By the time screaming shattered the night’s tranquility, the darkened shape of the Zodiac was thirty yards from shore, making its way to a sleek cigarette boat a quarter mile away. When the trio was alongside the high speed cruiser, the passengers climbed aboard. The pilot of the dinghy methodically slashed its vinyl hull with a razor-sharp combat knife. The captain nodded to the two new arrivals, gesturing with his head at a pile of heavy anchor chain. The men quickly passed it over the side, and within moments, five hundred pounds of rusting metal sat in the center portion of the sinking tender while it plunged to the muddy bottom of the channel.
The captain eased the throttles forward, and a deep burble emanated from the custom-designed exhausts of the blacked-out Scarab as the low profile hull slowly glided north towards Tampa. Sirens echoed over the water as the cruiser distanced itself from the rendezvous point; within a few minutes, it tied up at a private residence on the far shore and the engines fell silent. The three men quickly disembarked and the leader gave a curt wave to the captain, who, after checking the dock ties to ensure they were secure, popped a cold beer and cast a fishing line into the coal-black water.
Six men sat in the smoky room, the piles of chips moving back and forth between them as cards were dealt and hands were won and lost. Cigars lay smouldering in glass ashtrays next to half-drunk beers and cloudy shot glasses. The chatter was convivial, punctuated by an occasional exclamation of triumph or dismay, or a hand slapping the table to underscore the fickle nature of Lady Luck’s charms. The men interacted easily, familiarity bred from years of attending the weekly ritual, playing the odds and testing their skill against one another. A ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, the wicker blades more for token ventilation. The wall mounted air conditioning unit hummed as it battled to keep the heat at bay.
The game had been underway for four hours and a few of the participants were tiring; the combination of alcohol and the hour was catching up with them. A whippet-thin man with a goatee and carefully primped dyed brown hair stubbed out his cigarette, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air as he pushed back his chair. The remaining men protested as he waved them off — for this week, at least, he was done. He weaved unsteadily to the exit and opened the door to a blast of loud Salsa music intruding from the rowdy depths of the attached nightclub. Bodies moved together in a seductive rhythm on the dance floor as he brushed past the long bar. The working girls appraised his scowling face in a blink, mutually deciding to look to other sinners for their wages.
On the sidewalk outside the club, the man cupped a cigarette, lighting it with a battered steel zippo — a legacy of long years in the military. Inhaling the strong smoke deep into his lungs, he leaned against the building’s wall and looked up into the Fort Worth night sky. This time of year, pollution was minimal, so the view of the constellations was breathtaking, with an occasional shooting star putting in an appearance for the patient and vigilant.
He chuckled to himself, amused at some folly of thought, and made his way around the corner to the parking area, where his four wheel drive Ford truck waited to ferry him home. The expanse was nearly full of worn, tired vehicles — evidence that today was payday and the crowd was in the mood for a fiesta. Most were trucks, with the odd low-rider sixties car lurking between them like predatory jungle cats. These were working class conveyances of men who made their livings with their hands; the lot was devoid of the sleek German and Japanese vehicles to be found in the more ritzy areas of town.
The man was fumbling with his car keys in the gloom when he heard a scraping sound immediately behind him. Even though inebriated, he sensed imminent danger, but the alcohol and accumulation of years had slowed his reactions to the point that he never stood a chance. The long serrated blade of the hunting knife plunged into his back, puncturing his lung with the first stab and his liver with the second. Blinding pain shot through his body, and he barely registered a vice-like hand grabbing his hair, forcing his head back while the razor sharp knife-edge slit his throat.
The lifeless corpse crumpled to the ground as the attacker continued into the lot, shedding the blood-spattered disposable plastic raincoat as he walked. A truck engine started, and the lights on a Dodge crew cab illuminated the pavement as the assailant climbed into the rear seat.
The steel-capped toe of an ostrich skin boot protruded at an improbable angle from behind the tire of a parked vehicle, the only evidence of the brief scuffle aside from the slowly spreading pool of blood.
The truck traversed the length of the parking area at a measured pace before turning onto the street and pulling off into the steamy Texas night.
The crowd watched in furtive discomfort as the couple fought; the young woman was obviously drunk or high, punctuating her tirade with an occasional blow to the man’s chest. He gripped her arms in an effort to contain her rage, which only served to stoke her anger further. This was obviously a familiar dynamic for them. The party-goers tried to tune out the commotion, feeling embarrassed on behalf of the shameless players.
The man waited until her outburst had ended, and then leaned forward and whispered something into her ear. Her face changed from anger, to confusion, to fear, and then back to blind rage, as she struggled to break free of his vice-like grip. Disgusted with her display, he pushed her away in a gesture that clearly conveyed he was done with her and stalked purposefully from the courtyard, past the groups of drinkers averting their eyes, making for the large circular driveway and the long line of cars parked along its edge. She ran after him, furiously brandishing an empty beer bottle, which she swung wildly at his head. It struck him solidly on the shoulder blade. He whirled and slapped her, causing her to drop the bottle, the sting of his hand nothing compared to the humiliation of being abandoned for all to see, discarded like refuse by a man she couldn’t please or keep.
She stumbled and tripped, tears streaming down her face, and fell sobbing onto the gravel of the drive as he continued towards the cars; her cries alternating between cursing him and begging to give her another chance, that she was sorry, she knew she’d crossed the line and she’d be good from now on. The man ignored her, tired of the never-ending drama that was part and parcel with the fiery passion that had first attracted him. It was always the same. Too much to drink, too many drugs, the wrong look at the wrong woman and suddenly, chaos.
The woman screamed his name as he reached his car, screamed at him to stop, to come back, to give her one more chance. He ignored her, slipping behind the wheel and closing the door to her histrionics and crazed yelling. He took a deep breath to calm himself and vowed never again. This was the last time; he was finished with her and her craziness; the weird child-woman antics would be forever banished from his life — and good riddance.
The car blew apart in a fireball, seeming to draw in a breath as first it crumpled and then erupted up and out, the blossom of flame blinding the woman as the heat from the blast seared her skin. She watched in horrified amazement as the driver’s side door flipped endlessly through the air, then came down to earth with a crash as it landed in the large circular fountain that was the showpiece of the faux-Tuscan entryway.
The cleaning crew worked methodically from one end of the restaurant dining room, the hunched woman mopping as two young men washed and wiped down the table tops. They chatted in animated Spanish, laughing their way through the mundane drudgery of scrubbing and spraying.
At the far end of the vacant area, the cashier went over the night’s receipts with the owner, a Caucasian man in his early fifties. It had been a good night following a remarkably good year. Even though the country was impoverished and the average peasant barely made a subsidence-level income, the burgeoning new middle class was prospering and spending freely. After years of war had punished the region and the death squads had disappeared into the night, a new period of peace had taken root and the focus had shifted from executions to capitalism.