by J. M. Parker
“Not so much.”
“No family?”
“Not anymore. My dad passed a few years back.”
“Of what?”
“TB.”
“Tuberculosis,” said the Frenchman. “And your mother?”
“She was around a bit when I was little but then she just up and left. Guess she found a better deal. Can’t say I remember much about her, my old man just about raised me on his own.”
The Frenchman studied him for a second. He took another sip of wine and set the glass back down. “It is a sad thing, no?”
Bannon shrugged, taking a drink of his own. “You never said what you cared to talk about.”
The Frenchman nodded. “Sorry, I digress.” And he peeled away the brown paper of the package to reveal a huge block of cannabis. “This. This is what I cared to talk about.”
Bannon looked at the package, the sadness disappearing as a sudden shock coursed through him. “Not sure I understand.”
“I would like you to sell it for me.”
“What?”
“We talked of many things the other night. You are unhappy, no? Unhappy with your work, your luck. I can change that.”
“This feels awful heavy to me.”
“I am a busy man, I do not have the time to sell such things. But you, you could sell it and we could share the profits. There would be good money in it.”
“Christ, what are you into?” said Bannon, his eyes still fixed on the weed.
The Frenchman’s grin widened. “I am an importer. An exporter. Marijuana is one of my products. A product for which you have a certain affinity.”
“Sure, but this, well, this ain’t a couple of joints.”
“No, it is not.”
Bannon sighed, running a hand through his hair as his brain knotted with questions. “I dunno.”
The Frenchman laughed, grabbing the wine and topping up the glasses. “Well, you have not said no; this is something. You are busy this evening?”
“I ain’t.”
“Then stay awhile, think on it.”
“Alright.”
“Perhaps, I will call some friends,” said the Frenchman. “I have some persuasive friends. They may convince you of my wisdom.” And he flashed Bannon another mischievous smile as he raised his glass and took another drink.
The night grew long, bottles piled up on the table. Bannon laughed, his mood lifting as the Frenchman told stories of home: the women in the springtime, the bars, the restaurants, the cities and their nightlife. Somewhere a buzzer sounded and the Frenchman disappeared.
Bannon sat alone, blowing air across the tops of the bottles and listening to the sound reverberate. A door to the courtyard opened and Bannon jumped back. His leg caught the table and bottles went rolling across it. He lunged to save them as the Frenchman’s laugh echoed from the walls, and Bannon turned to face him, his arms still wrapped around the table. Two ladies stood beside the host, each wearing dresses that barely broached the waistline. Their butter-shaded skin shone in the light of the doorway and Bannon felt his face redden as they giggled at his appearance, their lipstick-coated lips curling into sultry smiles. He straightened the bottles and rose. Wine stained his T-shirt and the Frenchman laughed again. “Regardez vous. Perhaps we should help you out of your clothes.” the ladies moved toward him, the heels of their shoes clicking against the stone. The first one took him by the arm and he felt her fingers caress his skin.
“I ain’t one to pay for it,” said Bannon.
“But you are not paying.”
“You know what I mean.”
The Frenchman eyed the girls and grinned. With a knowing look he turned to Bannon. “Trust me, mon ami. It is the only thing worth paying for.”
Bannon sighed. For a moment he thought about the women he’d used already. Anika and Suzanne for their beds. Kathy as well, using her kindness to get him on the dive boat in the first place. Slowly he pulled an arm away. “Guess, I’ll have take your word for it.”
The smile never left the Frenchman’s face. “As you wish.” And he wrapped his arms around the girls. “Please, help yourself to a room, consider my offer, we can discuss more in the morning.”
Bannon watched as the Frenchman guided the girls back into the house. Then he turned back for the table in the courtyard, and poured himself another drink.
*
Bannon woke in a lavish four-poster, nestled among linen sheets and goose-feather pillows. Above him little cherubs circled a naked female in a painted re-creation of La Naissance de Venus. He rose and stretched, scanning the room for his clothes and finding them gone. A shirt and linen trousers hung from an adjoining bathroom door, beneath them a pair of polished shoes shone in the morning light. Bannon showered and dressed, eyeing himself in his newfound clothes and allowing himself a smile.
He found the Frenchman in the courtyard, seated behind a table of pastries and jams. A corked bottle of champagne stood next to a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice. An attractive young waitress waited beside the table and when she saw Bannon, she moved and readied his chair. Bannon looked at the champagne. “You never stop, do you?”
“Bannon,” said the Frenchman, “how fine you look. I found myself compelled to rid you of your former attire. I found them, how do you say, incongruous with your surroundings. They are a good fit?”
“They are.”
“The ladies guessed at your size, before, well, you know?”
Bannon seated himself as the waitress poured him a drink. “You must try the jam,” said the Frenchman, “imported at a great cost.”
The waitress spooned jam onto a croissant and Bannon ate. “That’s some good preserves,” he said.
Again the Frenchman beamed. “Bannon, you have made my day.” he helped himself to another drink and waved away the waitress. “So? Have you had a chance to think upon my offer?”
Bannon stopped eating. He looked about the courtyard, the sun striking the face of the sundial, the Frenchman a picture of elegance, a magnificent watch strapped to his wrist. He felt the linen clothes brush against his skin. “What would be the split?”
“Fifty-fifty on the first block. A good way to make some money, for whatever you may need,” said the Frenchman. “We can renegotiate after. A fair deal?”
“Fair.”
The Frenchman slapped a hand against his thigh and raised his glass to Bannon. “Then let us drink to it.”
Again the two men drank, Bannon listening as peacock calls rang out from somewhere in the gardens. “Nice birds you have out there.”
“You know,” said the Frenchman, his voice laced with fake wistfulness, “in his pomp, Pablo Escobar had wild rhinoceroses upon his estate.”
Bannon smiled, the name stirring a memory—the stacked televisions, the crackle of gunfire rattling through the news feed. “Can’t win ’em all I suppose.”
The Frenchman returned the grin as he raised his glass and peered into its contents, his face warped and golden in the fluid. “No, but perhaps we can win enough, my friend. Perhaps we can win enough.”
4
Bannon wandered along the beach, his backpack half filled with weed, roughly measured eighths, quarters, and half ounces sealed in plastic sandwich bags. He watched as young boys moved through the crowds of sunbathers, their scrawny arms wrapped around boxes of fake T-shirts. A line of female merchants sat behind blankets covered with little wooden Buddhas. Bannon hurried past them, gripping the straps on his backpack as they tried to call him over.
A little farther down the beach he heard laughter break from a cluster of trees and he spotted a group of travelers. A rope was stretched between a pair of trunks and a young girl balanced on it. Bannon watched as she moved her leg forward and stepped along the rope, the rope bellying slightly beneath her nimble frame. She waited for a second, arms outstretched, then she took another step, moving her other leg with similar precision and advancing to the end of the line.
Bannon stepped a little closer, glan
cing from the rope to the travelers. A man waved him over to the group, his arms marked with replica tribal tattoos and his hair clumped into thick dreadlocks. “You want a go, man?”
“Not sure, doesn’t look so easy.”
“Sure it is. You saw Saffron do it.”
“Saffron?”
The girl spun in his direction and shot him a fierce look. “I bet you a beer you don’t make it halfway,” she said, pointing at a small children’s bucket where bottlenecks poked out of large pile of ice.
“Alright,” said Bannon. “Don’t mind taking a beer off your hands.”
He set the bag against a tree and stepped onto the rope, reaching back to the nearest trunk as he waited for the rope to steady. He took a first step, placing his left foot gingerly in front of his right, his weight shifting from side to side as he inched along the rope. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the girl grinning with obvious pleasure. He took a larger step, planting his foot into the rope and feeling it dip beneath him. He flailed his arms as he tried to steady himself, his torso lurching one way, his right leg stretching the other. He heard a chorus of laughter as he lunged forward and tumbled hard into the sand.
He lay on his back, his face red with embarrassment. Saffron stood above him, her tanned cheeks covered in light brown freckles, her dark hair dangling toward him as she leaned a little closer. Bannon groaned, “Did I make it halfway?”
“Not even close.”
He heaved himself into a seated position. “Shit. I bet that beer would have been good, too.”
Saffron let out a high-pitched laugh and turned back to the group. “What do you say? Do you think he earned it?”
“I’d say so,” said the man, moving in Bannon’s direction and extending his hand out to him. “A for effort, brother. Come have a beer.”
They sat in a circle sipping their drinks. “What do you do out here?” said the man, his face half obscured by his dreadlocks.
“I was a dive instructor.”
“Was?” said Saffron.
“Yeah.”
“Well what do you do now?” said the man.
Bannon reached into the backpack and pulled out a bag of weed. “Well, now I sell this.”
Big smiles broke across the faces of the group. “Shit, brother. Why didn’t you say so earlier?”
“You interested?” said Bannon, passing the bag across.
The man opened the bag. “Smells good.”
“It is.”
“And to think, I thought you were just a pretty face,” said Saffron, throwing a hand across the top of her chest and sending a mosquito buzzing up into the sky.
“How much do you have?”
“Plenty.”
“How much for an eighth?”
“An eighth? Two thousand. And I’ll throw in a joint for free.”
“Two joints,” said Saffron. “An extra one for that performance on the rope.”
Bannon grinned. “Deal.” he grabbed an eighth of weed and took two joints from the cigarette case. “But I’ll need another beer for the road.”
“You got it.”
The travelers counted out the money and before long Bannon stood with a handful of bills. “You’re a real hustler,” said Saffron.
“I spend a bit of time in the Irish bar across town, you guys come around if you need anything.” he turned to leave but the girl called him back. “Hey, you forgot your beer.”
Bannon walked over to the bucket and picked out a bottle. He uncapped the top and took a drink. “Thanks,” he said. “Maybe, see you around.”
“Maybe,” said Saffron, smiling back at him before he wandered happily away. “Beats plunging toilets,” he said, “beats it by a long shot.”
*
Barely a half hour had passed before he sold his second eighth to three Finnish boys: Elias, Jalo, and Jouni. They sat on the porch of a rented house and Bannon watched as Jalo rolled a joint. “You want to see something cool?” said the Finn.
“Sure.”
He followed them inside. In the living room three upturned crates sat in a small triangle. “Unfurnished,” said Elias, “but we are making it work.” he took a seat and gestured for Bannon to do the same, as Jalo hurried into another room. Bannon heard the sound of glasses clinking together before Jalo returned with four beers and a bottle of whiskey. He placed them in the center of the triangle and took a seat on the floor.
“Sure you don’t want a seat?” said Bannon, pointing to his crate.
Jalo shook his head and passed the joint to his friend. “It’s okay. Just watch this.”
Jouni lit the joint and took a long drag, holding the smoke in his chest as he reached for the bottle of whiskey. “Christ,” said Bannon, watching as Jouni took a gulp from the bottle.
“He’s not finished yet,” said Elias, passing his friend a beer.
Bannon saw Jouni’s face redden as he set the whiskey down and started to chug the beer. The other Finns started to cheer as the fluid began to foam, and Jouni burst into a fit of coughing, spraying beer out across the floor. Jalo rose to pat him on the back as Jouni rocked forward on the crate, his face bright pink and his T-shirt wet with beer. Slowly, he straightened up. “It’s easier if ze beer is in a glass.”
Bannon laughed. “Is that right?”
“It’s called a strikeout,” said Elias, grinning at Bannon as he offered him the joint. “American thing.”
