Angels and Monsters
Story 1 of a Fiction Series
[Our] great moral task it is to hold in balance the angel and the monster within — for we are both, and to ignore this duality is to invite disaster.
Gore Vidal
“Done.” Salvi whispered into the americano’s ear, pretending he was giving him a kiss. He then turned to the other patrons in the bar.
“I don’t give a fuck about no fucking frogs,” Salvi announced. As he expected, heads turned.
“Every time anybody wants to be boricua they bring up the damned frogs. Why the fuck don’t they put them on the Puerto Rican flag, for Christ sakes? Coño, they should plaster a fucking frog on the US flag. Fifty fucking stars and one fucking frog.”
Renzo, the bartender, glanced up at Salvi, made a gesture to tell him to calm down, but knew it was futile. It was adrenaline talking, or something else.
“The gringos got an eagle — an eagle, for Christ sakes! Yeah, the fucker is bald, but it’s got talons — big fucking claws, sharp enough to slice your ass. You know what ball-less Bolivia has? A condor, the biggest mother of a bird on the planet! I know this shit. How about Cuba? You know what Cuba’s got? A crocodile! They probably got no coquís in Cuba because the crocodiles ate them all!”
The americano laughed. Salvi spun on his stool and looked at him, the blinking lights on the backbar asterisks in his wide black eyes.
“What do you think, Kenneth? You’re americano. Who the hell over there cares about Puerto Rican frogs. A coqui’s not even a decent frog. Did you ever see one? They’re so fucking small that when they’re raising a racket that could wake up Ponce de Leon you can’t even find them to stomp their ass. The only time anyone sees them is when something scares the shit out of them and they start dropping out of the trees like fucking rain. Don’t believe me? They come pouring down, thousands of slimy little puñetas, and disappear as fast as they fall.”
Salvi brushed his black hair off his sweat-sweet forehead, focused on Kenneth’s reflection in the back bar mirror, and flashed him a smile. “A frog the size of your fingernail, with a big mouth and scared shitless. I swear… some fucking symbol.”
The hum of compressors filled a sudden silence. A glass snapped on the bar. Kenneth Houser was indeed a gringo, an americano, or as some Puerto Ricans preferred, a continental. The Aryan blonde hair and pale blue eyes that stared back at him from the mirror was evidence enough.
The bar door swung open and a wave of light washed over the narrow room and then receded. In its wake stood Jesus Santos, blinking, waiting for his eyes to get accustomed to the dark.
“OK, Ken my friend, how ‘bout buying this little coquí a beer,” Salvi said as he embraced the new arrival. Kenneth nodded at Renzo who popped open a can and slid it toward Santos.
“Coquis, again, Salvi? Dios mío, next he’ll be blowing off about status! Hey, Renzo, talking politics is prohibido in this bar, right?”
Renzo barely looked in his direction, but mumbled, “Status isn’t politics, it’s a disease.”
“Status!” Salvi spit the word out. “What the hell is status? I’ve been hearing about status all my life. My fucking father probably heard it all his life and his old man before him. They been talking about status since Columbus pissed on Puerto Rico on his way someplace else. Ponce de Leon probably was looking for the fucking fountain of status in Florida. Status my dick! Status quo, that’s what status is. Status sucks, status fucks, status is stuck up America’s ass and America doesn’t care. Who the hell in America wants fucking frogland for a state?”
“Maybe for a state insane asylum,” Renzo murmured.
“America!” Salvi barreled on, smirking at Kenneth. “The name’s a joke. If you are americanos and what the fuck are we? Coquís? What gives gringos the idea that they are the only americanos? We are americanos, chileños are americanos, even the clueless Canadians are americanos!”
A halo of light framed Salvi’s head as a man escaped from the barroom.
“Colombianos — that’s what we all should be called. Columbus got shafted. Where was that Amerigo guy when Columbus was kissing Queen Isabela’s ass for ships? Where was he when Columbus was humping a couple of misplaced continents? Where was he when Columbus was blowing away stone-age savages with fancy fucking firearms?”
