Luck and Death at the Edge of the World

Twenty-One: From The Throats Of Men, From The Hearts Of Men

“You have a low opinion of humanity? Join the club.”

She signals to the bartender, who brings her a margarita, evidently knowing her tastes. “Aren’t you wasting your time drinking with me? There are paying customers here, I’m sure.”

“That’s one way of looking at it. On the other hand you could say I’m wasting my time when I’m with them and that talking to someone with a brain in his head is a better way to spend the next few minutes.”

This is not a regular hooker’s come-on, not even the more sophisticated escort’s version. I’m confused. Then I’m not.

“You’re a student.”

“Very good.”

“How’s next year’s tuition coming along?”

She takes a sip of her drink before answering.

“I’ll make it. Another month or so and I can stop hanging around this shithole anyway, making passes at married bankers and clumsy psychologists, or geologists, or cardiologists. All the other assholes attending conventions.”

I like her directness.

“What are you studying?”

“Medicine.”

“Med student? Really?”

“You bet.”

“Because of your love for humanity?”

“It’s a business. Besides, I’m specializing in pathology. You don’t need to love humanity to deal with cadavers. Hell, half the time you’re just dealing with a tissue sample. Exactly what I like about it.”

My second drink is done and her first is nearly finished.

“Want another drink, or do you have to get back to work?”

“No strings attached?”

“No strings attached.”

The second round leads to a few more, until we’re both a little drunk. We talk about her studies for a while. She’s animated as she discusses her work, and I enjoy listening to her even though a lot of it is over my head. She seems content to take time off and talk with me, and, after all the assassins, the Suerte, my kidnapping, and the dreams, it feels good to just talk with someone.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

“Gat. You?”

“Maria.”

“Uh huh.”

“Did you expect my real name? I don’t even know you.”

“‘Maria’ will do. Are a lot of the girls here students?”

“Sure. If you want to go to college you either come from a rich family, get a sugar daddy, or come here. Those are pretty much the options for higher education in the city. What do you do?”

“Personal security.”

“You kill people?”

“Generally I try to keep people from being killed.”

“But to do that you might need to kill someone, right?”

Her tone is getting less friendly, but I’m not going to lie to her.

“I try my best to avoid it. The only people I’ve killed have been trying to kill my clients, so morally it’s not exactly black and white. Still, I try to avoid it.”

“You have a conscience.”

“I’d make more money without one.”

“Most security guys were in the Forces. California, Texas, even Mexican.”

It hangs there like a question that I don’t want to answer. She hasn’t phrased it that way, but she’s clearly waiting for a response.

“Yes, I was in the Forces. I was young and had few choices. Like you.”

“Cali, right? By your accent.”

“Yes Cali.”

She turns in her stool, looking belligerent.

“Cali Forces kill people, I just fuck them. I made a choice I don’t like, but it’s not the same.”

I reply quietly and carefully. “No, it’s not the same. I agree.”

“Show me your tats.”

“What?”

“Come on, your insignias.”

“What for?”

“You scared?”

“Fine.” I roll up my sleeves, knowing this is the end of our friendly conversation. Still, I’m not going to add lying to my sins. Not after so many others.

“You fucker.”

She’s staring at the Tijuana tattoo. I take her arm and lean in close.

“We were used, do you understand that? No one knew what we were getting into. They trained us, then pumped us to the gills with drugs that make you into someone you’re not. Do you get that? Do you have any idea what it’s like to live with that?”

She pulls her arm free and spits in my face.

“Fuck you,” she says, and strides angrily out of the bar. End of the friendly conversation, just as I thought. The bartender rushes over to me, solicitous.

“I am so sorry sir. I will see that she is not allowed in the Cordoba again. There is no excuse for this.”

I think of ‘Maria’ and her tuition.

“No, she was right. I was very rude. Please don’t hold it against her.”

He looks askance at me.

“As a guest of the Cordoba I am requesting that you allow her to continue to come here. You have my word that she won’t behave that way again.”

“If you say so, sir,” he replies, rather stiffly. I leave the bar and ride the elevator back upstairs alone, then fall into bed. This time there are no dreams of Tijuana, no dreams of any kind at all.