Joe Gallo Versus the Jungle Terror

[DRayVan]

While on the lam and hiding in a remote Central American village, two mob hit-men encounter an enemy they cannot kill.

01: First Shots in a Mob Turf War

Tuesday, December 3, 1935

Dawn broke over the peaceful waterfront community of South Miami, Florida, casting a warm glow over the town’s quiet streets and buildings. While most inhabitants slept, Gabbiano’s Coffee Shop had been buzzing with activity for hours. By daybreak, the rich, inviting aroma of freshly baked donuts mingled with the robust scent of brewing coffee enveloped the shop, offering warmth and nourishment to all who ventured out so early in the morning.

A 1933 Chevrolet Eagle drove past Gabbiano’s and parked a block north of the coffee shop, its engine idling. The passenger, a mob hitman from Chicago, Jovani “Joe” Gallo, glanced at the empty sidewalks. He unholstered his gun, a .38 snub-nose Smith & Wesson, spun the cylinder, and checked its bullets. Then he slipped it into his shoulder holster and turned to the driver and best friend, Salvatore “Sal” Conti.

“You ready?”

“Sure, Joe. Sure.” Sal looked up and down the street several times and fidgeted in his seat. “Sure they’re comin’, Joe? I don’t like being exposed in the open this long.”

“Don’t sweat it, Sal. They’ll show.”

“How ya know that for sure?”

“Tony likes Gabbiano’s jelly-filled donuts.”

Sal stiffened, and his eyes widened. “That’s a helluva reason to—”

“Will you shut it, Sal?”

“I’m just sayin’.”

“Don’t make me sorry I brought you along, Sal. Just watch for them. Can ya do that without complaining?”

Sal gripped the steering wheel with both hands so tightly that his gloves squeaked. “I can’t help it, Joe. I was born nervous.”

Joe cracked a smile. “Relax before you have a heart attack.”

Sal loosened his grip on the wheel and licked the perspiration off his upper lip. “Sure, Joe. Sure.” He anxiously glanced up and down the street again.

Joe and Sal had followed their usual tried-and-true plan: arrive by train, stay the night in a flea-bag motel, and pinch a getaway car from a nearby parking lot. Before the owner reported the vehicle stolen, they’d snuff the mark and ditch the car for a new set of wheels.

“Do you ever wish, Joe, that—”

“Wishing wastes time and energy.”

“But, Joe... Don’t ya think about how different things could have been if—”

“Put a sock in it, Sal.” Joe glanced up and down the empty streets. “Ain’t got time to think; could get me... Us killed.”

Joe had been attending medical school. To blow off steam, he played cards, poker mostly, and lost, mostly. When his gambling debts exceeded his ability to pay, two muscular, ape-like mobsters came to collect. Joe pleaded for more time to raise the cash he owed, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. Instead, they took Joe to see their boss, Sammy “The Claw” Gambino.

The Claw gave Joe an ultimatum: either work off his debt or go deep-sea diving with a cement life preserver. Joe didn’t like to swim, much less deep-sea diving, so he agreed to work off his debt. On his first assignment, he met Sal, and they quickly became friends.

The jobs seemed harmless enough—collecting protection money and running numbers—but it wasn’t long before Joe was involved in a shootout, and he killed a man. Although it was self-defense, Joe couldn’t shake the guilt of snuffing out a man he barely knew. One murder led to several more, and Joe soon became the go-to guy for first-rate mob hits. Now, there was no turning back from this life of bloodshed and violence; he was trapped in a never-ending cycle of criminal activity.

Today’s job: gun down Tony Colombo and Rico Vitale, two henchmen from a rival gang.

“Who are these guys we’re waiting for, Joe?”

“A new mob’s trying to muscle in, and we’re gonna stop them.”

“A turf war.”

“Probably. But we’ll be long gone before it erupts.”

“Now, yer talkin’, Joe.” Sal nervously nodded his head like a woodpecker. “Miles between us and the crap when it hits the fan.”

“So, will you try to relax, Sal? I gotta keep focused.” The sound of a motor vehicle approaching behind them caught Joe’s attention. He quickly turned and glanced at the car. “Duck. It’s them.”

Joe and Sal leaned over while a vehicle drove by them. They sat up and watched the car roll past the coffee shop, make a U-turn, and stop in the no-parking zone at the shop’s entrance.

“There they are, Joe. They showed just like I said they would.” Sal wiped the sweat off his brow and rubbed the back of his neck. “When you’re right, you’re right! Ain’t that so, Joe?”

Joe slowly shook his head, unholstered his gun, and smiled.

*** End Chapter ***

[tailor STATELY]

Enjoyed :)

Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor

[DRayVan]

Chapter 02: The Perfect Hit

Anthony “Tony” Colombo, a stout man of thirty-one, and Rico Vitale, a tall, muscular man of twenty-nine, sat in the front seat of their 1934 Ford 730 Deluxe. They had stopped in the no-parking zone at Gabbiano’s main entrance. Tony opened the passenger door and leaned out. He glanced up and down the sidewalk, and once he was satisfied the coast was clear, he got out and slammed the car door behind him. He adjusted his lightweight jacket to hide his shoulder holster and sauntered inside.

While he waited, Rico kept the motor idling. He rolled down the windows and lit a cigarette. He looked in the mirrors, glanced up then down the street, took a deep drag on his cigarette, and then blew a billow of smoke out the window.

Before long, Tony returned with a neatly wrapped package tucked in his armpit, a small paper bag, and two coffees. He kicked the car door. “Rico... Hey, you listenin’? A little help here, rat-face!”

Rico jerked his head around. “Up yours! Some respect for the paint job, jackass.”

Tony bent and looked in the open car window, holding up the paper bag. “You want a donut or not?”

“Hold your horses. I’m comin’.” Rico exited and scurried around the car to help. He took the package and held it out as if judging its weight. “Collections must be up.”

“Toss it in the back.”

Rico pitched the money package through the open window. “Any jelly-filled?”

“Yeah... Raspberry.” Tony handed Rico the small bag.

“My favorite.” Rico grabbed a donut, took a bite, and handed the bag back to Tony. “Yer a pal.” He wiped jelly off his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Coffee?” Tony asked.

“You bet.”

Tony handed Rico a coffee and took a donut for himself. They leaned against the car, eating and sipping coffee.

###

Sal white-knuckled the steering wheel and gave the engine a little gas. He turned to Joe. “Now?”

Joe nodded. “Now!”

Sal floored the peddle, slammed the transmission in first gear, popped the clutch, and up-shifted into second. The tires squealed as the car lunged forward. Joe gripped his gun in his right hand, grabbed the door handle with his left hand, and turned it, unlatching the door.

When Sal slammed on the brakes, the car screeched to a stop in front of Tony and Rico’s car. The passenger door sprung open, pulling Joe out of the car in one smooth action.

Tony and Rico jerked their heads toward the screeching sound but were so dumbfounded they watched Joe’s movements without reacting. Then, before they could recover, Joe crouched, took aim at Tony’s head, and fired one bullet.

