Gone Bamboo by Anthony Bourdain
"So things are bad. Already. They're really bad," said Frances, stopping. "Shit!" In the moonlight, Henry saw that she was blinking away tears, something she almost never did. The last time he'd seen her cry was when their taxi had hit the goat. Or . . . no . . . there was the time that beach dog with the broken leg didn't show up as usual. She'd cried then, too. He felt like crying now himself.
"Let's face it," he said, patting the automatic wedged down the front of her jeans. "These are not the sort of beach accessories that leap immediately to mind when you live in a place like this." He kissed her lightly, on the lips, hooked his little finger around hers, and pulled her down slowly into the long grass.
"Christ, Henry. We're gonna get eaten alive up here," she said, unzipping his fly, kissing him so hard their teeth clicked.
When they were through, walking slowly down the mountain to where they'd left their scooter, Frances said, "So we're going to be shooting Italians." A gust of strong wind and the pounding of the surf made her have to almost yell. Henry didn't say anything.
"I guess it's better than cops," said Frances, almost to herself, her words disappearing over the water.
23
I notice the boys aren't speaking to each other," said Cheryl, rolling over onto her stomach and lighting a cigarette.
"I think Tommy's still mad at Henry," said Frances, lifting a breast to oil the underside, then moving on to the other. The two women were stretched out on a nearly deserted Dawn Beach, a scraggly-looking mutt with floppy ears sleeping in the sun at the head of their blanket, legs twitching, dreaming of the chase.
"Tommy's just sulking for a while," said Cheryl. "He's a sulker."
"So, it's temporary, you think," said Frances, screwing on the top to her suntan lotion and replacing it in a plastic sandwich bag.
"Yeah," said Cheryl. "He's mad 'cause of you-know-who. Henry not telling him and all. He thinks he's some sort of hit man or something. I don't know what his problem is."
"You talked about it?"
"Yeah. I said, 'What's the problem? I mean, we're living with a gangster, right? Charlie's nice. We like him. So why can't we be friends with Henry and Frances?'" She turned her face to Frances. "How's my face? Am I getting burned?"
"No. Looks okay."
"He's got hurt feelings. That Henry didn't tell him he knew. He doesn't open up to a lot of people, and, you know . . . He felt silly. And he's jealous. That they seem to be such good friends and all . . . I don't know . . . He'll get over it."
"I hope so," said Frances. "Henry's upset about it. He likes Tommy. It's just not a thing he felt he could come out and say, you know."
"I know."
"He's a careful person. He tries to be careful."
"Where is he today?" asked Cheryl. "I haven't seen him."
"He took the ferry over to Anguilla. Business. He's got to talk to somebody about some property we're thinking of selling."
"Oh," said Cheryl. "I've been meaning to ask, where'd you two meet? I mean, you know, how?"
Frances smiled wickedly. "Oh, that's a good story. I met him in New York—"
"How old were you?" asked Cheryl, enjoying the confidence.
"I was really young. I'd been out of college for only a year. I got kicked out actually. I'd been in New York about two years. I met him at this club where I was working. He asked me out on a date. He was very sweet."
Frances was smiling. She tucked an errant strand of hair back into her French braid and then lowered her voice, needlessly, since there was no one else on the beach. "I was stripping—"
"No!" exclaimed Cheryl, clearly delighted and intrigued. "What was it like? Oh God! Tell me everything." She moved her head and shoulders closer to Frances on the blanket. "I don't believe it."
"Yeah . . . me and a friend from college were stripping at this club. We were dancers, but, you knowr, you don't really dance, you just kinda roll around on stage and pretend to finger-fuck yourself through a G-string. It was pretty lame. Twenty-minute sets, five times a night. But the money was good, and I needed money."
"Henry was a customer?"
"No, no. He worked there for a while. Bouncing. You could see right away he was different. You should have seen him. The middle of all these guys with their gold chains and Sta-Prest pants - you know, big lapels, the hair just right - there's Henry. He was still wearing his green fatigue jacket from the army, dirty blue jeans. He had practically a crew cut. And this was, like, shag era. Nobody looked like that. He looked totally . . . lost . . . and kind of dangerous. But he was smart. When he talked, which wasn't often in those days, you could tell he wasn't like everybody else. He read books. He thought about things. He never had to lay a hand on anybody, any customers, he looked so weird, if he said to somebody they were eighty-sixed, they left."
