by John Hunt
Enrico walked toward the kitchen. It was a large room with a walk-in refrigerator and several ovens. With its usual kitchen staff of two augmented, the facility had the capacity to provide hors d’oeuvres and dinner for more than one hundred people. Or for two or three men the size of his father. Enrico laughed quietly to himself as he considered this.
“What is planned for dinner, Maria?” he said to the girl who was cutting vegetables at the far side of the kitchen.
The girl turned with a start. “Oh, Señor Enrico, I did not hear you come in!” She wiped her hands on a towel and straightened her white frill apron quickly. Under the apron, she wore a black short-sleeved top with a black skirt that did not come close to reaching her knees. Under the skirt were shapely legs that the young Marcos had trouble keeping his eyes off of. Her face had perfect skin, which was fairer than most Mexicans’, betraying her not-entirely-Hispanic ancestry. But that perfect skin was like icing on a cake. Her brown eyes were large, decorated with long lashes and even and precise eyebrows. She seemed sophisticated and mature. How old she was, he did not know. Somewhere in her late twenties, he presumed. But that mattered little.
“When did you come back, Maria? I haven’t seen you lately.”
“My mother has been ill. I have only just returned.”
Enrico walked closer to her. “You are cutting tomatoes. I like tomatoes. What else am I going to be eating tonight, Maria?” He made no effort to conceal his innuendo, which he made clear by leering at her.
Maria backed slightly away, indicating her discomfort as Enrico approached. But he took this as a game.
“When did you first begin working for my father? Was it two years ago?”
“No, Señor. I first worked in this house only six months ago. Your father only just that recently hired me, although I had wanted a job here for years. And I have had to spend much time away because of my mother.”
“Perhaps he should have hired you when we were both teenagers. When I was younger, the cooks were always old and fat and mean. Perhaps there are some changes for the better in the old man!” He laughed as he said it and reached past the girl with his arm, blocking her transit alongside the counter.
Maria flashed a quick and nervous grin. Enrico had made passes at her almost daily when she had been working here before, and each time he got bolder. He liked like the chase very much, and he kept on coming back even though he was always rejected.
With a quick move, the girl slid under his arm, and before he could turn around she moved to the other side of the kitchen’s central island, picked up a hefty chopping knife, and began to demolish some onions. This amused Enrico further.
“You handle the knife well, Maria. It is something we have in common. I used to work with a knife frequently, you know.”
“Were you a chef, Señor Marcos?” Maria asked innocently.
He laughed. “A butcher.” He worked his way around the island and moved in behind her. One hand reached around her belly, barely touching her, stroking gently. The other rested at the top of her hip.
“We shall have drinks together after dinner,” he stated, and then took a deep breath through his nose, inhaling the scent of her hair. “Yes, we must have drinks.”
Maria stood very still, her fist tightly gripping the handle of the large blade. She said timidly, “I will be needed to clean up after your dinner, Señor. I will not be allowed to break away.”
“Leave that to me, Maria. That old bag who is your boss will heed my command, I assure you. You will be free after dinner.”
And with that, Enrico released his gentle hold on the girl and walked out of the kitchen, never having learned what the main course would be. He strode down the hallway and out the front door past two young men with automatic rifles. They nodded deferentially. He entered the warm moist air, took a deep breath of the city’s aromas as they rose up out of the valley, and began walking down the long drive toward the street below. He looked out over the city and smiled.
Tijuana had been his home for his whole life. Enrico grew up when his father was struggling to develop a power base among small groups of poor thieves. The gringos’ demand for drugs opened up the doors for men like his father to prosper in this land where law was not dominant. As the elder’s power in the underground community enlarged, so did Enrico’s stature among the young boys who ran freely in the streets of Tijuana. He gradually became the dominant male in a gang of boys.
Marcos had used the gang to consolidate his power. As the boys turned into teenagers, and then into young men, their numbers grew and their strength, cunning, and confidence increased. They became pawns in the father’s battles, and their tactics were heartless and merciless. These boys would kill on a whim, rape without guilt, and pursue their goals until they achieved victory, regardless of the cost. By the time Enrico turned eighteen, he was clearly the leader of more than a hundred young men.
Enrico’s younger brother had worked by his side. They were friends and allies, in that they both suffered under their father’s malevolent and capricious sadism. But the sadism affected the younger brother differently than Enrico. Not unlike his father, Enrico became violent.
His brother Manuel, however, had been more calm, controlled, and quiet, for some unknown reason. He let his brother do most of the dirty work, although he was not averse to lending a hand when needed. Although usually gentle, Manuel was incredibly strong, and intimidated many because of exaggerated stories that he promulgated of how he used his strength. He was a talented street fighter as well. Enrico learned much from his younger brother, and missed him.