The slug slammed Tony’s forehead above his right eye and exploded out the back of his skull. The impact threw him backward.

Rico dropped his coffee and donut and dove toward the sidewalk. He reached for his gun, but Joe fired again. The bullet punctured Rico’s left temple and ripped out his right skull, bulging his eyes from their sockets. The impact twisted him around, and he crashed through the shop’s window.

Sal yelled, “The package, Joe! Get the money!”

Joe spun around and grabbed the door handle. “Ain’t in the plan.”

“But Joooe! All that loot!”

“No!” Joe jumped in the passenger seat and slammed the door. “Floor it. We gotta boat to catch.”

Sal down-shifted to first and jammed the gas pedal to the floorboard. The car left rubber and smoke, peeling away from the scene. “Magical, Joe. They never had a chance.”

“No time for critiques, Sal. Get us the hell away from here.”

“Sure, Joe. Sure.”

They ditched the stolen car at the nearest parking lot and hot-wired another getaway vehicle. Before long, Sal pulled into the Key Largo Marina. The men got their luggage, ditched the wheels, and headed for the waiting cabin cruiser.

“Never been to Cuba before, Joe. What’s it like?”

“Won’t be there long enough to see the sights.”

*** End Chapter ***

[tailor STATELY]

A bit gruesome... but a riveting story.

Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor

[DRayVan]

03: Escape to Cuba

Thursday, December 5

From its vantage point high in the clear blue sky, the sun shone down on the lively scene below while a brisk offshore breeze kept the temperatures pleasantly comfortable. The port of Havana, Cuba, was humming with energy as passengers hurried to and from their vessels, stevedores loaded and unloaded ships, and brightly colored taxis, along with assorted cars, clogged the narrow streets, their horns blaring to clear a path. Vendors lined the walkways, offering everything from handmade crafts to refreshing coconut water, all adding to the spirited chaos of the moment.

Joe and Sal’s taxi wove through the traffic and stopped at a tramp steamer. The rust-stained hulk of the El Capitán was moored alongside the docks. A constant stream of vehicles came, loaded with cargo, and left empty. Men hurried about, moving crates, barrels, and sacks of cargo and supplies to the ship. The dock was alive with sounds of all descriptions: vehicle sounds, machine sounds, ship sounds, and the sounds of men shouting and swearing.

After Joe paid the driver and Sal unloaded their bags, the taxi sped away. As the men approached the gangplank, Sal gave the rusting ship the once-over. “Sure, it’s seaworthy, Joe?”

“Don’t judge a book by its cover, Sal.”

“Take away the paint and rust... And there’d be nothing left afloat.”

“Shut up and come meet its captain.” Joe led the way up the gangplank to the forward main deck, and Sal followed.

They stepped onto the main deck just as a crane swung a net of pallets loaded with cargo and supplies from the dock and lowered them into the holds. The crew shouted, cussed, and scurried about, guiding the shipment with ropes as it flew above their heads.

Captain Bjørn Hansen, a tall, broad-shouldered, blonde-haired, blue-eyed man, stood on the bridge deck overlooking the forward hold.

A pallet of cargo swung from the dock and just missed a crewman.

“For God’s sake, man! Watch the hell what you’re doing. You got to have eyes in the back of your head or get killed.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

Joe looked toward Captain Hansen’s voice and waved.

Captain Hansen signaled to the second mate. “Seize those two men and lock them in the chain locker.”

A burly second mate stepped behind them and jabbed a gun in Joe’s ribs. Two crewmen grabbed Joe and Sal.

Joe struggled and looked toward the captain. “Captain! It’s me... Joe and my friend, Sal... Just like we—”

Captain Hansen waved his hand and cut him off. “Shut them up and take them below. Make it quick!”

“You heard the captain,” the second mate said. “Follow me.”

Sal looked bewildered. “What’s going on, Joe?”

Joe shook his head. “Dunno.”

“I don’t like this one bit, Joe. Not one—”

“The captain said, ‘Shut up.’” The second mate spun around. “Do I have to shut you up?”

Sal pressed his lips tightly together. He crossed his lips and turned his thumb and fingers like a key. “My lips are sealed.”

###

The chain locker was dark, dank, and smelled of grease and sea gunk. The crewmen pushed Joe and Sal into its confined space, tossed in their luggage, and shut the watertight hatch. The sliding lever spun, and the dogs engaged, locking the hatch tight.

Sal banged on the hatch. “I can’t stay in here!”

Joe felt around in the darkness and sat on a coil of anchor chains. “Save it, Sal.”

Sal leaned against the hatch. “What’s going on, Joe? I thought you knew this guy. Friends, even.”

“He has his reasons.”

“Reasons, smeasons. Here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten me into, Stanley.”

Joe chuckled. “You see too many movies.”

“Seriously, Joe... What’s gonna happen?”

“You’re gonna sit tight and shut up for once.”

“I’ll havta burn these clothes.”

“For heaven’s sake, Sal, put a sock in it, will ya?”

###

After an hour that seemed like three, the sliding lever spun, the dogs disengaged, and the hatch unlocked. A crewman pulled it open, and light flooded in. Joe and Sal shielded their eyes.

The captain, second mate, and two crewmen stood outside.

“Sorry for the harsh treatment, Joe,” Captain Hansen said, “but the police were swarming. I didn’t think you wanted to meet them.”

Joe shook his head. “You thought right, my friend.”

“I hope your accommodations weren’t too harsh.”

Sal pushed the crewman aside to get outside the confined locker. “I can’t find the right words to describe them.”

“Well... Let me show you your staterooms. We’ll be getting underway soon.” The captain turned to the second mate. “Bring their luggage.”

“Aye, Captain.” The second mate directed the crewmen to grab their bags.

The captain snaked through a dimly lit, narrow, banged, chipped, and rusted corridor with pipes, cables, and wires exposed on the bulkheads and overheads. They rounded the corner and stepped into a central walkway. “We should be in the open sea by midnight... Ever see the stars without city lights, Joe? They’re a sight to see.”

“In Sicily.” Joe came alongside the captain.

“Sicily, you say?”

“Born and raised there... In a small, seaside village.”

“Well, the wide-open seas will bring back fond memories.”

“I ain’t got no fond memories,” Sal said defiantly.

“Surely, you must—”

Joe interrupted. “Pay no attention to him, Captain.”

The men’s voices trailed off as they turned another corner.

*** End Chapter ***

[DRayVan]

04: Land Ho!

Friday, December 6

Scattered puffy clouds stretched across the western horizon, each painted in vibrant hues of fiery red and deep yellow, marking the sun’s final gasp before it slipped below the horizon. The ocean mirrored the brilliance of the sunset; its surface shimmered like molten gold, creating a breathtaking backdrop that seemed to stretch endlessly.

A brisk, salty breeze ruffled the lightweight fabric of Joe and Sal’s clothes as they stood on the bow of the westward-bound ship. The vessel pitched and yawed with each cresting wave; the rhythmic sound of the water crashing against the hull added to the peacefulness setting. For a few minutes, Gabbiano’s Coffee Shop and the two dead henchmen faded from Joe’s memory.

