by H. L. Valdez
“Not scared, just cautious.”
"If they have no evidence, no need to run," he argued, gurgling beer from the dark-red bottle, then burped. "I'm not convinced. Sounds piss ass to me!" he added, taking a drag from his cigarette.
"Rico, you're a smart guy otherwise you wouldn’t be a Colonel," Gina said, appealing to his senses and sipping her whisky. "Listen to this," she continued, leaning forward, negotiating with his defiant attitude. "A Federal Grand Jury in Los Angeles is having problems developing a case against us. One of our sources took evidence from a helicopter crash site near Saigon,” she said, holding up her shot glass. “The Vietnamese Supreme Court judge killed in the crash was working for the American government,” she added, pausing to sip the whisky. "He regularly provided information to the U.S. Department of Justice against Department of Defense officials who were trafficking in narcotics," she informed him, setting down her glass, watching him gulp his shot.
“I admire your drinking ability. My trust and admiration for you is increasing,” he volunteered, refilling the glasses, inhaling deeply.
“I respect you, and your leadership skills Colonel. You’re a good man,” she countered, massaging his ego.
"People make lots of money in war," he said feeling light headed while rubbing his right eye and watching her with his left. “That's the purpose of war,” he said, as Gina picked up her glass brimming with whisky, pensively staring at Rico. She knew that she had to make Rico believe that she would not attempt to dictate terms or remedies and that nothing would be imposed upon him without his consent.
“I believe in you,” she said smoothly, slowly sipping the whisky.
"I don't know?" he said, rubbing his face. "It doesn't seem right. This is not my fight," he said, watching the band members return to the stage while slowly taking another drag from his cigarette.
"Rico, where does the heroin come from that goes through the Philippines? Where does your source of strength come from? What is your source of income?"
"I smell blackmail. There's a leak somewhere," he said with a sour face, gulping down his whiskey.
"What are you doing to protect yourself? Do you think the money will last forever? Do you have a plan to protect it?” she asked sternly, staring into his eyes, refilling his glass.
“I got plans,” he grumbled, avoiding eye contact.
“Don't forget, power is based on the way you are seen by others, not necessarily the way you see yourself," she reasoned, sipping her whisky.
"How do you know they're after you? And how does one missing shipment of heroin spell trouble?" he asked, tapping his cigarette ashes into the silver ashtray.
"It's true, there's a leak in the organization. But, if we put out a small fire now, we won't have a larger fire later. It's a matter of details," she whispered loudly, leaning forward.
“Makes sense,” he replied, quietly.
"This crisis team is after the heroin supply line. They want to dismantle my group. If that happens, you're next. Don't forget that," she told him in a strong voice.
“You’re quite the little lady,” he said, as they picked up their drinks, smiling at each other.
"Salud," she hollered to the Goons, looking at them, and smiling enthusiastically.
"Salud," everyone replied, as they toasted, touching glasses, a symbol observed by the Goons as positive kinship. Swallowing their drinks, the Goons stared at them, as the curious ritual was unfolding.
"I see your point. We have to pay attention to the details in this business," he said, rubbing his face, taking a drag from his cigarette. "Do you have a plan?" he asked, picking up his beer bottle.
"Let's develop one together," she suggested, refilling their glasses, easing him into a cooperative situation where he did not have to spend his energies protecting himself.
"Kill the bastards," he blurted, stubbing out his cigarette butt in the overflowing ashtray, then swigged his beer.
"That's the most effective way," she stated in a low tone, being cautious not to create feelings of disparity. "Let me help you your way," she suggested, creating an atmosphere of acceptance and cooperation.
"Where is this government team?" Rico slurred curiously.
"Could be Tokyo, Los Angeles, or Saigon," she said, sipping her whisky.
"Don't out-dumb me!" he quipped, pointing his forefinger at her. "So you don't have an operational sense for them?" He frowned, taking a steady gulp of beer from the quart-sized bottle.
"I wouldn't say that. But that's why I need your help." She answered, smiling, creating feelings of positive regard, and toasting him with her shot glass.
"What about weapons and people?"
"We have weapons, or bring your own. In terms of people, twenty to start."
"And my fee? What are you paying?" He asked, half-closing a suspicious left eye, and looking at her skeptically with his right eye. Rico's top hit men stood silent, scrutinizing Gina's response.
"What's the market rate?" She questioned, tilting her head, with her hair falling partially over her face. "I'm fair. I'm reasonable. I think you already know that," she said softly, raising her shot glass, staring at the amber colored bourbon.
"There’s a kind of violence used by people looking for freedom; and that doesn't come cheap," he stated agitated, gulping his whisky, then slamming the sturdy glass on the red Formica tabletop, and glancing at the band members returning to the stage, and start tuning their instruments.
"Let's not quibble," she suggested, twisting the stubby whisky glass slowly in her fingers while staring at the bourbon. “Are you willing to protect yourself?” She asked, as Rico tapped a cigarette on the face of his imitation Rolex watch then lit the tobacco, inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs. Holding the cigarette upright in his tobacco stained finger tips of his left hand, he exhaled steadily on the cigarette tip watching it burn brightly, contemplating the gravity of the moment.
"How much?" he asked arrogantly, as guitar players tuned their strings, saxophone players wet and adjusted the thin wooden reeds of their mouthpieces, and trumpet players were releasing saliva from cork-padded blowholes.
"One million dollars. Straight across," she stated with a straight face, then gulped her shot. DeLaGarza delayed his reply, while refilling the shot glasses, then stared into her bright eyes. Rico's lead hit men, engrossed with the negotiations of the general agreement, debated the discussion in low whispers.
“How come you’re not drunk?” he probed curiously, as the band practiced a medley of scales.
“I am drunk!” she bluffed. “I’m just holding back,” she answered, glad that she had taken the methamphetamines to keep her from getting drunk. The powerful stimulant was overriding the alcohol’s depressant affects. Now, if only her heart, kidneys and liver could withstand the physical beating that was being imposed. She needed water.
"OK then,” he replied, placated by the answer. “One million is a low figure. One million to start, quarterly payments and more details later," he countered, dissatisfied with the offer, puffing on his cigarette as he downed his whisky.
"You mean, do it as it comes, jungle rules, and change the rules as you go?" she snickered, twisting the shot glass in front of her, then sipped her whisky.
"I deal on the bonus system. Now I need an upfront bonus," he said, balancing the cigarette on the edge of the table, and picking up the beer bottle, swirling the contents in a circular motion while squinting into the bottle.
"I see. I know the rules. I know the system," she replied, nodding, refilling the glasses, and then gazed at the Goons. "Just show good faith,” she answered, setting the bottle on the wet tabletop.
"Money talks!" He wisecracked, looking at her.
"And bullshit walks," they answered in unison, with smiles that were unsettling and strained. Gina was thinking that the Goons assigned to this mission were sure to be killed. DeLaGarza was thinking that there would be a trap somewhere, but he didn't know where or when. He remained quiet and withdrawn, stuck between doubt and suspicion
, standing on the corner of walk and don’t walk. Mistrust, suspicion, and paranoia, always lead to violence. This was the maximum intensity point for Gina. Her relaxed posture and neutral gaze were met with jealousy and untrusting glares from the "Goon Girls" staring her down. Her senses were bursting with raw sensitivity. At any moment there could be either immediate physical violence against her, or a short handgun war with the Goons. The unpredictable Colonel sipped his beer, then puffed on his cigarette, silently staring at her. Gina had a feeling deep inside that she was about to be killed. This was the dirty part of the business where wits and weapons ruled. Sipping her whisky, she casually slipped her hand into her pocket, firmly gripping her .45.
"War is expensive, you know that. Feeding troops is expensive," DeLaGarza said, inhaling deeply on his cigarette. "I have to save face in front of my men, so don't out-cheap me," he said pointing his cigarette at her, exhaling thick toxic smoke through his nose.
"I'll need the Goons next week; armed and ready."
"Don't call my men goons!" He demanded defiantly, banging the table with his fist.
