the chain took his. Behr had often wondered at the productivity that would result if all the organization and effort that went into the systemic corruption were applied to a useful enterprise. “Oh yeah, but this license,” Fernando held up the bill “it expire tomorrow. Understand? If you stay, I got to come back.”

Behr just nodded.

“So then, have a good night,” Fernando said, and stepped back. Behr closed the door.

After a moment, Behr turned to Paul. “I was wondering when we ’ d have to deal with that. It ’ ll cost more next time. We ’ re pretty much out of time here.”

Paul absorbed this and hurried to the shower.

Around evening time they went to the cafй, which had become their usual place. They ate and then ordered coffee and waited. After a half hour Victor appeared in the doorway. If he held any ill will over the roughing he ’ d received, it didn ’ t show. Instead he whistled and waved, and Behr and Paul followed him out.

They walked quickly through the streets, cutting down a few back alleys. No one said anything, and they soon came upon a worn, mud-spattered Toyota pickup with a man resting on the hood. The man popped up at their approach. He was lithe and wiry, like a punk singer, an orangutan without the hair.

“This is Ernesto,” Victor said, “ mi primo. ” Ernesto wore silver-framed glasses with blue lenses despite the darkness. The man slid off the truck and landed solidly on his feet. They shook hands with him.

“ Quй tal, ” Behr offered. “You have something to show us?”

Ernesto shrugged.

“You can make your fee without carrying anyone across,” Behr said. The pollero looked at them. Maybe he smelled cop. But he wanted the money.

“You hit on my cousin,” Ernesto said. Behr bristled and met his eyes in time to see that the man thought it was more funny than anything else, but then he added, “You no hit on me or else problems.” Behr glared back at him but said nothing. “I show you a place. Get in.” He gestured to the back of his truck.

“We ’ ll get our car and follow you,” Behr said, not liking it.

“Then no come.” Ernesto got in the truck and started it. Behr and Paul looked at each other and then climbed in.

They rumbled out over crumbling asphalt road that gave way to dirt track, and the air changed from thick and fetid with the smells of the town and outlying factories to cool and fresh. Dark hunches of juniper and sagebrush stood out in the blue of the night. They sat low in the truckbed, backs against the wheel wells, heads down against the wind. Every rut shot through the truck ’ s metal frame and up their spines.

Behr spoke as quietly as he could and yet still be heard over the wind.

“This guy, the cousin,” he began, “watch him. He ’ s a blade man.”

“Yeah?”

“If something goes down, you won ’ t see it coming. Knives are meant to be felt, not seen. If he shows it to you, look for what else is on the way.”

“How did you…?”

“I noticed when we shook hands, a callus at the base of his first finger hard as a rock. You ever meet a chef? They always have a callus there, where the heels of all the knives they use rest. And this guy doesn ’ t seem like a cook to me.”

Paul nodded. There was nothing else to say.

After a few miles of rough travel, they drove off the track onto the open plain and the truck began to jostle and buck hard. Behr and Paul held on to the gunwales and ate dust. A few painful minutes passed and the truck began to slow. It came to a stop and then crept along again for several hundred yards before stopping once more. This time it was for good. Behr and Paul climbed down as Ernesto shut the engine but left the headlights on. Ernesto walked forward to where the lights illuminated a low berm, and Victor got out of the truck.