Sal gripped the railing and fixed his eyes on the waves rolling toward them. “I’m gonna throw up.”

Joe looked at him with a disgusted frown. “Have you ever gone anywhere or done anything without complaining?”

Sal gestured with his hand, mimicking the motion of the ship. “Don’t this up-down, side-to-side motion get to ya?”

Joe shook his head. “Don’t bother me one bit; I never get seasick.”

“And the food... It ain’t mom’s home cooking, not by a long shot.”

“Then, why don’t you try eating sawdust for a few days.”

Sal blurted. “That’s what it tastes like.”

“You always exaggerate, Sal. Besides, the air’s fresher than anywhere I’ve been recently.”

Sal scrunched his nose. “Yeah... Up here, maybe, but not down below. That crew could use some soap and—”

Joe raised a hand and arm toward the horizon. “Can’t you enjoy the sunset without complaining for one second?”

“I’d rather enjoy it from a hotel room: a dame in one arm and a bottle in the other hand.”

“You got no adventure, Sal.”

Sal grabbed Joe’s arm. “About that, Joe. Just where are we going?”

“Trust me.”

Sal released Joe’s arm and cocked his head. “Oh, brother... I need a drink on that one... A double.”

Joe gestured toward the horizon again. “Come on, Sal. Admit it. Ain’t that one beautiful sunset?”

Sal gave Joe a perplexed look. “You ain’t going soft on me, are you? Don’t go soft on me, Joe.”

“Our line of work don’t last forever.”

“Okay... Now, I need a triple. Keep talking this way, Joe, and I’ll need a whole bottle... Which ain’t such a bad idea.” Sal walked away.

Joe yelled. “Your loss, Sal.”

“Tell it to the seagulls.” Sal didn’t bother to look back.

Joe leaned on the railing and watched the sun bellyflop and sink below the waters. The last rays painted the sky and clouds with colors beyond description. Joe stood to admire the beauty unfolding before him. He cleared his throat. “It-It’s your loss, pal.”

###

Monday, December 9

The sky was a dark purple; the last rays of the setting sun faded into nothingness. Stars and the full moon shone bright aft of the ship as it sailed westward toward land.

Joe leaned on the railing. He was enjoying another sunset and watching the port city lights getting closer. Then, the ship’s whistle cut loose with a bone-chilling blast above him. Lights came on, illuminating the deck. The crew scurried to their assigned duties.

Sal stumbled out of a hatch and onto the deck with a half-empty whiskey bottle in one hand. He glanced up at the bright lights and immediately shielded his eyes with his free hand. Looking around, he yelled, “Joe! Where are you, Joe?”

Joe waved and called to him. “Over here.”

Sal prodded to the railing. “What’s with the foghorn? We hit an iceberg or something?”

Joe laughed. “You’re drunk.”

Sal shook his head. “Not yet, but I’m working on it.”

“Too much of that stuff’ll pickle your liver.”

Sal wagged his finger in Joe’s face. “You don’t look nuthin’ like my mother, Joe.”

“I’m just sayin’.”

The ship’s whistle blasted again. Sal cringed and looked up. He grabbed hold of the railing to steady himself. “So... What’s with the foghorn?”

“It ain’t no fog... Uh, forget it... It alerts the crew we’re coming into port.”

Sal leaned over the railing and shaded his eyes. “Land? We’re finally getting off this rust bucket?”

“Yep.”

Sal stood, holding on to the railing and still looking toward shore. “Thought I was gonna be lost at sea forever.”

“Should dock before midnight. Our flight leaves at dawn.”

Sal pivoted toward Joe, weaving and holding the railing with one hand. Puzzlement swept across his face. “Flight? Where are we, Joe? And... And where are we going?”

“Puerto Cabezas, Nicaragua... Then, we fly to San Rafael.”

Sal shook his head and almost toppled, but he held tight to the railing for support. “Got no idea where none of those places are... Why we here? Why we going there, Joe? Why?”

“It’s a long story.”

Sal stumbled toward his stateroom. “Save it for later... I need more whiskey.”

*** End Chapter ***

[tailor STATELY]

Following :)

Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor

[DRayVan]

05: Flight to Nowhere

Tuesday, December 10
Puerto Cabezas, Nicaragua

The sun peeked through stringy clouds over the Caribbean Sea. But before long, the weather conditions turned hot and humid without a breath of air moving.

An old, weather-beaten, single-engine aircraft was parked on the tarmac of what passed for the local airport: a single hanger and a combination tower and terminal.

Carlos Pineda, its fifty-one-year-old pilot, stood with his face and arms in the plane’s cowling, tightening a fitting. His wrench slipped off and clobbered his hand. He cursed and shook his injured hand until the pain subsided. Undeterred, he gripped the wrench and tried again while maligning the engine’s heritage.

Carlos was stout with graying black hair, a round, pudgy face, deep-set eyes, and thick lips. His teeth were nicotine-stained; two were gold-capped, which he proudly displayed when he smiled. His coveralls were oil and grease-soiled, as was his tattered old hat.

While Carlos worked on his plane, a taxi screeched to a stop nearby. Joe got out and paid the driver. Sal got out and unloaded their luggage.

Sal wiped the sweat off his brow. “I thought Miami was hot. What’s it gonna be like at high noon?”

Joe picked up his bag. “You’ll get used to it.”

“In a pig’s eye... I’m already wet in places I didn’t know I had.”

While the men approached the plane, Sal gave it and the pilot a once-over. “You sure about this, Joe? It’s only got one engine, and...” Sal waved his hand westward. “And nothing but jungle, snakes, bugs, and wild animals out there, and... And this pilot... Look at ‘im, Joe.”

Joe and Sal reached the plane and dropped their bags near the aft compartment. “Shut up, Sal. Come meet, Carlos.”

Carlos was working on the engine and cursing it.

Sal’s eyes widened, and his face contorted. “Joe... What’s he doing to the engine? Joooe?”

“Shut up, Sal. He knows what he’s doing.”

Sal reached for Joe’s arm. “I don’t think he...”

Carlos banged on the engine and cursed it again.

Joe pivoted and grabbed Sal by his lapels, slamming him against the fuselage. “I’m sick of your complaining, Sal, so do I havta put a sock in it for ya... Would you rather take your chances in Miami? Well, I wouldn’t. I’m flying to San Rafael. You comin’ or not?”

“Easy, pal. Easy. I’m comin’. I’m comin’.”

Joe released him. “Sorry, Sal. It’s just that...”

“Relax, pal. Tony and Rico never saw it coming. One bullet each. Perfection.”

“Yeah,” said Joe, smiling. “It was, wasn’t it? Maybe, my best.”

“And we should be safe here... Wherever here is.”

Joe stepped toward the front of the plane. “But I feel naked... A little anxious without my...”

“Talk about naked... I took one look in the mirror... Where’d ya hide a rod? My privates ain’t all that hidden, neither.” Sal straightened the lapels on his guayabera and wiped the sweat off his brow.

“You do have a point, Sal.”

“Anyway, I packed them in our bags... Just in case we need them.”

