Steven Hunley
04-11-2010, 03:29 PM
Intro to the DEA in Santa Cruz
By
Steven Hunley
The bar was pretty nice, but not too nice. The bar itself was long and carved of mahogany, a rich red color, almost, which was good and matched the blood that was sometimes spilled on it. The mirror behind it was a beveled mirror, stained on the edges with yellow, from the constant tobacco smoked within. On one side it was chipped where a glass thrown by one of its patrons had missed its mark, (another patron’s head) and hit it instead. A typical bar in Santa Cruz it was.
At a table in the back sat two gringos. Although the bar was crowded with men they sat alone, shunned by the rest. It was easy to figure out why if you knew the two. That’s why the other men avoided them with ease. They knew the two.
Lenny, the taller one was still not tall, had a lump on his head that would never go down, and slobber constantly hanging from his lower lip. That didn’t bother him one bit.
The other one, Phil, was fat, sweaty at all times, had more chins than a Chinese telephone book, rumpled pants and coat, and carried a cane made of cane. Why? As he once put it, “Just for fun.”
They were both drinking the cheapest beer available, which in Bolivia was pretty cheap. Even the other men, the workingmen, who traded their sweat for Pesos Bolivianos on the outskirts of town, drank better beer than they did, though they could hardly afford it. For this reason they were shunned, and for another reason as well. They were DEA.
Assigned there by the US state department they were supposed to be undercover. Being Lenny and Phil they had managed to keep their cover for all of two weeks. Of that fact they had taken no notice. And even if they had known they wouldn’t have cared. They were getting paid well, extremely well considering the rate of exchange, and in their leisure moments (which were many) divided up their time neatly between the bar and the whore-house down the street.
“Life is good to us,” Lenny slobbered to Phil.
“Yes,” Phil sweated back, “life is good.”
They would make a few busts occasionally when needed or required, not by detective work, which was beyond their abilities anyway, but through the work of low-life informants. This method gave them more time to invest in the drink and the whores. When they finished their cheap beers they made their way through the door for the walk down to Esmarelda’s establishment.
On the way, crossing an intersection, the traffic blocked their way. A small buff-colored donkey pulling a cart stopped right in front of them. The driver was small too.
“Move this donkey,” said Phil to its driver, “or I’ll move it for you!”
He couldn’t, the traffic would not allow it.
Phil tapped his cane on the buff rump and knocked off some dust.
“Come on, just move it!”
He hit harder and the donkey let out a bray. Another hit even harder followed, his face getting flushed with effort.
“Move it I said, move it!”
At this the donkey sat down.
Then Phil went ballistic and starting to hit the animal with so much ferocity the cane split into sharp sections. When the driver got between him and the animal, and caught the cane with his hands Phil exploded. He pushed the driver aside, and began to whip the mule mercilessly, over and over. The cane started to splinter just as the mule broke free of its halter, and ran down the street pursued by the driver. A crowd had formed and drew the attention of a cop. After the driver caught the mule and returned, accusations were made. Money was spread all around. That’s how they took care of it. That’s how they always took care of things, Phil and Lenny, by spreading money around.
"You're crazy Phil, just crazy!"
“Whadda you think you are? Some kind of psychiatrist? Some kind of Sigmund Somebody?”
“Well maybe that’s what you need, some kind of psychiatrist.”
“Whores or mules, what difference does it make? They’re all the same to me. Let’s go.”
Fortunately for them Esmarelda’s was only a block away and they made it there in safety and were just lucky I guess.
The women that worked in Esmarelda’s were lucky too. Phil had already broken his cane and wouldn’t be able to replace it until the next morning. It was true. When he was in top form he could be a cruel dude. Still, he paid them well for their lacerations with his filthy cash. He was generous in this respect. But it was getting harder and harder to find girls that liked that sort of thing. Many, who thought they did at first or did it because they were strapped for cash, and I do mean strapped for cash, had consented to such treatment. But now their backs and legs and bottoms were sore. They needed time to heal. The broken cane, now lying there on the street where the donkey had been would give them a needed brake. Poor putas, poor burros… Phil was poorer yet.