“Firearms?” Kenneth asked.
“Cannons. The conquistadores had cannons, and they had crossbows… and dogs. The Indians — the fucker thought he was in India — had sticks and stones. The dogs tore them apart, ate them up, no shit! No contest. I would of liked to have seen that!”
“So move to Colombia,” Renzo said in passing.
“Fuck you,” was the automatic response. “Gotta take a piss.” Salvi jumped off the stool and headed for the men’s room.
Santos followed him with his eyes. “Sabe mucho, he knows a lot,” Santos said. “He went to the U.P.”
It wasn’t difficult for Kenneth to recognize a lovelorn look. “U.P.?”
“Sí, señor, la universidad, the University of Puerto Rico.”
Behind him, sunlight was hitting the grime-coated window at the front end of the bar. It forced its way through the tangle of half dead plants, and painted a paisley pattern on the wall. Hunched silhouettes — Kenneth had not noticed before how far they had move away from Salvi’s rant — occupied the most distant seats of the bar.
Salvi came back, buttoning the fly of his jeans, and leaped onto his stool. “Did you miss me?”
Santos grinned. “I’d miss you pissing on me, amor.”
“I don’t mean you, pendejo. Vete ya, ya sabes. Get your ass out of here while you still have a piece of it left. Kenneth and I got business to discuss. Take my car, I’ll meet you later.” He handed him the keys and pulled out his owner’s card. “Don’t get arrested.”
Santos hesitated for a moment, gave Salvi his most doleful look, slid off the stool and slinked toward the door. In a sweep of sunlight he was gone.
*
“Ready?”
Renzo served them another Perrier and beer. Salvi scooped up the drinks, winked at Renzo and carried them toward a table.
“Have a ball, boys,” Renzo says, “or two.. or four.”
They sat at a corner table, out of hearing. In the windowless backroom, they were almost invisible. Someone going to the men’s room would barely make out the outlines of two men, their heads together, lovers, maybe, or a john and his trick.
“Where’s the gun?”
“Santos has it.”
“What does he know?”
“About you? Nothing. He thinks I’m tricking with you. It’s killing him. He was a mess on the job, though, almost sideswiped the mark’s car on the expreso. He’s off his game, but he’ll be OK. The thing went easy. I had a clear shot, just one, blew the guy’s fucking head open. Santos pulled ahead like a jackrabbit, a couple of cars behind skidding and swerving — probably pissed that some maricón was blocking the road. I looked back and it was almost as if nothing had happened.” Even in the dim light Kenneth could see the manic excitement in Salvi’s eyes.
“Anyone could have seen you.”
“Nobody sees nothing on Las Americas Expressway… if they do, they don’t. Too many bad guys on the road, you know, and you can never find a cop when you need one.” Salvi laughed. Kenneth remained as impassive as ever.
“This is Puerto Rico, not Nebraska. The Keystone Cops are like the CIA compared to our policía.” Salvi paused; he seemed to be reviewing the details of the scene. “And if they did, what would they see? I look like a thousand other Puerto Ricans. Now if it had been you, it would have been a different story.”
“Exactly,” Kenneth said. “But you better have Santos disappear for awhile.”
“Done. I don’t know how it is in the States, but here, this is a tough business. The competition is fierce. Between the drug dealers and the fucking amateurs it’s hard to make a decent living. A thousand people get whacked a year in coquilandia. Just about all of the shit — the papers say 80% — has to do with drugs.
“Then there are the abusadores who beat their women or their kids to death…and the women with balls who wake up and stab the rapist in the bed beside them. They account for 15% of the murders, so — you do the math — we got 5% left over to share with the crazies — the fuckers who shoot you for spilling beer on you or looking at you the wrong way at a stop sign, the trigger-happy cops, the robbers who fuck up on the job, and the poor bastards who happen to be in the way.