Joe smoothed the wrinkles in his guayabera. “We won’t... Not where we’re going.”

Joe and Sal sauntered toward the front of the plane.

Sal reached for the landing gear strut’s grimy surface and soiled his hand. He grimaced and wiped the crud on a handkerchief. “This plane looks older than me, and hell, Joe, I’m thirty.”

Joe laughed and walked around the landing gear toward the nose of the plane. “That sock didn’t last long.”

“What...?”

“You worry too much, Sal. Besides, there weren’t any planes thirty years ago.”

Sal scurried after him. “I’m just sayin’... If its engine cuts out, what’ll we do? Answer me, Joe. What if it does?”

Joe called to the pilot. “Carlos!”

Carlos stepped from around the cowling. He drew back his mouth in a broad smile, showing his gold teeth when he saw Joe. “Ah, Señor Joe. Good to see you again, amigo. You bring a friend this trip, no?”

The men embraced in a bear hug. “Carlos. Good to see you again, amigo.” Joe stepped back and gestured toward Sal. “This is Sal. Sal, Carlos.”

Carlos bowed and grinned all the more. “Any amigo of Joe is my amigo too. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Señor Sal.” Carlos extended his hand, and Sal cautiously shook it.

“Carlos. Please explain to my nervous pal what happens if the engine fails while we’re in the air.”

Carlos took the salvia-soaked cigar out of his mouth and held it between his thumb and index finger. Then, using it as a pointer, he gestured and explained. “If my little engine stops, we get out and push.” Carlos barely finished before he broke out in laughter so hard his belly bobbled up and down. He looked at Joe and then at Sal, shrugging his shoulders. “What else can we do, señor?”

Sal scowled. “Groucho Marx, he ain’t, Joe... No way I’m gettin’ in this junk heap.”

Carlos chewed on his cigar and hit the engine with a wrench again. “Not to fret, señor. This little plane won’t fail me; it has too much love for me. Would I fly in it if I didn’t expect to see my family tonight?”

Carlos put the wrench in his coveralls, gently caressed the cowling with one hand, and mimicked a take-off with the other. He looked skyward and smiled. “She will take to the air like a bird and fly us there... And me back home.” He smiled at Sal. “So you don’t need to worry none, no?”

Sal’s concerns were somewhat eased, but not much. “All right, what the hell, Joe; you only live once.”

“We’re following orders, Sal, so calm down.”

“I know. I know, but geez, Joe, Nicaragua? And San Rafael... Never heard of the place.”

“You’ll like it.”

“How far is it?”

“Due west. Ninety minutes flying time.”

“East. West. North. South. Don’t matter none to me. All I wanna know is: will this thing stay airborne that long?”

“Stop fretting, Sal.”

“And what the hell’s in San Rafael...? It’s a woman, ain’t it?”

“Later, Sal.”

Sal rolled his eyes. “I knew it... I just knew it. It is a woman, and knowing your tastes, Joe, she must be young with big...”

Joe turned to Carlos. “When can we leave?”

“Climb aboard, señores. I take care of everything, no?”

“Get aboard, Sal. We’re leaving.”

The blood drained from Sal’s face. “Oh, crap!”

*** End Chapter ***

[DRayVan]

06: A Nail-Biting, Roller-Coaster Flight

The cramped interior of the small aircraft had three narrow canvas seats, each lined up in a tight single file behind the pilot. The plane’s exposed ribbing showed a patchwork of worn aluminum and rivets, a testament to its age and the countless flights it had endured. Behind the last seat, a chaotic jumble of straps secured an assortment of luggage and supplies. The roar of the engine vibrated through the metal frame, stifling any attempt at normal conversation. Thick, acrid air, heavy with the stench of aviation fuel and the faint hint of motor oil, enveloped the cabin, clinging to everything like a stubborn fog.

The initial flight was smooth and steady as the plane glided over the lush, green expanse of the eastern Nicaraguan jungle. When they approached the western mountains, the airplane suddenly encountered a violent disturbance that tossed it about as if it were a mere toy. Carlos struggled to maintain control of the craft while the turbulence jostled passengers, luggage, and supplies violently left and right, up and down, creating a chaotic scene inside the cabin. But he remained unfazed by the unsettling bumps, filling the confined space with his cheerful singing.

Joe appeared completely indifferent to the upheaval. He folded his hands neatly in his lap and closed his eyes as if he were meditating amid the storm.

Sal, on the other hand, gripped the armrests so tightly that his knuckles and fingers turned white, squeezing with all his might. The blood drained from his face, giving him a ghostly pallor. He swallowed hard, trying to keep the contents of his stomach intact.

Despite the roar of the plane’s engine, Sal leaned forward. His voice straining and filled with anger and fear. “I swear, Joe, if I ever make it off this damn plane, I’m gonna kick your ***.”

Joe opened one eye as his mouth stretched to a grin.

Sal looked out the small window and watched the endless greenery pass beneath them. He muttered to himself. “‘Get out and push,’ the old pilot says. Why’d I let Joe talk me into this?”

The plane suddenly plummeted fifty feet when it flew into a low-pressure air pocket, rattling the cabin. Sal’s body tensed involuntarily as his grip tightened around the armrests, each finger digging into the plastic. A wave of nausea surged, and the acidic stomach fluid clawed its way up his esophagus, causing a bitter taste in his mouth. He gulped hard, but it only made him sputter as he fought to regain his composure. “Jooooe! Carloooos!”

Joe cocked his head and chuckled. Carlos looked aft and laughed.

Sal wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “If I survive this flight, I’m gonna kick yer ***, Joe!”

“Think of something new, Sal. You’re repeating yourself.”

Carlos’ laughter thundered above the roar of the plane’s engine.

Sal yelled to Carlos. “How much longer?”

Carlos cocked his head toward Sal. “Not to worry, señor. We be there soon.”

Sal pressed his pale cheek against the plane’s window, hoping to see some traces of civilization, but he saw nothing except green jungle carpeting the mountains as far as possible. He stuck a finger in each ear to block the engine’s roar and pinched his nose with his thumbs to stop the fuel and oil smell from turning his stomach.

Carlos just laughed at the sight while Joe rested his eyes and smiled. Ahead, the skies were blue with puffy white clouds. Below, mountains and jungle seemed never-ending, but finally, a town, a few cultivated fields, and a landing strip appeared on the horizon at the river’s bend.

[DRayVan]

Chapter 07: The Plague Comes on Furry Feet

As the sun rose higher over the distant mountain peaks, its warmth cast across the sprawling jungle below while fluffy white clouds dotted the sapphire-blue sky above. Perched atop a gentle hill, a two-room stucco dwelling with a sloping red tile roof offered a panoramic view of the valley and the village of San Rafael. Its once-vibrant yellow walls were sun-bleached and weathered, but its small covered porch—furnished with a rustic bench and sturdy stools—welcomed visitors with hospitality. Nearby, a stream gently gurgled alongside a well-traveled path, wounding its way downward to the village.