Frances reached in her beach bag, pausing long enough to light a fat joint. She took a long hit and passed it to Cheryl.
"So, what was it like? How'd he ask you out?"
"He just came over and asked if I wanted to have dinner with him. I said yes just to piss off my boss and all his manicured buddies. They'd been trying to get into my pants since day one. Actually, some of them had been in my pants already, but it pissed them off all the same."
She took the joint back, took another hit, and passed it over.
"He took me to a little French place in the theater district. Some shabby little joint. Said it reminded him of someplace he'd been. He spoke French to the waiters, and it shocked the shit outta me. We had dinner, and then . . . then he took me bowling."
"You're kidding!"
"No. I couldn't believe it. In New Jersey, no less. Drove over in this clapped-out Beetle he had. Drove past where he went to school for a while, pointed out houses where he said friends had lived, a real sentimental journey. Then we went bowling. Drank long-neck Budweisers and held hands between frames. It was the craziest thing." She laughed. "I guess it's fair to say, I was impressed."
"Too much," said Cheryl. "So, did you put out on the first date?"
"Nope. The whole time, I'm thinking, end of the night, we're going over to his place or he's coming to my place and he's gonna ask for a blow job and he's probably going to get one too, 'cause I liked the guy. I thought he was interesting. But, no. He drops me off, kiss on the cheek and Til see you at work tomorrow.'"
"Were you, like, weirded out by it?"
"Kind of. I thought, maybe he got his dick shot off in the war or something. Or he's like some guys who hung out in the club, all he wants to do is hang around strippers, get their laundry and shit, do them favors. You get that a lot. But, next night, Henry comes in, and he's got a big bouquet of flowers and a nice, I mean really nice, antique bowling shirt with my name stitched over the pocket. Walks right up to me onstage and gives it to me. My boss almost burst a blood vessel. Of course, me being the cunt that I am, I insist on wearing the damn thing all night, so my boss, he's not too happy. I left the thing unbuttoned, so they could still see my tits, but I wore that shirt all night. My boss is getting more and more pissed off, he keeps gesturing from the bar to take it off, take it off, getting all red in the face. Then he goes over and says something to Henry at the door. We had to leave in a hurry."
"What happened?" said Cheryl, breathless.
"You're not going to take this the wrong way, I hope. I don't want you to get the wrong idea about Henry. He's a very sweet guy . . ."
"What happened?"
"Well, I don't know what he said to Henry, but it must have been pretty bad, 'cause Henry broke both his collarbones."
"Holy shitl"
"Yeah . . . I asked him later what was said. He wouldn't tell me. I had a pretty good idea though."
Recovered slightly, Cheryl spluttered, "Well, what}"
"I'm sure he called me a whore," said Frances, with a matter-of-factness that Cheryl found chilling. "I mean, it had to be that. Besides . . . it was true."
Cheryl rolled over onto her back and collapsed, arms akimbo. "Whew! I mean
Frances laughed and took a last hit on the burning roach. A pale, knobby-kneed tourist strolled by, eyeballing the two half-naked women openly. Neither woman said anything for a while.
"You should know something about Henry, though," Frances finally said. "He's a really gentle person."
Cheryl tried not to look skeptical, but something in her expression must have given her away.
"Really," said Frances. "He's a sweetheart. I was pretty fucked up back then. For a long time after, I was fucked up. I was doing a lot of drugs. I looked like shit . . . He was always sweet to me. Always gentle. And in all the years we've been together, he's never been unfaithful."
"Come on," said Cheryl. "How do you know?"
"I know," said Frances, convincingly. "Worst thing you can say about Henry is he can be lazy."
"Tommy's a little scared of him, I think," confided Cheryl.
"I know," said Frances. "He shouldn't be. Really. That's why I'm telling you all this. So you know what he's really like. He shouldn't be scared of Henry. Henry would never do anything to hurt Tommy or Charlie."