“No offense. Sorry,” she replied, holding up her hand, sipping her whisky, avoiding his eyes.
"No goons here! These are good men! They’re Catholics! They do a good job!" He shouted passionately; as his men stood proudly, listening to their boss defend their honor. Gina pulled the large worn duffle bag from under the table; slowly and deliberately unzipping it, she placed five bundles of one thousand dollar bills onto the dirty, wet table. The Goons moved forward at the sight of all the cash as the Goon Girls’ eyes widened with greed, staring at $500,000, with each bundle worth $100,000.
"When the men arrive, another $500,000. Let's drink!" Gina shouted, suddenly standing on the table raising her shot glass above her head. “Let no one come between us!” She promised, as the methamphetamines pushed her hyper-activity into over-drive. Rico was taken aback by Gina's aggressive spirit, gaping at her rally the men to a group drink as they happily scrambled for drinks.
"To our success!" she shouted to the men gathering in a tight circle, holding up their drinks. Rico, quickly sliding out from the booth, stood before his men, engulfed by a lingering haze of cigarette smoke and subdued lighting.
"Tonight, our alliance is based upon a strong currency. With my soldiers as my witness, I make a deal with the Leung Triad Family from Hong Kong," the Colonel roared excitedly, holding himself steady against the table, appealing to the primal bravado stirring deep inside his men.
“To your success!” Gina hollered, holding up her glass.
"We will help you!" he shouted, looking up at Gina as she looked down at him. At that moment, with everyone looking up at her, unconsciously, Gina became the leader.
“United we stand!” Gina shouted, sternly.
"We promise to help you fight the enemies of our financial foundation," he said dramatically, nodding to the circle of men standing before him. "Operation Golden Pipeline is now in effect," he roared in a tough tone, raising his shot glass. "We have a guiding principle and a responsibility to preserve our professional integrity to the benefit of our region!" he proclaimed emotionally, with bloated feelings of self-importance. Goons nodded their heads, thinking deeply of what was at stake. Gina was surprised by the content and tone of his response. She was startled by his ability to put a sentence together after so much drinking.
"Colonel, you have just won the right to earn one million dollars," Gina said, jumping off the table with a sense of victory, knowing it would be a violent, short-term, and shaky relationship.
"To our victories!" DeLaGarza yelled, defiantly holding up his shot glass. "To our way of life!" he shouted with conviction, raising his glass.
"To our victories," the Goons shouted in unison, holding up their drinks and rattling their weapons. “To our way of life!” they roared with macho bravado.
"This better work," Rico whispered with a faint grin.
"Everything seems possible when we are absolutely helpless or absolutely powerful," Gina replied, looking into his blood-shot eyes.
"To your health," he added, toasting her.
"To yours," she replied with a devilish smile.
"Now let's drink!" Rico yelled, spilling whiskey on his hand as he quickly refilled their glasses, and toasted in agreement, then felt the whisky burning the delicate lining of his esophagus.
Exotic Goon Girls, who did not drink, stood next to their Goons clapping their hands in support and encouraging them with gentle pats and rubs on the back. Goon Girls gave total emotional and sexual support to their men. Each Goon Girl was responsible for negotiating the financial terms of her relationship with a Goon soldier. But when a Goon died in combat, it was a sign of loyalty. Goon Girls usually received half his earnings, and his family received the other half. All transactions were in cash. The sum of money was enough to sustain a Goon’s parents in the Philippines for years to come. Goon Girls were reliable sources of information and they knew their men’s professional and sexual secrets. Some Girls were on their fifth Goon deal, playing relationship roulette, and then investing their money in overseas bank accounts.
Standing next to her man, each Goon Girl wore silver eye shadow with silver specks of glitter, and silver makeup with silver lipstick. In their long black hair with silver highlights, thin silver ribbons were woven through strands of braided hair. Ornate silver trinkets, small silver beads and silver hearts, dangled from strands of hair. The silver emblem "GG" was embroidered on the center of their tight silver short satin dresses, with "V" necklines. With their arms folded, the silver glow of their nail polish illuminated an eerie iridescent pattern underneath the black lights. Silver earrings, silver bracelets, silver necklaces, silver rings on every finger, all glittered under the reflection of the large mirrored ball rotating above the dance floor. With their silver spiked high heels, Goon Girls were thin, beautiful, sensual, voluptuous, vibrant, and sought after trophies: they were kept women. They knew the ropes; they were well heeled, and street smart, people smart, life smart, and system smart.
The band began playing Harlem Nocturne by the Viscounts, and with guitar strings quivering, the Goons started grabbing and squeezing the private parts of their Goon Girls, embracing them tightly against their bodies as the saxophone eased into the sexy, slow dance. Although protocol had a pecking order, the Colonel felt a genuine intermix of the sexes and the natural upward welling of his basic human responses staring at Gina's beautiful slender well-toned body and Asian features.
"Would you like to dance Gina?" Rico asked, looking at her and revealing his stained teeth as he smiled.
"Oh my God!" Gina thought to herself in disgust, "Not with you," her inner voice screamed. "I'd be delighted to dance, Colonel," Gina smiled as her social self took control of her private thoughts. Rico took the glass from her hand, watching her every step as she moved toward the dance floor.
"God that's nice," he mumbled, walking behind her, undressing her in his mind with hidden lust, quickly squeezing his penis firmly between his thighs. "Just once. Just once in bed with that," he mumbled, getting goose bumps watching her walk.
"Anything wrong?" She asked gently, smiling and turning to him, knowing he was a pervert.
"No," he answered quickly, standing straight, readjusting his thoughts.
“We need to trust each other’s movements,” Gina said, facing him on the dance floor, aware of his sexual intentions.
"True," he replied returning her smile, putting his arms around her slim waist, and drawing her firmly against his smelly physique for the dance. "Hey, I didn't realize you were so tiny," he blurted in amazement.
"Oh God, take those dirty hands off me," Gina's inner voice screamed, while trying not to look at Rico or get too close to him. “Yes, I’m tiny.” She smiled, graciously.
"Let loose," he said, intoxicated, twirling her around clumsily.
"Are you married?" Gina asked, twirling under his foul smelling arm.
"Yes and No! My wife is wit
h a younger man," he said with resentment.
"Why did she leave?” she asked, trying to distract his thoughts.
"I don't know.” She just changed her mind I guess. I always took her out dancing, I always had a good time," he told her twisting her around, turning her under his sweaty arm pit, then twisting her around again.
"That's too bad," she replied, twisting in a circle while gripping his sweaty hand.
"Well, look, I’ve developed my own behavior pattern and life style plan. Besides, I’ve forgotten how to feel,” he answered flatly.
"What makes you happy?" She questioned, being held in his arms.
"Dancing all night," he replied, grinning, squeezing her tight.
"Rico, you're eyes are red," she observed in a strained voice, sensing that he was either unwilling or incapable of any serious personal discussion.
"Yeah, it's the Red Horse. Strong stuff. Always makes my eyes red."
"Maybe you want to sit down?" Gina suggested with artificial concern.
"I'm alright. A little dancing fixes me right up."
"Damn, Rico, I'm going to be sick," Gina feigned with a strained face.
"Red Horse beer. Have some Red Horse beer and you won't even think about it,” he suggested grinning, enjoying Gina's company, holding her tight.
"It's all right, it's all right," she answered, feeling anxious and nauseous about being physically close to Rico.
"Well, I'd better hold you tighter in case you get dizzy and fall," he said, happily holding her securely against his perspiring body.
"Thanks," she said in a tired voice, as his unshaven face scraped against her smooth clean cheek.
"Ouch!" she said, with an annoying smirk, turning her head.
"Man, I love this place," he shouted in her ear with his breath reeking of garlic and cigarette smoke.
"Why is that?" she replied in a reserved manner, twisting her face away from his smell.
"Once the band starts playing, they play one song after another. Man, they don't quit! I love this place, it's me!" He shouted in her ear in euphoric intoxication.
"Oh really?" Gina grimaced out loud. "Well, what time is it?"