The main room took up most of the floor space. An adobe brick stove, an old table, and two chairs occupied one side while supplies, baskets, and tools were arranged on the other. A large window faced west, providing a view toward the mountains, where parrots would often flock for food. A smaller window faced east, overlooking the porch. A tiny connecting room, just big enough to fit a bed, a table with a washbasin, and a candle, served as a bedroom. Some natural light and ventilation filtered through a narrow, horizontal window at the roofline.

Father Ortega, the sixty-three-year-old short, pudgy priest of La Iglesia de Dios, was asleep in his bed.

Luisa Ortiz, Father Ortega’s thirty-eight-year-old plump housekeeper, trekked up the hillside from the village to his hut. When she reached his porch, she knocked.

Father Ortega snorted and rolled over in his bed.

Luisa waited a few moments and knocked again. “Father. Father Ortega!”

But Father Ortega didn’t respond.

This time, she pounded on the door. “Time to wake up, sleepyhead!”

Father Ortega sat up, yawned, and rubbed his eyes. “No need to break down the door. Awake, Luisa. I’m awake.”

“I know your tricks, Father. You turn over and snore some more.”

“No... No trickery this morning, Luisa. I’m wide awake.” He yawned and looked longingly at his pillow.

“No, go back to sleep, Father!”

Father Ortega slid his feet into nearby sandals and shook his head. “No... I won’t... My feet are on the floor, Luisa.”

“Time’s a-wasting!”

“Coming, Luisa.” Father Ortega muttered to himself. “That woman is a thorn in my side, but how could I manage without her?” He put on his robe and shuffled to the door. Before he could swing the door wide open, Luisa pushed her way in.

“Just once, Father, could you be up and ready for me? I have much work and so little time. Your breakfast, the wash, the cleaning, and—”

Father Ortega paid no attention to her rant. He just smiled. “Luisa, you look positively radiant this morning.”

“No waste your charms, Father. Your silver tongue no work on me.” Luisa put a match to the kindling in the stove. “Coffee?”

Father Ortega stretched his arms above his head and yawned. “Always.”

Luisa crushed a handful of coffee beans. She put several heaps of fresh grounds in the pot, filled it with water, and put it on the stove grates to brew. She warmed leftover red beans and corn tortillas for Father’s breakfast.

Luisa turned to Father Ortega. “Get dressed, Father. I need your nightshirt and the bedding.”

Father Ortega chuckled. “Thou must be obeyed. Isn’t that so, Luisa?”

“Oh, Father... We tease each other every wash day. I swear you look forward to it.”

“I answer to God in Heaven, but to you on earth.”

Luisa laughed. “Oh, go on, Father. You no mean one word of what you say.”

Father Ortega went into the bedroom to disrobe, dress, and collect his soiled bedding. “We are more like sister and brother, you and I, instead of a Father and a daughter... And you’ve sacrificed having a family to look after me.”

“No sacrifice, Father. No one has asked for my hand in marriage.”

“Why not, my child? He would be the most fortunate man to ask you.”

Luisa stirred the red beans and flipped the tortillas. “Others are more beautiful.”

Father Ortega returned in his robe with his laundry. “Beauty is only—”

“I know. I know, Father. Beauty is only skin-deep. Heard that all my life. Know what? People tell ugly ducklings that, but I never became a beautiful swan.”

Father Ortega put his laundry on a chair. “But what’s inside that counts, Luisa.”

Luisa looked up from the stove. “Nights are chilly, Father, and... And very lonely.” Tears welled up in her eyes. She gathered up the laundry. “I be at the stream if you need anything.”

“You’re a Godsend.”

Luisa wiped her eyes and started down the trail to the stream.

After the pot finished percolating, Father Ortega poured a cup of the hot brew, stirred in one spoonful of sugar, and took a sip. He scrunched his face and spit the liquid on the floor. “My goodness! Too bitter.” He drizzled a little honey in the coffee, stirred, and sipped again. “Ah... Much better.”

Father Ortega returned to his bedroom and began bathing. While he washed, he hummed an uplifting tune.

A rat scurried across the floor, climbed the table, and foraged in the open sugar bowl. It scratched and licked the sugar off its whiskers and paws.

Niñita, Father Ortega’s cat, stirred in her warm bed near the stove. Her ears swiveled toward the rat’s sounds. Instantly, she crouched, stalking the rat as it scampered toward safety. But it didn’t have a prayer. She swiftly attacked and killed it with a single crunch to the back of its neck. She licked her paws and washed her whiskers and mouth.

When Father Ortega returned from the bedroom, Niñita sauntered toward the door, the rat dangling from her mouth. He stopped dead in his tracks. “¡Dios mío!”

Niñita dropped her trophy and meowed. Father Ortega rushed and opened the door. “Go and enjoy your breakfast. You earned it. Good girl.”

She picked up the rat and sashayed through the open door, flicking her tail with each step. She found a secluded spot and consumed her prize. Afterward, she licked her paws, face, and whiskers.

In the meantime, Father Ortega finished another coffee and ate breakfast. Then he hummed and danced light-footed around the room. He stopped at a picture of the Virgin Mary hanging on the wall. “Sunday’s Mass had many new faces, Holy Mother. Your mass should be well attended.” He made the sign of the cross on himself.

He whistled a tune while feeding the parrots tidbits, patiently waiting for breakfast outside his window. An airplane engine’s roar caught his attention, and he glanced skyward to see an old, weather-beaten, single-engine aircraft wobbling in the turbulent air.

*** End Chapter ***

[DRayVan]

Chapter 08: Hotelito El Piloto Has Side-Benefits

Joe and Sal’s aircraft made two wide circles before touching down on the unpaved runway at San Rafael. Its wheels bounced several times on the uneven surface before rolling to a stop just short of the jungle. Carlos revved the engine, made a tight circle, and taxied to the dilapidated one-story terminal building, navigating every rut and bump along the way. Sal’s head bobbled in the window with each bounce, and his mouth and lips moved as if he were shouting at someone.

When the plane reached the terminal, Carlos killed the engine. Joe was the first to disembark, with Sal close behind. When Sal’s feet landed on solid ground, his knees buckled, but Joe grabbed him. Carlos stuck his head out his window. “Is Señor Sal okay?”

“You trying to kill us, Carlos?” Sal wiped the nervous sweat off his forehead and neck.

“No, señor.” Carlos disembarked and caressed the fuselage. “My little avión would never do that to me.”

“Your woman better be worth it, Joe, ‘cause I can’t hear too good.”

“She is.” Joe laughed and turned toward the tail of the plane. “And the buzzing won’t last long.”

“You sure about that, Joe? What if it’s permanent? Huh? What if it is?”

Joe ignored Sal and opened the aft compartment. Sal scurried after him. When they had unloaded their luggage, a taxi driver approached them. “Transporte, señores?”

“Sí. Hotelito El Piloto,” Joe said.

“Equipaje?”

“Sí.”

