Talo Segura

Hustle

Copyright © 2020 by Talo Segura

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Talo Segura asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

First edition

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This story is dedicated to Arran Culloden who inspired me to finish it.

Contents

1. Chapter 1

2. Chapter 2

3. Chapter 3

4. Chapter 4

5. Chapter 5

6. Chapter 6

7. Chapter 7

8. Chapter 8

9. Chapter 9

10. Chapter 10

11. Chapter 11

Chapter 1

The office was filled with filing cabinets, but obviously not enough, bundles of documents tied together inside binders were piled on the floor and covered the desk. A faded blue cover with a huge wad of papers stuffed into it, had his name written on the label; Clinton Bloom. He stared at it and fidgeted, moving his knees up and down, with a certain nervous tension that had become so familiar he was no longer aware of it. His brother sat next to him, staring at the floor.

The Child Welfare Officer opened the door and stepped into the office, taking his seat behind the large desk.

“We’ve made a decision,” he announced.

Clinton didn’t stop moving his legs, his eyes fixated on the dossier and its white label with his name scrawled across it.

“Can you keep still?“

It wasn’t so much a question as a command, an instruction. He was obviously irritating the man, spoiling his concentration, distracting him from the task at hand, but not in a good way. Clinton didn’t react, he continued bouncing his knees. If anything, the motion became quicker.

“Stop it!” The man raised his voice.

Clinton’s arm stretched across the desk and collided with the blue covered folder, sending the contents skidding across the table top, making Morgan jump and look up.

The Welfare Officer somehow regained his composure, perhaps shocked by the reaction he’d caused. Slowly he gathered up the loose sheets. As he did so Clinton read one of the reports, it was headed, “Reason for Return of Minors.” There were fields with different entries in each: Behaviour Inappropriate, Unmanageable, Maltreated Cat, Caused Flooding.

Mischief moved them on in life, and moving kept them close. Morgan had Clinton, Clinton Morgan, and for both that was more than most.

“It’s not too far,” Mrs Macy announced.

Clinton was staring out the window as they drove along what must have been the main street. Faint lighting leant a warm glow, spotlighting a circle of sidewalk, occasionally allowing a glimpse of a building.

“Morgan!” he jabbed his arm into his little brother, stirring him awake.

“What?” Morgan rubbed at his eyes.

“We’ve hit the Wild West. A one horse town. With one main street.“

Morgan peered over his shoulder through the rear window.

“Sweet Jesus! Look at that!” Clinton pointed, tapping a finger on the cold glass.

“What’s it say, Clint?“

He turned his head, reading the billboard as they drove slowly past.

“Give yourself to Jesus and your sins will be forgiven,” Clinton smiled, but Morgan didn’t notice.

“There’s a movie theatre!” Morgan gestured enthusiastically. “What’s it showing?“

“Don’t know. Can’t see. Will you get off of me?“

Morgan sat back down on his side of the rear seat. They left the town behind.

The bright golden glow of the sun peeking above the low hill line behind the property heralded another hot day. The car slowed to a halt in a cloud of billowing dust thrown up from the parched dirt track. The farmhouse stood isolated in the landscape, framed by the rising sun. They peered out at their new home, taking in the faded weatherboarding, the barn and old tractor. The broken fence that no longer secured the paddock leant an air of abandon to the place.

Mrs Macy switched off the motor and turned back to address the boys.

“Well, here we are,” she told them, like a full stop at the end of a chapter, underlining the decision that had determined their new start.

Morgan glanced over at Clinton, who said nothing, just nodded.

She opened the door and moved the seat, standing outside, waiting. Morgan slithered out from the back of the car, followed by his brother.

A man was watching all this from the porch of the little house.

Mrs Macy moved around to the back of the car, she had an air of fatigue about her. It had been a long trip and she was not looking forward to the drive back. She popped open the trunk as Clinton joined her and stood staring into the almost empty space. He reached in, pulling out the old suitcase, he needed both hands to manoeuvre it. Not that it was heavy, there was nothing more than a few clothes inside, it was awkward to lift free. He plonked it down on the dirt.

The man had not come to greet them, he still stood on the porch. Morgan looked at him, shielding his eyes from the rising sun, a quizzical expression on his face.

The clunk of the trunk closing startled the silence. Clinton followed Mrs Macy towards the farmhouse, Morgan moved next to his older brother. Neither boy had any thoughts about where they were or how they ended up there.

“Mr MacPherson?” She greeted the man with the question as she stepped onto the porch.

Clinton dropped the suitcase onto the wooden deck and looked around. The car stood in front of the barn, it’s orange-brown paintwork mimicking the colour of the sun and perfectly matching the dried yellow grass. The picture conjured up a languid desolation, a stark contrast to the city they had left behind yesterday.

The man shook hands with Mrs Macy, looking from one boy to the other.

“You’ll be wanting to get back, I suppose?“

It was the first time he’d moved. His voice gruff and unwelcoming. Mrs Macy offered a weak smile and nodded.

“It was a long trip,” she replied.

A statement that might in some way excuse her immediate departure. She had fulfilled her mission, executed her responsibility, the brothers were now in the hands of their new foster father. She did wonder about the arrangement, but then it was not her decision.

“Goodbye, boys.“

They watched as she walked back to the car and opened the door. The motor chunked into life, grumbling at being disturbed. The car swung around, heading away from the farm, chased along the track by the dust.

They sat together at the table, silently eating breakfast.

“You’ll sleep there,” he told them, nodding towards an old sofa which sat against the timber wall.

Clinton looked across the room. It was bare apart from the table, an old armchair and a cupboard. The kitchen, if you could call it that, was an enamel sink and solid old iron stove. The place was like somewhere from another epoch, as if the pioneers had just arrived and thrown together the most rudimentary habitation.

“The facilities are out back,” the man added. He poured himself another coffee from the tin kettle.

