That blue moon was fixed in the warm night's sky. It lit the lazy descent down, down thru the thick air and faint, but rising sounds of music and humanity to the American Hotel then still further down inside, to a clean, functional, affordable, room on the second floor. Two blocks from Americana Avenue. "The Strip" is what I called it, where beauty was as available as your next breath of air. But beauty, in this instance, was grateful. On the strip, beauty didn't expect anything, least of all gallantry, coddling or even respect.
It was there to be perused, plucked, and most often devoured, night in and night out. An endless march of dancing, stiff drinks and human indulgence. You want her, really? She's yours. At the strip's epicenter, John rises in a fog. Don't ask him what day it is. He has no damned idea. It's 3:08 am and there's almost a week's worth of "smiles" flowing thru him. He rises to a scrambling awareness with questions. Where's my wallet? My gun? Did she rob me or does that come later? Is she still here? The American is guarded at least, only guest, and guest of guest allowed. You're safe, mostly.
John (V.O.)
Tequila, they should call it time travel. Forth and back, down, up and sideways. Drink enough of it, add sinfully good music and this night's beautiful woman and you travel to the future, the past while forgetting the present, all at once. I had done plenty of forgetting after my last case, the Ripper case, after Samantha. I'd indulged myself with the blood money I'd earned all the way to Rio. Rio, shit I'm still in Rio. Where though, and with who? It's day four, or is it six? All I can taste is the tequila, Steak Vera Cruz overpowered by the delicious essence of a woman. All three cheap and delicious in this case.
I've got regular taste. As my eyes cleared with the sound of water flowing inside the half open bathroom door, the light escaping just enough to illuminate a third of the room while leaving the other two thirds dark, and ready for business. Then out she steps, Brava Torres. My God, Brava Torres. Straddling the light which parted her perfect hips and legs revealing that little "gap" that made me want to ravage her every time I saw her. Her feminine, athletic curves, and every buoyant step forward made her even more irresistible.
As I reached out for her, she stylishly closed the distance. Her jet-black hair, piercing eyes and delicious mouth moving forward just slow enough to tempt me more. The little string tee shirt she wore exposing both breasts and then, the immediate, descending pleasure she provided was breathtaking. Maybe five minutes later she paused, sat up, looked in my eyes then sat down on my lap with a quiet sigh of relief. Her perfume was mesmerizing. I synchronized my motion with hers, we both moving forth and back simultaneously. Wonderful was an understatement.
Over and over, each move and passing moment made me want to explore her in even more depth. In mid-motion I paused. I had to savor her again, to please her as she'd done me. Slowly and extensively, taking special care not to stop at her apex. This is day two of our association and like Lays potato chips, you can't eat just one. After our exercise we both fell asleep tightly in each other's arms. A few hours of peace abruptly shattered, by a dream of my friend Yaqui's death.
His name was Yaqui Galindez. A classic fighter, full of Mexican machismo and much more nerve than common sense. His weapon of choice, the paralyzing left hook to the body. 16 of his 39 victories had been courtesy of this vicious body shot. The record was 39-8-2 and he'd paid the awful price for every warlike round. He wasn't fleet of hand, foot or defensively gifted. He thus had to live in the danger zone to punish and impose his will on other men. This ability was also his curse as he had to accept an inhuman amount of punishment from quicker more skilled boxers in order to get his kind of "close". Winning by attrition, his fighting style was the perfect mirror into his own mind, his very soul. A quiet man who periodically took unexplainable risk for friends or family. After his career ended, the unscrupulous few who knew this counted on using guilt to manipulate him into imposing his will at their behest.
Yes, the imposition of will comes in many benevolent and malevolent forms. Physical imposition, mental imposition, but also an imposition of madness upon others regardless of truth, or purpose. Pugilism is the sanitized description. The fight game but, it's not much of a game. It takes everything then leaves most of its participants battered, desperate and sometimes impoverished. Yaqui Galindez is one of the impoverished. But, what else can there be, when you've lived the hard man's life for 18-20 years, overcompensating for the penetrating, numbing fear deep inside you? Risking life and limb, time after time in the ring of fire. Twenty, thirty-five ...fifty times into the breach, mano y mano, battered, bloodied to simply remain relevant. That last futile instruction from a referee, who knows better, being "Protect yourself at all times". Right.
At first, you're only inches away, then yards, now a lifetime stands between you and the fading glory and faint whisper of your name. The rising chants all disappear into each night of painful, solitary despair. Then, one last attempt at validating a worthless existence, at saving your world before it ends. One more reckless grasp at the brass ring. But this time, the risk is too great and you're unable to bridge the gap from recklessness to insanity. Caught in the end, sad, resigned and nearly disfigured, you choose a last savage beating over a few additional hours of weakness, before death. Securely tied to the cheap iron chair in the center of this little hell, we find Yaqui Galindez. At least your fear is gone.