While the driver strapped their luggage onto the roof of a small, beat-up, early-model car, Joe and Sal climbed into the back seat. Once the driver settled behind the steering wheel, he accelerated through the narrow streets, weaving left and right to avoid pedestrians, carts, and animals. The taxi’s crazy maneuvers tossed Joe and Sal against the doors and each other, their heads banging against the ceiling each time the car hit a pothole. After several tense minutes, they screeched to a stop in front of the hotel.

“I thought the landing was rough, but that taxi ride—”

“Quit complaining, Sal, and get the luggage.” Joe got out and paid the driver.

Sal unstrapped and unloaded their luggage. He handed Joe his bag, and they stood for a few moments looking at the hotel.

The forty-year-old hotel was a two-story, stucco-plastered building with faded multi-color exterior walls and a tile roof. It was plagued with poor workmanship, shoddy materials, and neglected maintenance.

Several worn, cracked terracotta floor tiles greeted customers and visitors. A bulky ceiling fan wobbled and clickety-clacked while it slowly rotated. One of its three light bulbs was burned out. Worn wicker chairs and ignored potted plants sat around the reception room. Off to the right, an open-air cantina and restaurant served a large gathering of customers.

Fernando Jarquin, the fifty-six-year-old hotel owner, lounged behind the worn check-in desk with a radio blaring in Spanish while he puffed on his cigar. His short, pudgy frame was complemented by dark, slicked-back hair that gleamed under the overhead lights, framing his round face and a beaming smile that stretched from ear to ear.

Joe and Sal climbed the short steps and stopped just inside the entrance.

Sal gave the hotel lobby a once-over. “Geez, Joe. I wasn’t expecting the Taj Mahal, but this place—”

Joe looked toward the cantina. “Shut up, Sal. It’s got side benefits.”

Sal took a few steps into the lobby and shook his head. “Couldn’t bribe an Inspector enough—”

Joe stepped toward Sal. “You hard of hearing, Sal? I said, ‘Shut your trap!’ I’m looking for someone.”

Sal back-peddled. “Okay, Joe. I was just sayin’.”

“Well, I’ve heard enough of your complaining, Sal, so keep it to yourself.”

Sal sidestepped Joe’s scowling glare.

Joe continued his search through the bustling cantina. His eyes finally landed on a striking twenty-six-year-old woman with long black hair cascading down her back and a curvaceous waist that emphasized her voluptuous hips. She moved gracefully among the tables, balancing trays laden with drinks. Her fitted blouse accentuated her ample bosom, adding a sensual touch to her vivacious presence.

Joe raised his hand and waved, hoping to catch her attention amid the lively chatter of patrons. When she didn’t see him, he yelled. “Rosa!”

Rosa turned toward the sound of her name. When she saw Joe, her face immediately lit up. She squealed and rushed to him, arms held outward. “José. You’ve come back to me.”

Joe held his outreached arms, ready to hug her back. “Rosa.”

Rosa stopped short of him. “Who’s your amigo?”

Joe didn’t take his eyes off her. “Sal.”

Rosa curtsied. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Señor Sal.” She turned to Joe, wrapped her arms around him, and snuggled tight. “Staying longer this time?”

Joe chuckled. “Till next year.”

Rosa punched Joe’s shoulder. “Such a clown, my José... No?”

“Thought we’d celebrate with the town and get me some loving all-in-one trip.”

“Loving... I got plenty for you, no? I make your eyes spin and wish you never leave me again.”

“Now, maybe?”

“Sí, José, now.” Rosa took Joe’s hand and led him to the nearby stairs.

Joe turned to Sal and grinned. “Check us in, would you, old pal?”

Sal shook his head and stepped up to the registration desk. “Two rooms.”

The corners of Fernando’s fat lips turned up in a grin as he handed Sal two registration cards. “Name and address, señor.”

“We ain’t got no permanent address.”

Fernando’s mouth drew back in a full grin, flaunting his gold-plated front tooth. “No worry, señor. Just a name will do.” He took the registration cards, assigned their rooms, and handed two keys to Sal. “Down the hallway, first two doors on the left.”

“Thanks.” Sal turned to get his luggage.

Fernando leaned forward. “Señor?”

Sal looked back. “Yes... Sí?”

Fernando proudly displayed his two rows of plaque-encrusted teeth and his gold tooth. “You want I should find a woman for you?”

Blood rushed up Sal’s neck into his cheeks, and he turned a bright red. He returned to the desk, shaking his head. “Uh... No thanks, señor. I’ll just wait for them.”

“I know those two, señor. They will be a long while. Uh... A very long while.” Fernando’s lips stretched to their breaking point. “You, maybe, would like someone to talk to? Perhaps a companion to pass the time while you visit our fine village?”

Sal quickly glanced around the room and nodded in agreement. “A companion...? Sure... Sí. A companion... If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

Fernando chuckled. “No trouble at all, señor. I have many daughters.”

*** End Chapter ***

[DRayVan]

Chapter 09: The Calm Before the Storm

Another energetic flock of multi-colored parrots congregated outside Father Ortega’s large window, their cheerful chorus of gurgles, trills, whistles, and squawks filling the air with chaotic gibberish. Father Ortega grabbed a sack of seeds and stepped outside to greet his feathered companions. With a gentle smile, he scattered a handful of feed on the ground, and the birds dashed in a flurry of brilliantly colored feathers, scrambling and jostling each other in fierce competition to reach the seeds before they disappeared.

Father Ortega chuckled at their antics as he tossed another generous handful of seeds onto the dusty soil. “There’s plenty, my little ones. Enjoy!” he called to them, his eyes sparkling with joy. After spending a delightful few moments watching them flutter and feast, he got his wide-brimmed hat and set off on the long trek to the village.

The sun warmed his back as he walked, and along the way, friendly villagers paused to greet him. He exchanged cheerful tidings with them, offered his blessings, and continued on his journey.

Father Ortega arrived late at the chapel, La Iglesia de Dios, and a few worshipers were already waiting for morning confessions. But he had too much preparation for the mass to hear them just now. “So sorry I’m late, my children, but I can’t hear your confession right now. Please return in one hour.”

The villagers nodded, turned, and, one by one, they left.

La Iglesia de Dios was a two-story, stucco-plastered, adobe-brick building with a four-story-high bell spire and stained-glass windows left and right. Its steps and floor tiles were worn, evidence of countless shuffling feet.

A life-sized crucifix hung a few meters above the floor on the apse’s right side. A statue of the Madonna rested on a platform attached to the wall on the opposite side. Gold-plated candle holders, crosses, and challis rested on an altar covered with off-white linen in the apse center.

Father Ortega walked to the front of the chapel, genuflected, and made the sign of the cross on himself. He stood and looked around for Fausto, the altar boy. “Fausto! Where are you, my son?”

He waited for a few moments, then shook his head, picked up a broom, and swept the floor. He had just finished sweeping the apse and the first two rows of benches when the chapel’s door swung open with a bang. Fausto, a lanky twelve-year-old boy, rushed in, quickly genuflected, and crossed himself.

“Sorry, Father. I—”

“I swear, you’ll be late for your own funeral, Fausto.” Father Ortega handed him the broom. “Here. Sweep. I have much to do.”