By
Steven Hunley
The bar was pretty nice, but not too nice. The bar itself was long and carved of mahogany, a rich red color, almost, which was good and matched the blood that was sometimes spilled on it. The mirror behind it was a beveled mirror, stained on the edges with yellow, from the constant tobacco smoked within. On one side it was chipped where a glass thrown by one of its patrons had missed its mark, (another patron’s head) and hit it instead. A typical bar in Santa Cruz it was.
At a table in the back sat two gringos. Although the bar was crowded with men they sat alone, shunned by the rest. It was easy to figure out why if you knew the two. That’s why the other men avoided them with ease. They knew the two.
Lenny, the taller one was still not tall, had a lump on his head that would never go down, and slobber constantly hanging from his lower lip. That didn’t bother him one bit.
The other one, Phil, was fat, sweaty at all times, had more chins than a Chinese telephone book, rumpled pants and coat, and carried a cane made of cane. Why? As he once put it, “Just for fun.”
They were both drinking the cheapest beer available, which in Bolivia was pretty cheap. Even the other men, the workingmen, who traded their sweat for Pesos Bolivianos on the outskirts of town, drank better beer than they did, though they could hardly afford it. For this reason they were shunned, and for another reason as well. They were DEA.
Assigned there by the US state department they were supposed to be undercover. Being Lenny and Phil they had managed to keep their cover for all of two weeks. Of that fact they had taken no notice. And even if they had known they wouldn’t have cared. They were getting paid well, extremely well considering the rate of exchange, and in their leisure moments (which were many) divided up their time neatly between the bar and the whore-house down the street.
“Life is good to us,” Lenny slobbered to Phil.
“Yes,” Phil sweated back, “life is good.”
They would make a few busts occasionally when needed or required, not by detective work, which was beyond their abilities anyway, but through the work of low-life informants. This method gave them more time to invest in the drink and the whores. When they finished their cheap beers they made their way through the door for the walk down to Esmarelda’s establishment.
On the way, crossing an intersection, the traffic blocked their way. A small buff-colored donkey pulling a cart stopped right in front of them. The driver was small too.
“Move this donkey,” said Phil to its driver, “or I’ll move it for you!”
He couldn’t, the traffic would not allow it.
Phil tapped his cane on the buff rump and knocked off some dust.
“Come on, just move it!”
He hit harder and the donkey let out a bray. Another hit even harder followed, his face getting flushed with effort.
“Move it I said, move it!”
At this the donkey sat down.
Then Phil went ballistic and starting to hit the animal with so much ferocity the cane split into sharp sections. When the driver got between him and the animal, and caught the cane with his hands Phil exploded. He pushed the driver aside, and began to whip the mule mercilessly, over and over. The cane started to splinter just as the mule broke free of its halter, and ran down the street pursued by the driver. A crowd had formed and drew the attention of a cop. After the driver caught the mule and returned, accusations were made. Money was spread all around. That’s how they took care of it. That’s how they always took care of things, Phil and Lenny, by spreading money around.
"You're crazy Phil, just crazy!"
“Whadda you think you are? Some kind of psychiatrist? Some kind of Sigmund Somebody?”
“Well maybe that’s what you need, some kind of psychiatrist.”
“Whores or mules, what difference does it make? They’re all the same to me. Let’s go.”
Fortunately for them Esmarelda’s was only a block away and they made it there in safety and were just lucky I guess.
The women that worked in Esmarelda’s were lucky too. Phil had already broken his cane and wouldn’t be able to replace it until the next morning. It was true. When he was in top form he could be a cruel dude. Still, he paid them well for their lacerations with his filthy cash. He was generous in this respect. But it was getting harder and harder to find girls that liked that sort of thing. Many, who thought they did at first or did it because they were strapped for cash, and I do mean strapped for cash, had consented to such treatment. But now their backs and legs and bottoms were sore. They needed time to heal. The broken cane, now lying there on the street where the donkey had been would give them a needed brake. Poor putas, poor burros… Phil was poorer yet.