"I can, like, take that as an assurance?" said Cheryl.
"Henry's not about that at all."
24
For the first time in his life, Kevin was getting a suntan. He was pleasantly drunk. Also, he was in love.
It had been a week since he'd moved into La Ronda. Other than work on the vans, there hadn't been much to do. The guns had yet to arrive. The planning, such as it was, had been completed.
He spent his time at the beach, or drinking at the bar, with Violetta.
Though his nose, cheeks, and shoulders were still painfully red, the rest of his body, rapidly slimming from exercise, was becoming golden brown. That morning, in the streaked mirror of the communal bathroom, he had barely recognized the grinning, healthy-looking bugger who greeted him over the sink.
He swam every day. He ate breakfast with the whores in the rear kitchen each morning, their children tugging at his sleeves to play with them, television blaring Spanish soap operas. Then he'd jog down to the beach, heave himself into the water, and swim until he could stand it no more. Then he'd visit the trash-strewn gully by the mouth of the dirt road, where the abandoned earthmover was, and drag whatever parts he needed back to the garage behind La Ronda. Little Petey had managed to find him an oxyacetylene torch and some tools, and the work went well.
He'd usually knock off around noon. By that time it was too hot to continue. Time for drinks. Then maybe a trip upstairs with Violetta. Sex, a nap. Then back to the beach.
Kevin liked the beach best during those magic hours from three until five-thirty. The shadows grew long, and the light from the sinking sun made glimmering white peaks on the water. Not too hot, not too cold, he'd lie there with the silent Violetta, drinking beer, napping some more, maybe taking a short walk down to the little barbecue shed at Dawn Beach Hotel for a burger or some hot dogs.
Violetta seemed to like the pina coladas there, foamy and thick in the plastic cups. He always made them give her extra cherries.
Violetta, Violetta, Violet, Vi - he called her Vi. He gazed down at her now, at the foot of the blanket where she was massaging his feet, the tip of her tongue poking earnestly from the corner of her mouth. She spoke no English as far as he could tell. If the other whores were to be believed, she didn't speak much Spanish either. They had been surprised and much amused when he chose her. An Indian, they said contemptuously, barely out of the jungle. What would he want her for? To the others, Violetta's broad nose, large, almond-shaped eyes, straight, black hair and bangs were an affront that detracted from their somewhat more metropolitan airs. They made fun of the scars on her legs, her thick ankles and powerful forearms, as if she were carrying a great weight.
But to Kevin she was beautiful. An exotic, an Amazon, a girl like he'd seen in Mutiny on the Bounty. Watching her at the beach, splashing water over her shoulders, skin shining in the failing light, gave him the most excruciating pleasure.
"Vi . . . Vi," he said, patting the blanket next to him. She came up and sat next to him. He took her hairbrush from her little red plastic purse and began to brush her hair.
A man in a hat woven from palm fronds came by, selling jewelry from an attache case. Kevin paid ten dollars for a necklace made of seashells and mother-of-pearl, an item he could easily have had for a dollar in town. He didn't care. Reaching around Violetta's throat to fasten the clasp, seeing the corners of her mouth turn slightly upward, her Toltec mask face softening into a smile, he was happy, happier than he'd ever been.
Late in the afternoon, the locals came down to the beach. Whole families, parents and all their children, came to swim in their underwear, black skin reflecting in the late afternoon sun. They'd lived by the beach their whole lives, Kevin thought, watching them splash each other, children doing headstands on the wet sand at the water's edge, yet each time he saw them, they appeared to be newly thrilled, as if visiting this beach for the very first time. He could live here, he thought. He really could.
Near the end of the day, the water crowded with families, the white tourists long gone, he'd swim among them, sometimes holding Violetta in his arms, drifting in the shoulder-deep water, and it was as if he was sharing a bathtub with them, the blacks looking at him with amused benevolence.
"Yo!" came a voice from the palm trees. "Yo! Kevin!"
It was Little Petey, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts, sweating behind mirrored sunglasses. Kevin, annoyed, got up from his blanket and walked back into the shade.