“Yes, Father. I won’t be late... I mean—”

Father Ortega laughed. “Yes, my son. I know what you mean. Now go. Sweep every corner.”

“Yes, Father.” Fausto took the broom and swept under the next row of benches, working his way to the back of the chapel, then swept the dirt out the door.

Meanwhile, Father Ortega moved each row forward, a little closer together. When they were done, the chapel was clean, and enough room for six more benches in the back. “Go next door, my son, and borrow more benches.” He pointed while Fausto watched intently. “Put them here... And here... And here.”

Fausto nodded. “Yes, Father.”

“After that, you may go home. You’ve been a great help.”

“Need me tomorrow, Father?”

“No, but don’t forget Thursday’s celebration... You must ring the bell, so don’t be late.”

“I won’t. I promise, Father.”

A villager knocked on the chapel’s door.

“Now go... Enjoy your day, my son. I must hear confessions.”

Fausto nodded and hurried out the back door.

As Father Ortega shuffled toward the chapel’s door to admit the villagers for confessions, he became dizzy and broke out with a cold sweat from his head to his feet. He grabbed a nearby bench to steady himself and sat for a few minutes, waiting for the episode to pass.

*** End Chapter ***

[tailor STATELY]

:)

Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor

[DRayVan]

Chapter 10: Trouble in Paradise

Rosa’s La Hotelito El Piloto bedroom was small but cozy, with soft pink stucco walls. A crucifix hung above the headboard, while a framed illustration of the Virgin Mary decorated the opposite wall. Two paintings, one depicting village life and the other showcasing the local landscape, were randomly positioned around the room.

The furnishings were simple yet functional: a neatly made-up bed with white linens, a sturdy but slightly worn wooden dresser, and a chipped washbasin on a rustic table. Curtains framed a sizable south-facing window; their thin, lightweight material fluttered gently in the evening breeze. The window overlooked the village square below, where the sounds of merchants working their stalls blended with the joyful squeals of children playing nearby.

Joe sat completely naked on the edge of the bed, gazing out the window. He lit a cigarette and poured a generous amount of whiskey into a glass.

Rosa lay nestled beneath the sheets, her voice calm and soothing. “No worries, José. It happens to every man.”

He took a deep drag from the cigarette, slowly letting the smoke escape through his nostrils. He paused, lost in thought, then shook his head as frustration simmered beneath the surface.

“Not to Jovani Gallo, it doesn’t!” His tone was sharp and defiant. He finished the whiskey in one swift motion, then slammed the empty glass onto the bedside table.

“Maybe three times enough, José.”

“Never before.”

“Come lie with me. We talk. Maybe, then—”

Joe flicked the cigarette out the open window and turned toward Rosa. “I wanna see you, all of you. Maybe that’ll help.”

Rosa threw the sheet aside. “Come lie next to me. We talk. Then, maybe you can—”

Joe leaned over and kissed Rosa. “You are quite beautiful, you know.”

“Come. Come... Relax, José. I give you back rub.”

Joe crawled onto his stomach, and Rosa knelt beside him and began rubbing his shoulders.

“Oh, that feels sooooo good.”

Rosa pressed her thumbs into the base of his skull and gently moved them in circular motions. “Why haven’t you come to see me in such a long time?”

Joe twisted so she could massage the nape of his neck. “Business. I get called to do things. It keeps me busy.”

“What kind of business?” Rosa found a tight, knotted muscle in Joe’s back. She leaned forward and pressed hard with her thumbs.

A sharp pain shot through him. “What the...? Are you trying to kill me or what?”

Rosa playfully slapped his bare hindquarters. “Big baby!”

“That hurt like hell!” José pushed up on his elbows.

“You want thumbs or slaps?”

Joe lay back down with a groan. “Funny, yer not!”

Rosa focused on the knotted muscle again, working at it until it finally unwound.

Joe relaxed and sighed. “Ahhhh... Yer fingers work magic.”

“I make you feel better.” Rosa worked her fingers down his spine.

“You’re a good woman, Rosa, but please don’t ask what I do.”

Rosa leaned forward slightly. “You still go to university?”

“No, no more.”

“But you want to be doctor.” She straightened up. “My village needs a doctor.”

Joe twisted to one side and propped his head in his hand. “I hung out with the wrong crowd.”

“What you mean, wrong crowd?”

Joe gestured toward the whiskey bottle. “Pour me another... I ended up owing them money... Lots of money... More than I could pay.”

“What you do?” Rosa reached for the bottle and glass.

“They offered me a way out, and I couldn’t refuse them.”

“I no understand.” Rosa poured two fingers of whiskey and handed the glass to Joe.

He gulped it down in three swallows. “Don’t try to understand.”

Rosa set the empty glass and bottle on the bedside table. “Roll over. I do your chest.”

When Joe rolled over, Rosa giggled. “Look, José, you can—”

“I already know.” Joe reached up and pulled her on top of him. “Make my eyes spin.”

“Sí... I do my best for you.”

###

Meanwhile, the sun dipped below the mountains as Father Ortega slowly made his way up to his hut, stopping several times to catch his breath. The evening breeze carried the earthy scent of damp soil and vegetation, but Father Ortega paid little attention; he was exhausted from hearing countless confessions and preparing the chapel for the celebration. He looked forward to a peaceful and restful night, hoping for a chance to recharge his spirit.

However, a sense of dread washed over him as he approached the porch. Under the weathered bench lay Niñita, her frail body curled up and gasping for breath. Her labored breaths showed her desperate struggle for life and sent a jolt of urgency through Father Ortega’s soul.

He bent down and scooped her up. “What’s the matter with my little Niñita? Did the rat delicacy disagree with you?” He held her near his face for a better look in the fading light. Niñita coughed and vomited on him. “¡Dios mío!” He dropped Niñita, and she fell to the floor.

Unlike her usual reaction to falling, Niñita did not swivel midair and try to land on her paws. Instead, she hit the hard-packed ground with a thud and lay still.

Father Ortega rushed inside, the acrid smell of bile still lingering about him. He quickly wiped the spittle and vomit from his face and hands, trying to rid himself of the traces of panic that clung to him. Taking a deep breath, he returned to the porch, where Niñita was lying quietly on the wooden floor. She was motionless, her usually vibrant and playful manners replaced by a disturbing stillness. Her tail, usually a lively extension of her playful personality, lay stretched along her back legs, completely at rest for the first time he could remember. Kneeling beside her, he noticed that her rib cage barely rose and fell. Each breath was labored, an emotional reminder of her death struggle.

Father Ortega knelt beside her, his heart heavy with sorrow as he whispered a prayer. An hour later, Niñita softly exhaled her final breath and slipped peacefully away.

*** End Chapter ***

[DRayVan]

Chapter 11: The Plague Finds the First Victim

Wednesday, December 11

Father Ortega awakened at first light and sat on the edge of his bed. He expected to hear Niñita meowing, but then he remembered: she had died. A feeling of sadness and loss swept over him. She had been his cat, pet, and much more for nearly ten years, and he missed her dearly.