Bannon waited for a moment, looking at Jouni who sat with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Elias pushed the joint a little closer. “Alright then,” said Bannon. “Suppose I should be good at it.” he took the joint and inhaled, sucking the smoke into his lungs, and he felt the heat of it radiate through his chest. He reached for the whiskey, fighting the urge to retch as he took a large gulp. Jalo passed him a beer and he began to chug it, watching as the fluid ran into the bottle neck, the dregs of it disappearing from sight as he drained the last of the beer. He took a deep breath as he set the bottle down. The booze and the drugs hit him immediately; he felt light headed, the room swaying in front of him. The Finns rose and cheered again. “Impressive,” said Elias. “Your first time.”
Bannon waited for the room to steady before he answered, the dizzy feeling abating slightly as he took another deep breath. “Yeah,” he said. “First time.”
“You can really hold your air,” said Jouni.
Bannon laughed. “Yeah. It’s amazing when that will come in handy.”
*
Bannon watched as the Finns pressed onto the dance floor before he saw a lonely looking traveler seated by the bar. Skin was peeling from the back of his sunburned neck and sweat showed obviously on the pits of his light blue shirt. Bannon headed over and noticed the boy staring at a group of girls. “You gonna buy them a drink?”
The kid looked back, beads of sweat glistening on his spotty skin. “Oh, yeah, maybe.”
“Got a light?”
“Erm, yeah,” said the kid, offering him a cheap plastic lighter.
“You want to smoke one?”
The boy’s eyes seemed to flit back toward the girls.
“I don’t think they’re going anywhere,” said Bannon. “You never know, they might miss you when you’re gone.”
Outside the bar Bannon ushered the kid over to an alley. “I thought we were smoking?” said the kid.
Bannon held out the joint. “You smoke pot, don’t you?”
The kid’s voice cracked a little as he answered, “Sure, sure, but you know, I don’t like to mix it with the booze.”
“You’ll be alright.”
“Sure. I guess so.”
They stepped into the alley and Bannon lit the joint. “We’ll smoke this one now and you can buy some more if you like it.”
“Erm, why don’t I just buy this one? You know I really don’t want to mix.”
“You don’t want to try one? I could be selling you oregano.”
“Are you selling me oregano?”
“No,” sa
id Bannon, his patience thinning.
“I’ll just buy one,” said the kid, thrusting forward a handful of money. “I better be getting back.”
Bannon watched in shock. “Alright, partner.” he took the top three bills and handed him the joint. The kid seized it and hurried away. Bannon stood for a moment before he sighed and followed, spotting the joint in a puddle at the end of the alley. He shook his head. “What a waste.”
Back in the club he saw the kid standing awkwardly on the edge of a crowd. The girls had vanished and Bannon felt a little guilty. He took a few bills from his wallet, wrapped them around a joint, and wandered over to the Finns. “There’s a kid at the bar,” he said, handing Elias the money, “show him a good time.”
Elias smiled back at him. “Strikeouts.”
“Maybe something a little softer.”
“Alright,” said Elias. “You know this guy?”
“Nah, just figured he could use a favor.”
“Okay. You leave it to me.”
Bannon thanked him, and he watched as the Finns rushed across and seized the boy, his shocked expression replaced with a nervous smile as they thrust him into a group of girls.
*
He left the bar and headed home, one hand wrapped around his wallet as he walked along the crowded sidewalk. A gap appeared and he pushed between the pedestrians, stumbling forward as he collided with another man. Bannon turned to apologize, his throat lumping as he recognized the neat gray uniform. The officer straightened up and Bannon reached instinctively for the straps of his backpack. The officer’s eyes followed the movement and Bannon blushed as he let his hands fall back to his sides. “Sorry,” he said, trying to pass the officer, who quickly cut him off.
Bannon tried to step past him again but the officer gripped his arm. He watched as the man’s free hand reached for his handcuffs. He wrenched his arm free, shoved the officer, and ran, his sandals slipping from his feet as he squeezed through the crowds. He thought he heard footsteps closing in and he turned into a side street, his bare feet slapping against the concrete as he broke into a sprint. He felt the impact shooting through his shins and he heard the officer cry out behind him. He burst into another crowded sidewalk and felt his foot disappear into a pothole. He tumbled out into the road, headlights flashing across his face as a car hurtled toward him.