Javier Calvo - Wonderful World

“We're almost there,” says Mr. Bocanegra, still drumming his fingers to the beat of the Pink Floyd compact disc. And giving copious signs of being in a good mood. “Keep going past two more blocks of apartments, then three roadside bars, take a left exit and look for a neon sign in the shape of a girl with devil's horns,” he says, tracing the directions that appear on the screen of his global positioning system with his finger. “The place is called Judas.”

Five minutes later, Aníbal Manta parks the Jaguar in the client parking lot of the roadside bar named Judas. From where, less than an hour ago, came the casual call to Mr. Bocanegra saying that the individual commonly known as Raymond Panakian was having glass after glass of Macallan at the hostess bar and sticking wrinkled fifty-euro bills into the dancers' panties. The building that houses Judas is a block of cement similar to a warehouse, with a neon sign on the roof and surrounded by withered palm trees. With no windows. With an exaggeratedly well-lit main entrance that's protected by a couple of security guards with headphone intercoms.

“We have to do this discreetly,” says Mr. Bocanegra when Aníbal Manta turns off the engine and takes out the ignition key, making David Gilmour's voice suddenly stop. “These people are our friends. We don't want to make a scene. I know the owner of this bar. He's a good man. His business is based on discretion. Just like ours. And we wouldn't like anyone making a ruckus in one of our places. Right?”

Aníbal Manta nods. He gives the Jaguar's keys to the parking valet and gets out of the car, followed by his boss. The two security guards at the door step aside to let them through with barely the slightest shudder of the muscles behind their identical sunglasses, betraying the fact that they've recognized the two men. Once inside the bar, Bocanegra and Manta wait a second for their eyes to adjust to the reddish half-light. An old single from the English band Iron Maiden plays on the sound system. Aníbal Manta feels a warm wave of recognition. When he was a troubled teenager traumatized by the stigma of his physical appearance, Manta used to listen to Iron Maiden tapes. In his opinion it's obvious that Iron Maiden were much better than Dio. Better than Saxon. Even better than Megadeth.

The bar employee who approaches them with an obsequious smile is dressed in stiletto heels and sequined panties. She also has something like sequins, maybe glitter, sprinkled over her face and torso.

“My name is Anaïs,” the employee says to them. “I'm here to ensure you have an unforgettable evening.”

“His name is Mr. Bocanegra.” Aníbal Manta points to Bocanegra with his thumb. His plugged-up nostrils turn his voice into some sort of rich, buzzing boom. “We came to look for a friend of ours. If everyone minds their own business, I don't think anybody will end up getting hurt.”

Anaïs's obsequious smile melts like a bar of soap that's fallen into a vat of steaming sulfuric acid and is replaced by an expression of immense terror. She nods several times and moves away from the two men as quickly as her stiletto heels allow her. Her speed gives her bare breasts an exaggerated rhythmic vertical sway. Some of the clients that have been watching the scene surreptitiously also begin distancing maneuvers. Some of which are so subtle as to hardly be noticed, and others so hasty that they leave behind unfinished cocktails and scantily clad companions.

Raymond Panakian is sitting on a stool at the hostess bar with his back curved, dressed in the same blue, paint-stained coveralls he was wearing when he escaped the night before. His facial expression suggests that he's been sitting on that same stool for a long time and has drunk several dozen glasses of Macallan. Under the bar's strobe lights, the paint smatterings on his face and hair make him look like a lazily trancelike model from some seminal work of the psychedelic film genre. At one point he extends his arm in an almost nostalgic gesture to touch the genitals of the striptease dancer dancing in front of him. Something that looks like a string of saliva falls from the corner of his mouth.

Aníbal Manta and Mr. Bocanegra sit on the stools beside Raymond Panakian. One on each side. The striptease dancer dancing in front of him begins to distance herself subtly. Still dancing.

“Under normal circumstances,” says Bocanegra to Panakian's bowed and vaguely drooling head, “I would be the one to take care of you. As a question of hierarchy, of course. I'd be the one that'd make you understand that it's not right to leave a job with no notice, et cetera. And without finishing the job, obviously. It is one of my duties as supreme chief. To give those who are doing something they shouldn't a few good tugs on the ear and then smile and pat them on the back and tell them not to worry about it after all. That we're all friends here and that we've never held a grudge. And yet, given the present circumstances”—Bocanegra points with his head to Aníbal Manta, sitting on the stool on the other side of Panakian—“I think that my friend Aníbal is interested in being the one who has that little chat with you personally. And I'm going to let him have that.” His lips trace an enormous cruel smile. “That is if you don't mind, of course.”

Panakian turns his head slowly to look at Manta. Aníbal Manta nods his head and says something that's unintelligible because his nostrils are clogged with dried blood and broken cartilage and cotton balls. The only words that can be understood are “recognize” and “mother.”

Raymond Panakian's next movement is completely unexpected from a man of his age and complexion, especially a man who seems to have drunk so many dozens of glasses of Macallan. As if he had some sort of spring in his lower body, or perhaps a jet engine. Panakian shoots forward and up toward the spot where the dancer had been just a minute earlier. It's probably one of those physical feats born of absolute desperation and fear for one's life. Which can only be pulled off when the seized-up, desperate mind forgets for a second that the body is incapable of it. And it almost works. Raymond Panakian is about to successfully jump from his bar stool to the stage. Except for the fact that just as he is hanging in midair, Aníbal Manta manages to grab him by the ankle. Causing Panakian's floating body to jerk and fall facedown on the edge of the stage. Breaking most of his teeth against it.

“Grrfssslll,” says Panakian from the floor. Spitting out pieces of teeth and protecting his head with his hands.

“I don't understand,” says Mr. Bocanegra with a frown. He raises a hand to his ear in that universal gesture meant to show someone that they haven't spoken loudly or clearly enough. “What do you think he said?”

“I don't know,” says Aníbal Manta. “Must be one of those weird languages.”

Mr. Bocanegra picks up a pool cue from a rack beside one of the pool tables. By that point, the vast majority of people in the establishment have already left or are taking cover behind some piece of furniture, watching with fascinated horror. Bocanegra grabs the pool cue by both ends and breaks it in half over his knee. Then he tosses the larger piece to Aníbal Manta. Manta catches it airborne.

What happens next is quick, efficient and not pretty. Manta grabs Raymond Panakian by the scruff of the neck and lifts him to shoulder height. He pushes him against the edge of the stage in such a way that Panakian's body is conveniently folded in half with his rear end slightly projected outward. In one swift tug he pulls down his pants and his underwear.

“Be careful with the hands,” says Mr. Bocanegra.

Aníbal Manta looks at his hands quizzically.

“No, you idiot, with his hands.”