"Jeesusss," said Little Petey. "Lookit 'em all."
"What is it?" said Kevin.
"The guns are here," said Little Petey. "And some people you should meet."
"Now?"
"Yeah, now," said Little Petey. He was looking at Violetta on the blanket, fingering her necklace. "She speak any English?"
"No," said Kevin.
"We'll take my car," said Little Petey. "Leave her. She can walk back."
It was an impressive array of firepower. Laid out on a sheet-metal billboard advertising Ting orange soda were enough guns to overthrow a medium-size Caribbean country. There were Uzis, four of them. M-16s, two of those, two pump-action Remington shotguns, an assortment of handguns, fragmentation grenades, and, drawing the most attention from the awestruck, shabbily dressed Dominicans who stood gaping and transfixed like a cargo cult around the guns, was a South African special purpose automatic shotgun, its huge drum canister and wide, ugly steel snout already the subject of heated debate.
Two of them, both in flower print shorts and sleeveless T-shirts, were arguing over who would get to wield this fearsome weapon. They were pushing and shoving like little kids, voices rising into curses and threats.
Little Petey had to step in, telling them to shut up in his high school Spanish. The Dominicans fell into sullen silence, eyes still glued to the big shotgun.
"This is Orlando," said Little Petey, throwing an arm roughly around a slightly built youth with a scorpion tattoo on his wrist. "Orlando is one bad dude, right, Orlando?"
Kevin wasn't so sure. They looked like spindly, underfed little bed wetters to him. If this was what he had to work with, it was not going to be easy.
Kevin unfastened the lock on the rotting wood garage door behind La Ronda's garbage area. The whole group followed, stepping over the empty propane tanks, beer cartons, and torn mattresses. When he pulled the doors open, a waft of damp, stifling air escaped. Everyone squeezed inside the dark garage to admire Kevin's work.
There were two Ford vans, their passenger compartments heavily reinforced by heavy steel plates, still rusted from years in the weeds. The rear cargo areas were similarly protected, top and sides, with large X-shaped gunports crudely cut through the centers of the plates on both sides. Smaller metal plates had been attached over the outer wheel wells to shield the tires, and protruding from the front of the first van, like the horn of a mutant stegosaurus, was an intimidating
"Paf! Paf!" Somebody was yelling outside the garage. It was Flaco, Orlando's rail-thin brother with one drifting, milky eye, dry-firing the automatic shotgun. Jorge, a near-child wearing an Orioles cap, grabbed his chest and feigned being shot. Suddenly, the whole group was joining the fun, grabbing at weapons and pointing them at each other, the scene degenerating into a children's game. Hector and Alfredo, two dwarfish cousins, wrestled on the ground, competing to get the single remaining Uzi, while Papo, the only normally proportioned member of the group, tried to fit all of the grenades into the pockets of his threadbare cotton shorts.
Little Petey was embarrassed by the scene. "Calma!" he yelled. "Tranquillo!" He made them put the guns down, waiting until everything had been returned to the metal sign. Only Flaco still held a weapon, the automatic shotgun, which he'd managed to snatch out of Jorge's hands at the last second.
"Gimme!" commanded Little Petey, unsuited as a schoolmarm, wresting the weapon from the resentful Dominican only by exerting his superior strength.
They stood once more around the sign, looking sheepishly at their feet while Orlando, their apparent spiritual leader, hurled abuse at them in Spanish. Every once in a while, one of them would look up from his sneakers to gaze longingly at the guns.
"This a bloody fucking kinnergarten you got here. I'm supposedta work with these pitiable bastards? They're . . . they're fuckin' hopeless!" grumbled Kevin.
"Don't worry about it," said Little Petey. "Watch. Watch this." He picked up an Uzi and slapped a clip in, handing it to Flaco, the one with the walleye. With startling ease, the skinny Dominican had the safety off and was firing away on full auto, the tamarind tree a few feet over Kevin's shoulder bursting into confetti. Kevin dove for the ground and waited for the firing to stop. When the clip was exhausted, he got to his feet, walked over to the shooter, and hit him full in the face with his fist.