“Think about it. With millions of people on this island we got only 50 real murders a year. We oughta advertise that. The government oughta put it in their tourism ads alongside the damned coquis and the sentry boxes. Unless you’re doing drugs or cheating on someone, Puerto Rico is one of the safest fucking places in the universe. Unless, of course, someone put a contract on you. It’s a tough business, all right. And for every one of us fucking freelancers, there are three or four standing in line.”
Kenneth forced a half smile. “So broad daylight. In the middle of an expressway. That was the best you could do?”
“We had that guy’s schedule down to a minute. He was a gringo like you, you guys run like a Swiss watch. We were on him from the time he pulled out of the parking lot, reached the ramp and hit the highway.”
Kenneth tried to read Salvi’s eyes. Too dark, but his voice had a nervous edge. “Nobody saw me, and even if they did, they’d get amnesia. Even murderers get bail in this country and are back on the street faster than you can fart. Witnesses have a choice, they can be deaf and dumb or they can be dead.”
A muffled melody from the jukebox filled the silence. Kenneth inhaled stale beer, urine and body odor. He watched and waited. Salvi’s voice was almost inaudible. “So how long do we wait?”
“They’ll text me. When they’re sure they got their money’s worth, neat and clean.”
“Not that I care, but why that guy,” Salvi said. “Why did you want him whacked?”
“I didn’t, but somebody did. It’s a job, Salvi, that’s all we need to know. You did it and I owe you for it.” Kenneth took Salvi’s hand for a congratulatory shake.
Salvi did not let go. “I know how you can pay me — besides the cash. Money is god and you gotta worship it… You know you got the bluest fucking eyes I have ever seen.”
Kenneth extricated his hand. “And you have the glibbest tongue that I have ever heard.”
“You oughta see what I can do with this tongue,” Salvi said.
“My o’ my, I think you are coming on to me.”
“What do you expect, Kenneth, we are meeting in a fucking gay bar. We could mix business with pleasure, who would know? You’re hot, an all-American, a Puerto Rican cocksucker’s fantasy. You know, you look like a school teacher… no, too built, too tall, too straight, maybe a hunky Hollywood actor playing a teacher?”
“Thanks, but let’s get this other business over with.” Kenneth’s phone buzzed. He read it and then deftly fingered its keyboard.
“They put your cash in the trunk of my car. I’ll leave first. You follow five minutes later. And cover yourself. Tell Renzo you are meeting your coqui. I’ll pick you up in front of La Concha.”
“Like a john picking up a trick. I’ll be your trick,” Salvi says.
“You wish.”
“I can always hope.”
“Hope is the thing with feathers.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
Salvi straddled a bar stool as Kenneth walked out the door. Renzo brought him a beer. “After all that smooching, you let that one get away?” Renzo asked.
“Yeah, I got Santos waiting.”
“No rest for the weenie, right Salvi? I don’t know what you’ve got — beside the fastest tongue in town — but that gorgeous gringo’s been here three or four times and you’re the only person he’s really talked to. He sat with Roberto a couple weeks ago but Roberto did the talking. ‘Course not many get into a deep conversation with a guy who thinks his dead wife is stealing sips of his Coke. Funny, though, he sat through the whole thing, no reaction, if he was watching a boring sitcom. Roberto usually freaks everyone out.”
Salvi poured the rest of his beer into his glass. “Roberto freaks me out, and that ain’t easy. He was one of the hottest hustlers around, was making money hand over dick until he started seeing things.”
Renzo walked around the bar to the door, switched on a light, and paused to look out into the darkening sky. His tall form was silhouetted by the lights of a car pulling into the building’s single parking space.
“Fuck Roberto,” Salvi thought to himself. “I got other problems. Fucking mark might as well have been living in El Morro Fort… guards at his urbanization, guards at his office, probably a guard with him when he takes a shit. Thank God the dumbass drove his own car. You need to be a lot smarter than that to stay alive these days. Sure I may have been seen. But what else could I have fucked up? The car was clean, Santos stole it just before the hit, and he wore gloves, thick ones that can’t leave prints. Santos dumped the car at the supermarket near the projects. If the cops don’t find it by tonight sure as hell some poor bastard will steal it again.”
Salvi put a few bills on the bar, scratched Renzo in the small of his back as a friendly farewell.
“Don’t do anyone I wouldn’t do,” Renzo said.
*
Kenneth eased his car up to the bus stop in front of La Concha and pushed open the passenger door. Salvi slid in. He drove in silence toward Dos Hermanos bridge.
“Sure beats riding with Santos, I don’t have to worry about you sideswiping anyone.” Salvi said punching a salsa station onto the radio. “Nice night, isn’t it?”
No response. “You sure talk a lot,” Salvi joked to break the silence. He stretched his arm across the back of the seat, grazing Kenneth’s neck, coming on to him, as Kenneth expected.
Salvi plunged ahead. “I read about these two really old indios in Mexico, the last ones alive who speak the language of their tribe. Not even their kids speak it, although I bet they sure as hell understand when the ancianos tell them to shut up and eat their tamales.
“When these guys die, the words they used to yell at their kids or whisper to their squaws will never be heard again. So some scientists are trying to get them to talk to each other so they can record it and keep the language from being lost. But the two guys just sit there. Maybe they don’t like each other. Maybe they fought when they were kids. Whatever the reason, they have nothing to say! They could talk shit and their words would be fucking immortal, but they fucking have nothing to say!”
Kenneth reached over and lowered the volume of the radio.
“So I say we should talk about it,” Salvi continued. “I can’t let this go. I got something to say. I put out for you, neat and clean. You should put out for me. Don’t get me wrong. I liked doing a job for you. You’re cool… and you’re hot. You pay cash. You’re smart. You don’t complicate things.”
Kenneth glanced at him. Light from a passing car flashed across Salvi’s eyes, making them seem more manic than usual.
“If you are worried about what the guys in the bar gonna think, you can forget it. They think we’re tricking anyway. If you’re worried about your wife — you got a wedding ring on — there’s no way she will know. We got bigger secrets than that to keep. If you’re worried about Santos, I’ve taken care of him. I’m hurting here. You just can’t keep your pinga in your pants. What do you got to lose, your virginity?”
“Where do you want to go? Kenneth asks.
“Hallelujah! May Allah and all the fucking saints be praised! Turn right there, toward Piñones. There’s a path through the woods to the rocks over the beach. Trust me, I can find it blindfolded — I think I have a couple of times! With tonight’s full moon, it’ll be un guami, a piece of cake.”
*
When they reach Piñones, Kenneth parked the car off the two-lane road. They waited for a solitary car to pass and when the road was clear they crossed it and filed onto the narrow trail.
Salvi kept looking back and grinning, “Just a few more minutes,” he said. Waves exploded on rocks somewhere below, the fresh fish smell of the sea rolled toward them down the path, a cacophony of coquis added their cries to the din. They reached a small clearing high above the sea. The round moon turned to tinsel in the wild water.
It was over in a few moments. Salvi on his knees, his hands trembling as they tugged at the zipper of Kenneth’s jeans, the Beretta Pico drawn from Kenneth’s back pocket, aimed at the top of Salvi’s head and fired before he could look up.
At the sound of the retort, coquis showered down from the trees and scampered away, while Kenneth shoved Salvi’s body over the edge and it tumbled into the sea.
“Done.” He whispered into his phone a few minutes later, before driving home.
###
Note: This is one of a series about the fictional character Kenneth Houser and the people he knows, loves or kills.
1. Angels and Monsters (Introduces Kenneth, Salvi and Tito).
2. Graves and Graven Images (Kenneth’s Story; Introduces Victoria.)
3. Mineral Memories ( How Kenneth and Victoria Meet; Introduces Alfonso.)
4. Knowledge and Respect (Introduces Don Miguel, Victoria’s Father.)
5. Jesús, María y José (Alfonso and Kenneth bond)
6. Remember the Sabbath (Alfonso and Salvi’s Story)
Links will be added as stories are posted: More to come!
Please comment in private message or public: I crave feedback to improve this serial fiction as it (hopefully) develops into a novel.