“Don’t you have a bed?” Morgan asked.

The man leapt up, leaning over the table, and swiped his arm in a wide arc towards the youngster, slapping him hard across the side of the head. Clinton jumped to his feet, sending the wooden chair tumbling backwards.

“Don’t give me no grief, boy.” The man’s rough unshaven face was staring straight at Clinton.

Morgan held the side of his head. It stung like hell, but he wasn’t about to cry. Clinton glared across the table, but retreated in the face of the man’s anger. His hands gripped the edge turning his knuckles white, as the rage coursed through his body. The man watched him closely.

“Get the fuck out!” He shouted at Clinton.

The boy turned, grabbing a handful of Morgan’s t-shirt and pulling him up.

They sat together outside on the porch steps.

“You okay,” Clinton asked, staring off towards the barn and broken fence.

“He’s a crazy shit!” His little brother turned to look at Clinton, who didn’t reply.

The brothers were sitting idly on the bench under the sprawling leaves of the large white oak, it was the one place offering shade. Across in the yard other children were playing. Morgan and Clinton were not too happy as they nursed their Pixie Stixs.

Clinton’s eyes followed one girl as she ran around chased by a taller boy. She had on a white dress with red polka dots, her hair tied in pony tails with thin red ribbons. She reminded him of an advert which he couldn’t quite remember where he’d seen it, publicising a drink or something. It was a faint memory, but this girl seemed to embody that same freshness, an ideal, something almost imaginary and out of reach.

He flicked his straw away like a cigarette end discarded on the ground. At that moment the tall boy, who was chasing his dream girl, approached.

“Mr Taylor tells us to drop litter in the trash can.“

He was standing in front of the bench and was soon joined by the girl, who smiled at Clinton.

“You’re new,” she told him, as if that were not obvious.

He wondered if the only nice thing about this girl was her dress and how she looked.

“If you’re new,” the tall boy continued, “You won’t know all the rules.“

Clinton stood up. “No, I guess not,” he replied, thinking to himself, are all these country hicks morons?

Morgan got to his feet, standing next to his brother and looking from the girl to the boy. Then he glanced at Clinton. “Let’s go, Clint?“

“You better pick it up,” the tall boy said.

“Ah huh.“

Clinton walked over to where the Stix straw had landed and put his foot on it, grinding it into the ground. He stared at the boy as if daring him to do something.

“Clint, let’s go,” Morgan said again, but Clinton didn’t move.

“I’m Alice,” the girl said.

“You are?” Clinton had a sparkle in his eyes.

“Yes. And you are Clint?” She smiled again.

“Clinton. And my brother, Morgan.” He looked at his little brother.

The tall boy moved next to Alice. “I’m Vaughan,” he put out his arm.

Clinton looked at him, waited, then shook hands.

“How old are you?” Vaughan asked him.

“You?” Clinton replied.

Vaughan looked at Morgan, he seemed about to say something, but only opened and closed his mouth.

“You look like a goldfish!” Morgan joked and Alice giggled.

Just then they were joined by five more children, three boys and two girls. Everyone started talking at once.

“What you laughing at?“

“Are you living here?

“Where?“

“You got family?“

Neither Clinton nor Morgan enjoyed being interrogated by a bunch of local kids, but they were now centre stage and being jostled around amidst an animated circle. Vaughan seemed to take a particular delight in having all his friends there.

“We have to go,” Clinton told them, and pushed through the small circle.

Morgan followed, but, whether intentional or not, pushed one little girl too hard. She fell backwards, losing her balance and ending up sitting hard on the ground. Morgan stopped and looked down at her.

“Why did you do that?” She asked.

“Because you were in the way,” he replied.

The other children snickered, but Clinton gave his brother a hard look. The girl just sat there.

“You’re stupid and you fell over!” Morgan stared at the girl on the ground.

The little girl began to cry as the other kids moved closer. Alice reached out a hand and pulled her up, brushing off her dress. Morgan and Clinton watched the scene.

“I’m telling on you,” the little girl told them, without actually looking at the two boys.

Clinton grabbed hold of Morgan and turned away, pulling him along.

The little girl sat at the kitchen table. Alice had brought her home, she was still upset and her mother knelt down next to her, brushing a hand gently through her daughter’s hair.

“Did something happen, darling?” She asked.

There was no reply, but her mother was patient, she knew her daughter, but even so she was a little anxious.

Turning to Alice, she asked: “What happened?“

Alice looked from one to the other before answering. “It was the new boys,” she replied.

“What new boys? I didn’t know there was any new family had arrived in town.“

She was puzzled. This was a small town, everybody knew everybody, and she would of heard about something like that.

“I don’t know,” Alice continued, smoothing her pretty dress with one hand. “But I haven’t seen them before.“

“What are their names?” The mother’s attention was now focused on Alice.

“I don’t rightly know, Mrs Adams. The older one is called Clinton and his brother, I think he said Morgan.“

“Clinton? And where does this boy live? How old are they?“

Alice looked a bit flustered at being bombarded with all these questions.

“I only know he’s called Clint, I mean Clinton. I guess they’re about the same age as us.“

Mrs Adams turned back to her daughter. “Did these boys hurt you, darling?“

“Yes, mummy,” the little girl replied, thinking that now she could have her revenge.

“What did they do?“

She told her mother how they threw litter in the yard and wouldn’t pick it up when Vaughan told them to. Then they pushed her on the ground and made fun of her.

“Everyone was laughing,” her daughter explained with a tearful look in her eyes.

Mrs Adams glanced across at Alice, as if to seek conformation, or an admission that she had been laughing.

“Not everyone, Mrs Adams,” Alice told her. “Just the younger ones were giggling.

“You don’t know who these boys are, or where they live?“

Both Alice and the little girl shook their heads.

Mrs Adams pulled up outside the old MacPherson farm. She looked around at the deserted and dilapidated place, it was some time since she had been there, but still it was hard to believe Mr MacPherson had just let things go.