Overcome by grief and pain, he felt utterly miserable. A persistent throbbing in his head had awakened him several times during the night, leaving him clammy, disoriented, and exhausted. Beads of sweat covered his brow. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and noticed the wetness under his armpits.

Father Ortega rose slowly, gripping the side table for support while he steadied himself. Once he felt a flicker of stability, he moved through his morning rituals—undressing, bathing, and dressing—each action a struggle against the lingering heaviness in his body. He shuffled to the kitchen for a quick bite to eat, hoping to ease the queasiness in his stomach.

When he stood to clear his plate, dizziness struck, and he found himself staggering, clutching the table’s edge to keep from falling. The headache surged once more, sharp and insistent. Tears welled up in his eyes, tracing warm trails down his cheeks. Mucus streamed on his lips, and with a weary sigh, he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He felt both exhausted and beaten; he had so much to do for the celebration.

Before leaving, he took time to feed the flock of parrots that always gathered outside his window. Feeding time had become a morning ritual for Father Ortega and the birds. He scattered feed and sang and whistled to them, and they mimicked his sounds. Once they were fed, he grabbed his hat and left for the chapel. Along his way, Father Ortega greeted several villagers, stopped and chatted with a few, and blessed them.

The sun was brightly shining when Father Ortega crossed the village square to the chapel. He reached for the large iron door rings but stumbled and had to lean against the building for support. He massaged his temples, hoping the pain in his head would go away. His knees buckled, but Father Ortega caught himself before sliding to the ground. His head bobbled. He rubbed his eyes and wiped the sweat off his neck and forehead. “Mother of God, what’s happening to me?”

Father Ortega stood, shook off his symptoms, and entered the chapel. He shuffled to the front of the chapel, often stopping to sit until he reached the altar. He genuflected, made the sign of the cross on himself, and stood.

Father Ortega went to the side room and changed into his priestly robes to prepare for the mass. He returned to the apse, poured wine into a silver goblet with great care, blessed it, covered it with an embroidered cloth, and put it on the altar. He took a bread loaf, tore it in half, blessed it, put it on the silver tray near the goblet, and covered it with an embroidered cloth.

Behind him, Fausto banged the doors, rushing into the chapel. “Sorry I late, Father.”

Father Ortega pivoted toward Fausto. “Ring the bell, Fausto. Hurry, my son, hurry!” Fausto ran to the bell tower and pulled the bell’s rope.

###

The early morning sun shone through the bedroom window on Rosa while she adjusted her dress and hair in the mirror. Joe stirred and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He rolled over and leaned on one elbow.

“Damn, Rosa, you are one beautiful woman all dressed up.”

Rosa smiled. “Thank you, José.”

“Where you going so early?”

Rosa made a final adjustment and twirled to face Joe. “To the mass.”

Joe held out his hand. “Forget the mass and come back to bed.”

Rosa shook her head. “No, José. Today a special holy day. Morning communion. Afternoon celebration. Tonight, we love.” She twirled in front of the mirror. “Notice my new dress? You like?”

“Anything you wear is beautiful.”

“No smooth talk me, José.” Rosa shook her head slowly. “You no notice. Men never notice. Why do I bother?”

“‘Cause you love me.”

Rosa stopped to allow Joe’s words to sink in, then turned to leave. “I won’t be very long.” She opened the door, hesitated for a moment, and closed it behind her.

###

The adjacent bedroom had faded white-washed, stucco-covered walls, an east-facing window, an upright dresser, a mirror, and a wash basin. In the bed, Sal cuddled María, a tall, shapely, dark-haired, twenty-one-year-old woman. “I like waking up to a warm woman next to me.”

“So... You like, señor?”

“Yes... Sí. I like. I like very much.”

María leaned over and kissed him on his forehead. She hopped out of bed and quickly started to dress.

Rosa knocked and stuck her head in the room. “Ready? We can’t be late for the mass today of all days.”

María stood in front of the mirror, fixing her hair. “You go. I catch up.”

“No. I wait for you in the lobby.”

“Yes... I hurry, then.”

###

The hotel’s cantina opened directly onto the bustling town square. A haphazard collection of political placards, activist flags, and candid photographs documenting the town’s history covered its yellowed and tarnished stucco walls. The tiled floor bore the scuffs of innumerable footsteps, and its surface was grimy and worn. Above, the ceiling fans wobbled precariously, with a rhythmic click-clack as they lazily churned the warm air.

Joe and Sal wandered into the nearly deserted cantina and settled at a table next to the opening to the town square. From their vantage point, they watched the villagers excitedly scurrying about, hanging colorful banners and stringing flags from the rooftops for the upcoming celebration and parade.

A waiter approached, bearing steaming cups and a menu. They each placed an order for breakfast.

Sal took a sip of his coffee. “I’ve tasted better.”

“Do you wake up each morning thinking of things you can complain about?”

“Seriously, Joe, ain’t this the worst—”

“I don’t wanna hear it, Sal.” Joe shook his head. “So shut up, drink up, and let me enjoy mine in peace!”

“And, Joe, they don’t even have any way of reaching the outside world. No phone or telegraph, just iffy mail service.”

“So? What’s the issue?”

“What if we need to contact Chicago, or they want to contact us?”

“Relax, Sal. Radiograms. They’re just like a telegram, except by radio. Satisfied?”

“Sure, Joe.” Sal nodded. “If ya say so.”

While they sipped their coffee, Fernando approached them with his perpetual ear-to-ear smile. “Well, señores? How was your night?”

Joe looked up and smiled. “Best ever.”

Fernando turned to Sal. “And you, mi amigo?”

Sal cleared his throat. “Maria is a lovely young woman.”

Joe jerked his head toward Sal. “Maria? Who the hell is Maria?”

“Just about the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.” Sal looked toward the ceiling, dreamy-eyed. “And she knows how to satisfy a man’s every desire.”

Joe punched Sal’s shoulder. “Well, you lucky so-and-so.”

“Cut it out, Joe. You’ll make me spill my coffee... Like you said, this hotel does have its side benefits.”

Fernando nodded, proudly displaying his tartar-stained and gold teeth. “If you pay for the rooms, buy meals and drink from me, you can have the women as long as you stay. Por una pequeña carga. What you say, señores?”

Sal scrunched his face. “What’s that there ‘por una’ he’s saying?”

“Rosa and Maria can stay with us for a small extra charge. Just like my last trip.”

Joe looked at Sal, and Sal looked back, smiling.

“I guess it’s a deal, Fernando.”

“Sí, Señor Joe. A deal, no?”

“Sí, a deal.”

Sal nodded approval.

###

Father Ortega took one more glance around the chapel to ensure everything was ready for mass. While he stood at the altar, a wave of weakness washed over him. His heart raced violently, and he struggled to breathe without triggering a coughing fit. Tears welled up in his eyes and streamed down his cheeks, blurring his vision, and his nose ran. He reached for the nearest wooden bench for support. While he sat, he closed his eyes and worried about how he would summon the strength to get through the mass and provide comfort to his congregation.

*** End Chapter ***

[tailor STATELY]

Catching up... Enjoyed :)

Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor