“Shoot him!”
The bodyguards were shouting for him to duck, to get down, and I expected to hear gunfire. Instead, all I heard was Balserio’s whistling scream of pain as I brought his left arm up behind him, then grabbed a handful of his hair for additional torque.
“He’s hurting me. Fire!”
I’d hoped he’d managed to hold on to the knife. I had a vague notion that if I took the knife from him, then held the blade to their boss man’s throat, maybe I could bully the bodyguards into dropping their weapons.
But nope. No knife. He’d lost it when I popped his wrist askew.
Even so, I still had their general…
As the two guards moved cautiously toward me, their weapons raised, I shifted my grip from the man’s hair and arm to a modified choke hold, so that my forearms cradled Balserio’s head.
As the General wrestled with me, again commanding, “Shoot him! You idiots, kill him!” I said to the guards in a much calmer voice to make certain they listened: “Come one step closer, I’ll break his neck. I know how to do it, believe me.”
I could have done it, too. But for what?
It was a bluff, and it didn’t work.
The bodyguards had finally maneuvered themselves so that there was one on each side of me. Now Panama Hat touched the barrel of his Uzi submachine gun near my temple, and said in Spanish, “Yeah, dude, that’s cool, go right ahead. You break his neck, I shoot your head off. Then you and the General can go to hell together and finish your fight. People down in that place are probably already selling tickets, man, making bets.”
Panama Hat was far more subtle and articulate in Spanish.
I had no choice. I released Balserio, pushing him roughly away. He turned immediately and charged. He kicked at me once, hard-I blocked it with my hands and hip-and then he began to slap wildly at my face with his open hands.
“You think I’m done with you? I’m not done with you.”
As he slapped at me and kicked, I covered my head with my arms, ducking and weaving until his men pulled him away.
But when Balserio then dropped to his hands and knees, searching furiously to recover his knife, it occurred to me: Maybe I shouldn’t have bluffed.
He seemed determined to use the damn thing.
TWELVE
Panama Hat was Elmase. White Shoes was Hugo. The men could communicate without speaking. Eye movement, a shift of the shoulders, a re-angling of the jaw. That’s all it took.
They had some history, judging from their easy familiarity. Way more going between each other than with the General. Were probably partners in some intricate way. Maybe family.
Balserio was a mental case, and they seemed to recognize it. Or maybe he was just acting crazy, playing out years of despising me, but taking it beyond the edge.
This was the General who’d imported a sociopath into his own country for political gain. A serial killer who set people on fire. Did they know?
Maybe. I noticed that they distanced themselves from Balserio in subtle ways. One was by demonstrating exaggerated patience.
The General was still on his knees, crawling in the tall scrub where the knife had vanished. There were plant colonies I recognized as giant leather ferns-ancient sporangia coated-and alligator lilies with stalks toothed sharp enough to cut skin.
Balserio had cut himself a couple of times, cursing, then sucking blood off his fingers.
“You don’t have knives? One of you has to have a knife!”
“No, General. We have guns. Why would we need anything else when we have good guns? We can shoot off his cojones, if you wish.”
From the tone, the flat subservience mixed with sarcasm, I got the impression they wouldn’t have admitted carrying knives if they had them.
Balserio was practically frothing. “I’m paying fools like you? Then grab that pig’s arms while I find my knife. Tie him to a tree and strip his pants. I’m going to cut his balls off. I swore I’d make him a sow if I ever got the chance. I’ll do it now. Then we’ll find Pilar.”
Elmase and Hugo looked at me, expressions mild but now interested, a bedrock contempt held in ready. To be terrified was to be debased. Maybe contempt shielded them from the humiliation of other men they’d seen begging. How would I react?
Hugo said, “Then I guess we’ll need some rope. Do we have rope in the car?”
Elmase said slowly, “No, but there’s tape. We could tape his arms and legs to a tree. Tape could work… if you’re sure you want to do this thing.”
Neither sounded enthusiastic. More silent communication was taking place. Their focus on me, though, remained intense. How would this man react when threatened with the ultimate male humiliation?
I was furious. Too enraged to be frightened. Furious that Balserio would not only threaten me, but also threaten to maim my son. He intended to do it. Really wanted to cut me. Tomlinson has written a few things that’ve stuck with me. One is, To make a fool of a tyrant, refuse to submit.
It had a brand of kiss-my-ass wisdom that now flooded through me.
So my reaction was aggressive, and it wasn’t an act.
The bodyguards had put some space between us. White Shoes-Hugo-had slipped the pistol back into his pocket and was relying on the shotgun again.
When he said, “Yes, then I guess you should get the tape. I’ll hold the big man while you do his hands first, then his-” I silenced him, snapping, “ Enough. Stop right there. Not another word.”
Both paused, looking at me, expectant.
I pointed my index finger first at Hugo, then Elmase, before I continued, “Don’t waste your time with the tape. What you need to do is, go ahead and shoot me. I mean it. Do it right now. Because I’m not going to let you lay a finger on me. No one’s tying me to a tree. And that lunatic’s sure as hell not getting near me again with a knife. So go ahead and shoot.”
I jabbed my finger at Hugo for emphasis. “I’ll tell you one thing, though. You’d better aim high and shoot straight. And you’d better hope my hands don’t live any longer than my brain. If they do, you’re gonna die with me.”
Hugo sobered for a moment, his contempt fading as he translated the meaning of that. He and Elmase exchanged facial expressions, then a shrug.
The exchange seemed to go: Is he acting?
No… he’s for real.
Then: Yeah, man. I’d die before letting any man take a knife to my private parts, too.
Hugo looked at me with his wide face and began to chuckle. Then Elmase began to laugh, too.
“If your hands don’t die before your brain,” Hugo said. “Man, that’s a good one. Like in this old movie I saw. This hand go running around on its fingers, choking dudes. Scary. And the way you said it. That was kinda scary, too. Like you could make it happen. ”
We’d locked eyes, my eyes telling his: Yeah, I can make it happen. Still furious, I believed it.
I didn’t look away until Hugo had turned to Elmase, who was saying, “Yeah, but the Yankee is so right. Take the bullet, man. Before I even let some dude put his hands on my balls, I’d take the bullet. Shit, I’d grab the gun and do it myself. ”
Behind us, Balserio was on his knees still searching for the knife, frustrated now, and yelling, “Didn’t you hear me? I told you to take him and tie him to a tree. That’s an order. ”
Hugo made a waving motion with his hand, not dismissing the man but evading. “That’s what we’re doing, General. But first… I think, we need to check out this dude’s car. Who knows? Maybe your wife’s hiding in there. Or that giant dude with the tattoos-if he’s around, he’s so big, we’d have to shoot him ten, twelve times to bring him down. Like those rhinos you see on TV. Be cool, General. Be cool. We know our jobs.”
Spanish profanity can only seldom be translated literally into English. Try, and it sounds silly. That’s because it relies on so many simple, inoffensive words that, when used with subtle or sinister emphasis, become offensive. The words cork, rope, papaya, and bug, for example, can also be graphically profane.