She turned to her daughter, “You want me to speak to the boys’ father?“

“I don’t want him to push me again. He should say sorry.“

Turning off the motor she opened the door. “Come on then,” she gave Melissa a weak smile.

The door opened as they climbed the porch steps and the rough looking figure of Mr MacPherson eyed the new arrivals. He didn’t speak, but gave a nod of the head and pulled open the screendoor, inviting them in. Morgan and Clinton were seated together on the old sofa. Melissa stuck close to her mother’s side, but managed an evil stare in their direction. The three of them sat at the wooden table and he listened as Mrs Adams explained what had happened. He didn’t interrupt, just looked across at the brothers with an angry glare.

“I’ll deal with this,” he said, standing up and removing the belt from the loops of his dirty jeans. “Stay here.“

He turned away and crossed the room to the sofa, bending down and grabbing a hold of Clinton, pulling him to his feet. He marched the boy into the bedroom and closed the door. Morgan sat like a statue, frozen to the sofa. The silence suddenly broken by the loud thwack of leather and muffled cries. This continued a moment, until the door opened, and Mr MacPherson marched Clinton back out.

“Stand there.” He pushed the boy against the wall.

He strode over to the sofa, roughly dragging Morgan up by his arm, and pushed him into the bedroom. The door closed with a thud. Then silence, followed by the sound of rapid smacking and crying.

He had Morgan stand next to his brother and made both boys look at the little girl. Morgan still had tears falling down his cheeks as he apologised.

On the porch their foster father turned to Mrs Adams, “They won’t bother you again.“

He watched them walk across to the car and drive away.

Melissa turned to her mother. “I’m sorry he got a walloping.“

“Well yes, but he shouldn’t have acted the way he did.“

Mrs Adams glanced back into the rear view mirror, but all she saw were the billowing clouds of dust.

Chapter 2

The street was deserted apart from the station wagon parked outside the hardware store. A gentle breeze stired the dust on the sidewalk, picking up a long discarded paper wrapper and sliding it whimsically into the road. Clinton watched as the paper entagled itself on the spikey leaves of a weed, flapping madly, then sinking into the dirt as the wind died.

Across the street from the bench they watched as the children played in the yard. Clinton staring silently. Morgan kicked at the dust, then let his chin rest in both hands, his arms propped up on his knees. He glanced sideways at his brother.

“We could join them,” he suggested, prompted by boredom.

Clinton looked at him, then back to the group of kids. He was listening to their shouts and cries as they chased each other around. Then he saw Vaughan approaching from down the far side of the street. The tall boy stoped to talk to the rest of the group and then they crossed the street in the direction of the candy store.

Morgan was watching too. Once again he kicked at the dirt.

Time almost stood still, motionless. There was only Clinton and Morgan, on the bench. Suddenly the children charged out of the store and ran back across the street clutching their Rocket Pops. They resumed playing outside. They, the well loved, rooted, happy as you please. Those with a good life, money, and a proper family.

Clinton had had enough of sitting around. He stood up.

“Let’s go.”

He walked away, down the street, back towards the farm. Morgan gave one last glance back towards the girl with the polka dot dress, Melissa was standing next to her. The little girl looked back at him, giving a little wave. He wasn’t certain, but perhaps she smiled. Odd, he thought, when the last time they met he had pushed her over.

“You coming?” Clinton turned back.

He gave a little sign with his hand, half raising his arm, before turning and running to catch up with Clint.

Clinton was leaning on the broken paddock fence, rolling two dice between his fingers. They clicked together as he played with them.

“Watcha doing?” Morgan asked, watching his brother.

“Nothing,” Clinton replied, staring off across the parched grassland which extended from the paddock to the horizon. Broken only by the odd tree on the ridge and some bushes to the right.

“Nah, you always do that when you’re thinking.”

Clinton moved to sit down in the dirt, propping himself up against a fence post. Morgan sat cross legged, looking at him.

“I’ve decided something.”

Morgan didn’t reply, he waited to learn what.

“You need to win their confidence. To be their friend.”

He accepted unquestioningly his brother’s instruction. Morgan would never contradict Clinton, he always did what his brother told him.

Clinton watched from a distance as Morgan wandered down the street then crossed to the yard where the group were playing.

“Hi,” he said to Melissa, looking down at the ground.

The little girl was the only one sitting out this round of chasing. She looked at him. He half raised his head and gave her a little smile. She smiled back.

“Hi yourself,” she stared intensely. “Are you being nice today?” She gave a little smirk, which was quickly replaced with that same beautiful smile.

“Ah huh,” Morgan grinned.

Melissa’s hand went to her hair and she started to twist a strand around her finger. She had curly, hazel coloured hair that almost matched her eyes.

“Because…” She gave that same smirk. “If you’re not nice, you know what will happen.”

Morgan looked down and kicked the dirt.

“Yeah, I know.”

“I didn’t really mean for you to get in trouble. Did it hurt?”

“What do you think?”

“I was sorry when I saw you crying.”

“It hurt Clint more than me and he didn’t even do anything.”

She moved up close to him.

“I am sorry. Friends?”

He looked up and smiled. Their eyes met.

“Friends,” he confirmed.

That night lying in bed listening to the bush crickets, Morgan let his head rest on his arms.

“You’re winning their friendship?” Clinton leant his head on one arm, looking down at his little brother beside him.

Morgan smiled. “Yeah, I like them.”

“They’re not your friends Morgan. This ain’t real. Remember, it’s a con. And when it’s done, we’ve just got us, and we’ll be moving on.”

The smile disappeared from Morgan’s face.

“Now you tell the story, about the trunk and the treasure.”

“They won’t believe it,” Morgan complained.

“You say you watched some men drag it out of a boat. You describe it. In detail. You’re good with stories.”

“I need more time.”

Morgan looked intently at the ceiling. Watching the spider move across the web it had spun around the top of the wire from which the light hung.

“No. You tell the story. We didn’t drag that old beat up trunk down to the river for nothing. They’ll want you to show them where. Once they ask you where it is. We got ‘em.”

Clinton grinned.

“You tell them you will take them there, but it has to be Sunday, after Sunday school.”

“Why Sunday?”

“You wanted more time. You got to Sunday. After Sunday school.”

Morgan could be quite cunning. He met the gang of children nearly everyday, he even became a good friend of Vaughan and another boy, Huey. But it was Melissa who took his fancy and the feeling seemed mutual. He more or less convinced them with his story. By being vague and not saying it was his discovery. The story went like this: Clint had heard part of a telephone conversation at home. Not enough to know what was being talked about, but enough to know it was something important. And it wasn’t to do with them, Morgan joked, which made some of the other kids giggle.

“So the old man gets up,” Morgan continued the tale. “And he never gets up if it ain’t important. Clint decided to follow him out of the house, coz he saw him going on foot. Cutting across the fields towards the river. He followed at a distance, it was obvious where he was going, but not why. So, anyway, later…”

Morgan looked around conspiratorily, making sure he’d got their attention. And he had. Even Vaughan was hooked.

“There’s this boat, you see, and two men in it. Waiting for the old man to get there. Then the three of them hauled this battered old trunk out onto the bank and dragged it a few yards. They got shovels and started digging. Buried the thing in some huge hole in the ground and covered it up.”

“What’s in it?” One of the kids asked.

“Well we don’t know. We need your help. And anyway we wanted to share it with you. But…”

“But what?” Piped up Vaughan, getting all haughty.

“Well it’s worth something ain’t it?”

Morgan looked around the close circle of faces, all eyes were on him.

“You all give a dollar and I’ll take you there.”

“A dollar? I don’t got no money,” Huey told him.

“Not now. I can’t take you there now. On Sunday. After Sunday school.”

Vaughan gave him a stare, Huey seemed okay, the others, maybe. Then little Melissa’s bright, trusting face was looking right at him. A moment of silence. Then she clapped her hands excitedly and everyone else jumped up.

“You’ll likely get much more back. One dollar each. Sunday.”

It was a done deal. They all agreed. They would meet up by the river path on the edge of town, after Sunday school.

The kids were all excited and each of them took out their dollar bill and handed Morgan the cash. He looked almost crestfallen as his eye caught Melissa’s joyful gaze. Led by Morgan the children, in their bright Sunday clothes, ran along the river bank towards the trees. When they reached the wooded area where the path turned away from the river they slowed down. You knew the river was still there by the sound of the water that was never far away, but the ground became quite marshy as they made their way through the wood. At the farthest end they had to cross the floating lake.

Morgan told everybody not to rush. The vegetation would support their weight, but too many people, or moving too quickly, and they risked getting their clothes wet. The hoard of kids charged on, paying him little attention, each one eager to reach the buried treasure trove. Their combined weight made the ground sink and it quickly turned muddy before they could reach the far side. If they’d waited and gone one at a time, that might not have happened. Clinton knew that when he’d told Morgan to be sure the kids were excited. Vaughan complained, but Morgan told him, “I warned you.”

Morgan stopped and pointed ahead.

“There,” he said, indicating a spot where the earth had been recently dug.

The kids saw it.

“Just like I told you.”

Morgan stood hands on hips watching as the group gathered round and started trying to dig out the trunk. It wasn’t buried deep and the loose earth was easily pushed aside revealing the top of an old trunk. Melissa moved next to him and Morgan held the girl’s hand. She was laughing, her eyes full of wonder.

Suddenly there was a loud bang and shouting. They heard somebody calling. Frightened, they stopped what they were doing and looked at each other, undecided as to what to do next.

“Quick. Run!” Morgan said, making it sound urgent..

He turned and made his way back rushing off in the direction they had come from. Everybody followed after him. Once past the lake and through the woods Morgan halted.

“I got to get back home. You know where it is now.”

They were all chatting excitedly, and laughing, happy at their adventure. The muddied children left him and started walking home. When they had gone, Clinton appeared from the woods.

“Worked like a dream,” he said, smiling.

Morgan handed him the money.

“Nine dollars. Not bad,” he said.

Mr MacPherson got up when he heard the noise. Opening the front door he wiped his brow and stared through the dust cloud. Three cars had pulled up in front of the house, with a fourth coming up the track. He recognised one car was that of Mrs Adams, silently he cursed to himself.

As he stood looking on, several adults accompanied by their offspring, marched towards the house. Soon they were all standing on the porch. The parents and several muddy children.

Clinton and Morgan listened to the raised voices.

“Your boy led our kids on some wild goose chase. Look at the state of them.”

And he looked, and listened as they explained the whole story. The adults followed him inside, the kids were left out on the porch. He stared angrily at the two brothers.

“You’ve tried may patience boys and I’m not having it. Where’s the money?”

He looked directly at Morgan, taking a few steps closer. Clinton stood up. He removed the scrunched up bundle of dollar bills from his pocket.

“Give it here. I could of guessed you were both in this together. Both as bad as one another.”

Mr MacPherson walked over to the table and slapped the money down.

“Git over here boy,” he said, looking at Clinton and taking off his belt.

The boys had packed their suitcase and Clinton dragged it out onto the porch. He waited with Morgan and glanced one last time at the place. The broken paddock fence, the barn and old tractor, nothing had changed.

They got into the back of the pickup. Their foster father turned the ignition and swung around and out past the barn in a cloud of dust. He said nothing and neither did they. He left them in town, dumping the suitcase on the sidewalk. Clinton looked the old man square in the eyes, then watched as he drove away. They made there way to the bench across from the yard and sat down gingerly on the edge of the wooden seat, the suitcase in front of them.

Then Clinton got up. He turned to his brother.

“Wait here.”

He walked off down the main street, stopping outside the dry cleaners. J.P. Downside, the sign over the window read. Looking in through the large glass front, he saw the children’s clothes hanging on the rack. Lined up all neat and clean, but devoid of life, a charade, filled only with empty promises. The little bell tinkled as he opened the door and stepped inside.

Morgan watched all this from the bench at the other end of the street. A few minutes later Clinton emerged. The store owner peered out after him, looking up and down the street as Clinton turned back and gave a salute.

Joining his brother on the bench, he showed him the wad of dollar bills, before stuffing them in his pocket.

“You see, it was worth it,” he told Morgan.

“I guess,” he replied, shuffling on the bench.

There was a honk of a horn. Clinton turned to see the battered old orange and brown car pull up. The Child Welfare Officer.

Morgan looked back out the car window at the girl leaving the candy store, he pressed his palm against the glass and looked through his fingers until she disappeared from view.

Chapter 3

“I’m going with Uncle Pablo,” Javier gave his sister a stern look.

“That’s not a good idea. You know that?“

She looked around the little room the three of them shared. Their mother was asleep on the bed in one corner. Dishes were piled next to the sink, on the only surface available, squeezed between the electric ring and cupboard. Javier looked where she was looking, following her movement with his eyes.

“You see, it’s not possible to carry on like this. Besides we don’t have enough money.“

Evelin had an air of despair and a certain resiliation to the facts. Its not what she wanted for her little brother, but neither was anything else working for them. Medicine cost money, a lot of money, and their mother needed the insulin to survive.

“I’m not letting you sell yourself,” Javier continued. “I’m the man of the house. It’s for me to decide.“

She smiled, a weary little smile. The man of the house, she thought, but said nothing. He was fifteen years old, hardly a man.

“What would happen if you got pregnant? Or sick?“

She glanced over at him, moving around and folding some old worn out clothes, distracting herself from facing the reality he was presenting.

“I’m going to go work with Uncle Pablo. He’s okay. I’ll make some money. And you’ll have more space here, just the two of you.“

She stopped what She was doing. “You’ve decided?” she asked, knowing he had. Knowing as well what her brother was doing.

“Javier, get in the car.“

Uncle Pablo was a big round man with greasy hair, unshaven most of the time, and in the heat of the day, sweat glistened on his brow. Tiny dots of perspiration which he wiped away with the sleeve of his loose fitting shirt. A shirt that was once a shade of blue, but was now old, tired, and colourless.

Javier kissed his sister goodbye and hopped in the car. Uncle Pablo smiled at Evelin and told her to take care of their mother.

“And you,” Evelin replied. “Look after my little brother.“

He nodded and opened the driver’s door. Manoeuvring his heavy bulk in place, he imagined just how much he would enjoy looking after her little brother. But he was not a bad man. He would not hurt his nephew, it was an arrangement. Of mutual benefit.

When they arrived at La Cabana, Pablo took Javier up to his room, and told him to put his stuff away, he would come back in about an hour. Two minutes later Javier had emptied his bag, he had not much more than a change of clothes, a couple of t-shirts, another pair of jeans. He sat on the bed, staring at the wall in front of him, and wondering what happens next.

It was not one hour, more like three hours when his uncle reappeared.

“I’ve got some clothes for you. They should fit,” he told him. Standing in the doorway, he held out a small pile of clothes.

Javier stood up and took them, placing the pile on his bed.

“You need to try them on,” his uncle instructed.

Javier picked up what was a pair of glossy pink shorts, made out of some cheap material that was pretending to be silk. He held them up in front of him.

“These are too small,” he said looking at the flimsy shorts.

“Put them on,” Pablo insisted.

Javier sat back down on the bed, pulled off his old sneakers, without bothering to untie the laces. Undid his jeans and slid out one leg and then the other. He stood up in only his t-shirt and skimpy underwear. Carefully he pulled on the pink shorts.

“Turn around,” Pablo said, when he was dressed.

The shorts clung to his small body, tight fitting, Javier though they might split if he wasn’t careful, but his uncle seemed satisfied.

“Nice,” Pablo smirked.

He approached the boy, running his hands lightly over the material of the shorts and feeling the roundness of the boy’s buttocks.

“You will do well,” he said, stepping back and looking.

“When do I start?“

Javier knew the answer would almost certainly be tonight, he only wanted to change the focus, get rid of his leering uncle and get out of the pink shorts.

“Tonight, Luis will show you everything. Stay here until then.“

His uncle turned and walked out, leaving Javier sitting on the bed, wondering about his future. But he didn’t want to dwell on it, things were what they were, all he wanted to be able to do was give some money to his sister to take care of their mother. He shouldn’t have to do this, Pablo was his uncle, but it was an arrangement.

It was only a few minutes later when the door opened and a young man walked into the bedroom. Javier was taken by surprise. He was putting his pink shorts away, but wasn’t dressed. The two boys faced each other, stuck motionless like a frame frozen in a film. It was only an instant, but seemed much longer to Javier. The young man extended his hand. Javier was suddenly aware of his almost nakedness, blushing slightly he gripped the other’s palm.

Luis smiled, not letting go of the hand that he held, but pulling Javier closer. Their bodies almost touching, Javier retreated as he felt the closeness of Luis, but the young man wrapped his other arm around his neck and held him tight.

“Pablo told me to show you how things work.“

A little smile crossed Luis’ lips as he regarded the teenager. Javier said nothing, still caught tightly in the young man’s grip. For another moment they stood together barely an inch apart. Then Luis pulled Javier into a firm embrace, their bodies touching. Javier felt the warmth and felt himself responding, until Luis pushed him away and he lost his balance, falling back on the bed.

“I’m Luis,” the young man announced.

He moved to loom over the bed, looking down, not taking his eyes off the boy. Javier sat up leaning on his elbows.

Luis gave him a broad smile: “Don’t look so scared. I’m not going to rape you.“

Javier wasn’t so sure, but Luis probably was all show and nothing bad would happen. He edged his way along the bed, standing up, and fetching his jeans off the chair where he’d left them.

“I’m Javier,” he said softly, as he pulled his jeans on.

Behind the the dark polished wooden counter shelves in front of a huge worn mirror covered the rear wall. Bottles of various shapes and sizes promised to transform the mundane lives of those that frequented the place. They were the shots that accompanied the beer and freed up inhibitions as well as pockets. The appetiser before the carnal main course, sold in the club, then played out upstairs, in one of the small bedrooms.

Javier had to serve those customers, dressed in his tight pink shorts and short string vest that never quite reached his waist. He smiled as he placed drinks on the tables before increasingly inebriated and vociferous patrons. He ignored the pats on his ass, slipped and dodged the gropping hands, but he knew by the end of the evening he would not be alone in his room. That was the deal, how it worked, and what he made he paid commission on.

The clients paid Javier and Luis, Pablo took his cut, but Señor Phillipe, took the lion’s share. No point complaining, that’s how it was. He made enough money to take care of his mother and sister. Unless you were well connected, well off, or educated, you were poor. For the majority of people, there were only two ways to make a living, sex or drugs.

These two worlds were, of course, intricately connected. Those people frequenting La Cabana were not all poor and there to forget. There were those who liked boys and would frequent these nightclubs to satisfy their desire in the obscurity and annonymity you would find in such places. All the bars and clubs in Caracas resembled one another as if they were from the same mold.

Luis had a profitable sideline in drugs, mostly coke, which he’d get through Señor Phillipe. Exactly how that arrangement had been put in place Javier had no idea. His uncle seemed to accept it as nothing unusual, but perhaps that was because he had no choice. If Javier gave it any thought, which he usually didn’t, then his conclusion was Luis had something going on with the boss. Señor Phillipe, not Pablo.

Some nights were quiet, the club taking on an air of abandon, with only a few tables occupied, with what they all referred to as the bebedores lentos (slow drinkers). Those people were dragging out the night, reluctant to go home, but not rich enough to spend. They wanted neither company nor any of Luis’ merchandise.

The gloom of the evening was hardly disturbed by anything, even the music was turned down so low it was only a murmur. Angelini, who Javier had seen frequently hanging around outside the place late into the night, and who had recently adopted the habit of coming inside, was having no success with the middle-aged man she’d been chatting up all night.

Pablo watched her from behind the bar. Javier did too, thinking to himself she must have an arrangement. From the way his uncle looked at her, he was certain as to just what that deal might be. His musings were disturbed when Luis joined him at the bar.

“It’s really a fucking drag when it’s like this,” Luis seemed like he was only seeking confirmation from Javier. That he was making idle conversation in an attempt to pass the time more quickly.

“What is this thing between you and the boss?” Javier asked him, deciding to engage in an exchange.

“Señor Phillipe?“

“Yeah, of course,” he replied nodding towards his uncle.

Which made Luis smile.

“He’s my ticket out of here.“

“How’s that?“

Luis shifted position on his bar stool.

“You don’t have any idea.“

“Well no, I don’t,” Javier confirmed.

“He’s a lawyer. You never knew that, huh?“

“Really? Then how come he’s like running this club?“

“Guess you’d have to ask him that.“

“Well, how’s he gonna help you?“

“Never mind.“

For whatever reason Luis wasn’t answering that question. He stood up and crossed the almost empty room. Glanced at Angelini, who was sat down next to one of the few customers, still apparently trying to engage the man, he walked past ignoring her.

Javier moved along the bar to a stool in front of his uncle.

“What’s going on with this guy, Señor Phillipe?“

His uncle looked up slowly and regarded the boy.

“He’s not anyone you should have anything to do with.“

“And Luis?“

“Luis got himself involved.“

Javier sighed: “You know, I don’t care. This whole place is shit!“

Pablo ignored him, turned around and picked up his pack of cigarettes. Javier watched him distractedly as he moved about, then turned his attention back to the room. His eyes rested on Angelini and her man, then roamed over the empty space. Nothing was happening, he got up and left. Following Luis upstairs to their room.

It was quiet, the silence broken only by occasional street noise, a motor bike, someone shouting. The music from the bar was a faint background which he shut out as he closed the door. He lay down on the bed and studied the ceiling, watching an insect buzzing around the light. One naked filament bulb that glowed an electric yellow.

Luis was at the window, smoking.

“You sleeping here or next door?” Javier asked.

There was no immediate reply. He turned his head towards the silhouette and watched the smoke sucked out of the window.

“Is that an offer?” Luis finally answered, turning back to look at him.

Javier looked at him and wondered. Why did he come here? He knew why, but still he posed the question. He wondered about Luis, he didn’t really know him. Who was he? What was he doing? There were always questions, seldom answers. He rolled over, pulled the sheet up and heard Luis cross to the other bed. He needed a plan, he fell asleep thinking about what that might be, thinking that maybe Luis had a plan. Did he?

Chapter 4

“I’m not leaving you here. Not alone.”

Clinton was standing by his brother’s bed in the dark. Only the gap in the floor length curtains allowed a faint amber glow to filter into the room from the streetlight outside. He looked around at the other beds, listening to the sounds of rhythmic breathing.

“They’re all asleep. Get dressed.”

Morgan sat up and for a moment stared at the shape leaning over him. He didn’t speak, but pulled back the covers and swung his legs over the side. Standing up next to Clint he turned to look at the empty bed above his. He knew why they were doing this. There was no choice. Sometimes it’s like that. Life deals you a hand and you have to play it, win some, lose some.