Enrico had been the only person alive who knew that his brother was homosexual. This knowledge caused him great consternation, initially. Having a "fag" for a brother would certainly weaken his own power amongst the great group of boys. It also made him call into question his own sexuality on several occasions; but each time, he relearned that he was completely straight. Nonetheless, the notion of a homosexual so closely related to him gnawed at his self-confidence for many years. But that passed. Fearing for his life, Manuel never told his father. Nor did he ever allow anyone to find out. Manuel had never fallen in love, but he had had many lovers. Each one was chosen carefully by the two brothers, used, and then executed. No one ever knew of Manuel’s tendencies for long.
But Jeff Baddori had somehow intimated that Manuel was homosexual. Perhaps he was bluffing. When Manuel went to kill Jeff, all that time ago on that fateful night, Enrico nodded to his brother, granting tacit approval for the assassination. He should have gone too. It was a mistake that he would suffer from for the rest of his life. He hoped that he could one day avenge his brother by terminating the life of the filthy vermin who had brought about his brother’s demise.
Diego had seen the whole thing, and told Enrico everything. Diego had been an ally of the Marcos organization for more than two years now, and he was part of the inner sanctum. The elder Marcos, trusting no one now, still would occasionally confide in Diego, who had a reputation for being quite deadly. Enrico did not know where the man came from, for he never discussed it, but he trusted him. He had seen Diego kill an enemy of Juan Marcos with his bare hands.
Diego had gone with Manuel on the night of his murder. He was driving the car when Manuel and that other man pursued Baddori on foot. What was the name of that other man? Enrico could not remember now. A man with a menacing smile who talked little, his name was lost with the passage of time. Diego drove the car around to the far side of, and then into, a long alley that Baddori entered. He was to cut Baddori off from exiting if Baddori made it that far. He proceeded down the alley in time to see Baddori jump from behind a crate in a dark corner and shoot both men in the forehead. Diego chased the tall and fit man on foot, but he was no match, and Baddori got away. Diego thought that he might have winged him with one of his shots, but the wound was not severe, unfortunately — and certainly not fatal, for Baddori subsequently was identified in Moscow, using Juan Marcos’s name.
&nbs
p; And Diego was more than just an ally of his father. He was an ally of his father’s sons. So, as far as Enrico knew, Diego never told Juan Marcos all the details of that evening — or that his son was killed because he was attempting to prevent Baddori from ever revealing his sexual preferences. Diego either had not known, or had been willing to keep it all a secret. Enrico was grateful in either case.
Baddori had to die. Someday, somehow, Enrico Marcos would kill that man. And he would take great pleasure in doing so.
Enrico was on the street now, walking toward one of the outer business districts of the city. He was in no rush, and did not need a car. In fact, for this trip today, a car would have been counterproductive. This area, not far from his father’s estate, was a recent target of Enrico’s subversive activity. More than two dozen of his men worked around here, spreading half-truths as if they were gospel, undermining the government without appearing to be traitors. They were taking advantage of the free speech laws, certainly. But they were defying any laws relating to slander or character assassination.
This afternoon, Enrico walked down the road to talk to as many of his men as he could see. He would find them working in a bar, behind a grocery counter, in the police station working as a janitor. They were all over, in various short-term jobs or as new customers to businesses. It did not matter where they appeared. They spread their misinformation surreptitiously but freely. He would find most of them today, and talk with them.
The whole of Mexico had to ignite at the same time, or else, when the angst and discontent reached a peak, the rest of the country would see Tijuana as rebellious. No, it had to be the whole country at once. Enrico knew enough of the big plan to know this.
As he entered the nearest section of town, he walked into the first small bar on his right. It was dark as he went in, but his eyes acclimated to the light. Three customers sat quietly in the corner. Nothing new and fancy here, but the glasses would be kept clean. No one stood behind the bar. Enrico walked up to the bar nonetheless, and waited. In a minute, a door from a back room swung open between two large cases of liquor and a tall thin man walked through. He smiled instantly when he saw Marcos, then, just as quickly, extinguished the grin.
“Good afternoon. What can I get you, Señor?” His voice was high-pitched — not what one would expect from such a tall man.
“I am thirsty from a long walk. Some water please. A large glass. Do you have ice?” This he said loudly enough for the others in the saloon to hear.
“No problem.” In a moment, the bartender placed a glass of ice water before him.
Quietly, but not so quietly as to arouse suspicion, Marcos said, “Things are going well. Do you think you are getting much accomplished?”
“Yes, Enrico. The political issues are always coming up in conversation now. It seems to have a life of its own. It is as if the regulars here have taken on politics as the big issue in their lives. All I have to do is stoke the fires now and again, and keep them on the right track. It’s growing fast. People will be violent. I have no doubt about that.”
“Good. Good. You have done well. I am proud of you.” Marcos took a sip from his glass, then looked closely at the bartender. “But we have gotten a bit ahead of the game, and it is time to let the losing side catch up a little. We don’t want to make this look too one-sided.
The bartender moved in closer, using a dishtowel to wipe down the surface of the bar. “What are you saying? You want me to slow it down?”
“Yes, that is exactly what we need you to do. Don’t stop, but slow down. We cannot have all Tijuana up in arms before we are ready for it, now can we? I am told that we have been so efficient that the rest of the scheme cannot keep up. We need to keep our claws in, but not squeeze so tightly just yet.”
“Well it is no problem,” the bartender replied. “I am paid here, as well as by your father. I can happily prolong this as long as you wish.” He started to smile again, but then, again, quickly smoothed his face.
“Well, I am glad you are not in a rush. But you should be. When this is all over, you are going to be a prominent government bureaucrat, making much more money than now.”
Nodding, the bartender said, “Yes, I know. But this is still not so bad. It is rather fun actually. I find I enjoy manipulating people. I see them swearing about so-and-so’s policy on this or that, and laugh, because they think it was their own idea. It’s becoming the topic of choice for these impoverished folk. People are so gullible.”
“Suggestibility is the key to this. People will believe anything when presented certain ways. Especially if there is a kernel of truth to work with.”
“And there are lots of kernels.”
“After the overthrow, we will use the same techniques to make the population think of us as gifts from the gods.”
“Even more effectively,” the bartender said with his brief grin as Enrico tossed a coin on the bar and walked out.
Enrico went about his rounds that day with great success. He was able to find all but one of his men, telling them to taper down, but not eliminate, their activities. It took the rest of the afternoon, but the walking around was relaxing and good exercise. Tomorrow, he would patrol a different area of the city. His feet were beginning to hurt a little. He would take a car tomorrow.
As the afternoon drew to a close, he began the long slow climb back up the street toward his father’s house atop the hill. Dinner would be ready soon. Then drinks with Maria. He would bed her, of that he had no doubt. But she was a challenge. Beauty combined with challenge made her all the more enticing. He thought about how he was going to accomplish this feat. He would make her feel sorry for him. He would become a real person to her, with real problems. She would come to empathize with him over the course of the evening. He would romance her with sympathy-invoking stories — some real, some loosely based on reality, others totally false. Gradually the romance would increase. She would be in his bed by midnight.
On the walk up the steep drive, he became increasingly excited about what the night held for him. He was able to smell the dinners’ scents, and imagined Maria working efficiently in the kitchen. Perhaps she wore no underwear under that skirt. The notion caused him to suck in his breath, and the adrenaline continued to build up. But he would have to wait at least through dinner. That would be very difficult. He felt very alive right now. That feeling would end — he knew from experience — acutely and suddenly, after intercourse that night. Then he would feel despondent for a time. But that was then. For now, life was a thrill.
He entered the house, and then the sitting room where he knew his father would be waiting.
“Hello, father,” he said quietly.
The elder Marcos looked up from his newspaper and smiled at his son. Enrico knew immediately that his father’s mood had improved during the day. Good. Perhaps dinner would be enjoyable.
“Good evening, Enrico. Was your afternoon successful?”
“The rising of the river has been slowed, and the dikes are not going to collapse imminently.”
“Good. I am pleased to hear this. It is a shame that you are too efficient for your own good. Then it takes work to slow down those things that you have accomplished.”
“It will keep the men busy, and more importantly, keep them thinking. They are getting good at this. This is psychological warfare. Even I am having fun.”
The elder Marcos nodded his enormous head. “It is definitely a different battle we fight now. And it is not even illegal.” A pause; then, “I too am having fun. Much more so than I anticipated.”
Enrico was sitting down now and put his feet up on the low table in front of him. In a moment, Maria was beside him. He had not seen her come in.
“A drink, Señor Enrico?” she said.
He thought for a moment. “Yes. Something delicate and fresh would be nice. Juice of some kind, I suppose. I won’t need a glass.” He winked at his father. “Actually, I’ll take that as a nightcap… in my bed.”
Maria seemed
confused. “Señor?”
He then said, curtly, “Just get me a beer.”
She nodded and walked out gracefully. Both men watched her carefully. Both were thinking the same thoughts.
“She missed your meaning, Enrico. How naïve.”
“I have plans for that girl. Tonight, she is mine.”
His father smiled. “Last night she was mine.”
Enrico cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “Really?”
Juan Marcos shook his great belly in laughter. “Maybe your nightcap tonight might be a little less than fresh and delicate!”
Enrico had no idea if his father was telling the truth. It would not be unlike him to play with his son in this manner. He would not find out by asking his father, for the older man would play it out to the end. No, he would ask Maria tonight. Before his nightcap.
But his father could sense his train of thought, and added matter-of-factly. “No, Enrico. The girl is mine. She is very special to me. You may find someone else if you need.”
Enrico was quickly deflated. With his father’s blunt and absolute statement, his plans for tonight could not be safely pursued.
Dinner came soon and was delightful. Resting on top of the salad was a cold gelatin creation with fresh fruit stirred in, jostling about like a young woman’s perky breasts. Indeed the most innocent items would bring sexual thoughts to Enrico’s mind tonight. Veal, dressed in apples and cinnamon, served as the main course. The portions were healthy, as Juan Marcos demanded. The younger man was satisfied much sooner than his father, who requested two additional servings. Throughout the dinner, they conversed about minor issues, and Enrico followed Maria’s every move when she was in the room. He was enraptured with this divine woman.