Clinton waited whilst Morgan pulled on his clothes and grabbed the bag from underneath the bed. Together they slipped out of that dark place. Morgan glanced back an instant at the sleeping shadows. Just for a moment he thought about their fate, but only a moment. Everyone has their path to take, but the empty bed cut a deep emotion within him. Sometimes you get attached, you can’t help it, it’s happened before, it will happen again.

“You remember those kids? Years ago,” Morgan was talking as they walked hurriedly down the deserted street.

“What kids?” Clinton glanced sideways.

“Back in Foxton.”

“Foxton?”

“Yeah, you know. That one horse town with one main street.”

Clinton looked in both directions as they reached the intersection.

“This way,” he said, stepping out into the road.

“There was that little girl. Melissa. Got us into trouble.”

“I remember. Old man MacPherson whipped our asses.”

Morgan smiled to himself, picturing those kids playing.

“So what?” Clinton hurried on towards the docks.

“Nothing. Just that stuff with Bennie made me think of her. That little girl.”

“Yeah? Well, you were little too, then. Ben ought to know how to take care of himself.”

They were at the gates. It had started to drizzle. A thin rain was wetting the ground and merging with the early morning mist. Beyond the entrance there was activity, work never really ceased at the docks. A crane turned, swinging a container out over the wharf.

“What you want?”

The man slid open the window to the little cabin and looked at the two brothers. Clinton looked up.

“Oh, it’s you.”

He opened the cabin door and let them in.

“So this is him?”

The man appraised Morgan just as if he were choosing a new car.

“Guess he’ll do.”

He reached out and cupped Morgan’s chin in one hand, lifting his head up.

“You do drugs boy?” He asked gruffly.

Morgan shook his head.

Turning to Clinton he gave him a long hard stare.

“You got the cash?”

Clinton dug his hand in his pocket and pulled out a bunch of notes. He handed them over and the security guard counted them. Then he looked back at Morgan.

“You any good with that baby mouth of yours, kid?”

Clinton’s arm reached down to his brother’s side and he pulled him back behind him.

“Fifty. That’s what we agreed,” Clint said nervously.

At that moment a truck pulled up at the gates and the man pushed them both away towards the door.

“Wharf Eight, the Bomdomo. You ask for Gregoire. Now get outta here.”

He turned his attention to the truck as the boys stepped outside and headed off towards the wharf. The rain was getting heavier, glistening drops of water fell through the light from the pylons and accumulated in large puddles on the tarmac. Odd reflections glinted up at them, distorted by the wet half-light, as they moved quickly towards their goal.

“I thought for a moment…” Morgan said as they dodged the truck.

“Don’t think. Don’t think about it.”

He heard himself say that and it seemed to him it was harsh. But life was like that. He couldn’t leave his brother behind, he could never do that. Yet there was a price to pay. There was always a price, for everything.

A long metal staircase clung to the side of the ship which towered over them like a mammoth wall of steel painted in dark and light colours separated by a band of red. Clinton went first. They climbed up and stepped on board.

“Gregoire?”

The man standing there had a definite foreign appearance about him, a tanned face and black hair, beneath a large hooded coat.

He nodded, reached out and took hold of Clinton’s arm. “This way.”

His accent confirmed he was not American. Even if the city was half made up of people from all over the world and there were accents, they somehow all adopted the same way of speaking that said they lived here. Gregoire definitely did not live here.

They followed him through a heavy metal door, along a corridor, and down into the depths of the ship. Another corridor, at the end of which Gregoire opened a door. Looking around there were only two beds in the tiny cabin and a small round window. The bare steel wall on the outside was cut into large rectangles with lines of rivets from floor to ceiling. Metallic noises, bangs and thuds, created a strange sense of being buried, which was only enhanced by the blackness beyond the porthole.

“You know the deal?” Gregoire grinned and his eyes took in Morgan.

They knew their passage did not come free. Escape was an illusion, this was only one more step along a long road that nobody saw the end of. Not until you got there, if you ever did.

“Stow your stuff in there,” Gregoire pointed to a metal locker. “I’ll get you some working clothes and come back. You both stay here.”

The door closed behind him and they were left alone in a cabin that almost resembled a cell. A loud rumbling sound overtook the metallic thuds and bangs, as they felt the huge steel beast jolt. It was hot and noisy, the air stale with a smell of diesel. And it was home for the next… He didn’t know how long.

“The deal?” Morgan regarded his brother.

Clinton gave him that look, the one that said, ‘No questions.’

“Did you see how he looked at me?”

“You don’t need to worry about Gregoire. He won’t touch you.”

“Okay kid, time to meet the Captain.” Gregoire said.

“And I thought I’d be stuck down here forever,” Morgan replied, sarcastically.

Gregoire looked at the kid. “How old are you?” He asked.

“It’s a question I get asked a lot.”

Morgan stood up, pleased to be getting out of the cabin.

“Your brother explained the deal?” Gregoire stood in his way, in front of the door.

“The deal. No he never got round to it.”

The boy was anxious to leave the confines of the cabin. Gregoire looked intensely at him, as if he was about to say something, but changed his mind.

“You make sure you please the Captain.” Was all he said in his strong eastern European accent.

Morgan followed him out of the cabin, along the corridor and up two flights of stairs. They stopped outside a door with the single word “Captain” written on it in white lettering. Gregoire knocked and opened the door. Once inside Morgan couldn’t help looking at everything, he turned his head, taking in the elegant luxury. It was certainly much bigger than their own accommodation; much, much, nicer.

The large bear of a man sitting at the desk turned around and looked at them. He had on a white shirt with gold braids on the lapels, open wide at the neck, showing a hint of hair. Morgan couldn’t decide on his age, but thought he must be nearly forty.

“Captain, this is the lad,” Gregoire announced.

“Alright, you can go.” The Captain’s voice was deep, there was the hint of an accent, different to Gregoire’s.

The door shut and the Captain stood up. A tiny smile touched the corners of his mouth. He moved over to stand next to Morgan. It was at that moment he realised the true size of the man who stood taller and much broader than his own slight frame.

“There’s a bathroom through there,” the Captain indicated. “Take a shower. I want you clean.”

Morgan slipped past the large man and pushed open the door to the bathroom.

The water cascaded over him. It was the first real wash he’d had since they left and it felt good as he soaped his body. The steam obscured his reflection in the mirror as he turned over those words in his head, the deal. He knew he had his part to play and now he thought he knew what that was. He was not naive.

Wrapping a towel around his waist he stepped out into the cabin. The Captain had poured himself a glass of whisky and was standing holding the solid cut glass tumbler. He looked at the boy and took a sip from his glass.

“Get rid of the towel!” He snapped. “I don’t need the gift wrapping.”

The Captain chuckled at his own joke and watched as Morgan pulled off the towel, letting it drop to the floor. He stood there naked as the big bear paced around him, looking him up and down. Standing in front of him, he savoured his whisky once more, before setting the glass down on the desk. Moving around Morgan he suddenly brought the palm of his broad hand smartly down, smacking the boy on the buttocks.

Morgan jumped forward.

“On the bed,” he ordered.

Morgan did as he was told.

Clinton was sitting on the bed in their cabin, juggling the dice between his fingers. Morgan closed the door and stood looking at his brother. It had either become less noisy or they’d grown accustomed to the rumble of the engines, rather like you get used to the ticking of a clock. In any event, he hardly paid it any attention, it had faded into the background, dulled just like the monotony of the voyage. The only sound that he was aware of was the knocking of the dice.

“I know all about the deal.” Morgan was focused intently on his brother’s hands.

Clinton stopped juggling the dice and looked up.

“What can I tell you? Everything comes at a price.”

Morgan looked him straight in the eyes, but Clinton turned away, preferring to stare out the porthole at the sea.

“What do you want me to say? How was it? Are you okay? You look okay, but pissed. You angry with me?”

“I always do what you tell me, Clint. But you never said. You just became my pimp and sold my ass!”

Clinton turned back to look at his brother.

“Sorry kid, but there wasn’t any other way to get us out of there.”

Morgan crossed the cabin and sat down on the bed opposite. He swung his legs up, and lay back, his arms folded behind his head.

“You know,” he said, staring up at the steel rivets in the truss that crossed the ceiling. “It wasn’t so bad. The Captain’s a big bear, but not a big bad bear. Although, he might like you to think that.”

“If I could have taken your place I would have. You know that? You remember old man MacPherson. That first time, he took his belt to me, not you.”

“Yeah, that was unlucky.” Morgan turned his head to look across at Clinton.

“Unlucky?”

“Well, it was your idea. The whole thing.”

“That was after. It wasn’t me who pushed little Melissa out of the way, but I still got whacked for it.”

“That old man was a mean bastard. I’m glad we got out of there.”

“And we’ll get out of here too,” Clinton added, but he wasn’t sure how.

Chapter 5

“I only ever get to see the inside of cabins,” Morgan had watched Gregoire enter their small space.

The man looked at him. “You know, I’m beat. It’s hot and I’m tired, and you’re complaining.“

“Yeah, I’m complaining. I got reason to complain. Who was it arranged all this?“

Gregoire sat down on the empty bed and bent down to untie his shoes. Without looking up, he said: “Ask your brother.“

Morgan already knew it was Clint who was responsible, that it was their only way out, but he wanted to voice his frustration.

“When do we actually get somewhere?“

Gregoire stretched out on the bed and glanced over at the boy.

“Another few days.“

“To where, exactly?“

“Caracas.“

“Where?” Morgan thought to himself, where the hell is Caracas?

“La Guaira, to be precise.“

“Gregoire, I have no idea where that is.“

The man laughed and turned his back to the kid.

“Don’t worry about it.“

Despite the age difference, Morgan had grown to like the guy, he was easy to get along with and nothing seemed to bother him. He wondered how long he’d been doing this. How long he’d been on this ship, or others like it. It made him think about Bennie. He’d been the only real friend he had in that home, the only one he could half-trust. Half-trust, because Morgan could never completely trust anybody, except Clint, of course.

“You want off this ship?“

Gregoire had propped himself up on the bed and when Morgan looked up, he noticed the man looking at him.

“No offence Greg, but yes.“

He wondered about this guy. Clint had told him he had nothing to worry about with him, and so far that had proved to be true, but…

“But not just anywhere, am I right?“

Morgan had to think for a moment.

“I’m not sure about that. Maybe just anywhere right now, because here is how I imagine being in prison is like.“

Gregoire chuckled at that.

“Kid, this is like a luxury hotel compared to prison.“

Morgan stared at him, thinking he must have some experience of prison to say that.

“You wouldn’t last five minutes locked up. And your brother wouldn’t be able to help.“

Now he had all sorts of images going through his head. He had quite a strong imagination, which is why Clint always told him he was good at telling stories. But there are two sides to a coin and when he started thinking about what being in prison might be like, well he really did not want to go there.

“So don’t come down on things too hard,” Gregoire continued. “They could be much, much, worse. And anyhow, it must be better than where you were before.“

“Maybe. Yeah, maybe you’re right.“

Morgan grinned.

“What’s the joke?” Gregoire was sitting up on the side of his bed now.

“I’m just thinking about The Captain, and it made me smile. Like you got to admit it’s pretty damned weird this whole trip.“

Gregoire got up and moved across the small space between them. He sat down next to the boy and turned his head to look at him.

“It is not the most strange thing I have seen,” he said.

“Then I guess you must have been around a lot?“

“You like The Captain?“

“He’s okay. But…“

“Yeah, I know,” Gregoire interrupted. “You would never have chosen to do it.“

“No, I reckon I wouldn’t have.“

“Still it worked out good. You don’t dislike The Captain and he treats you well.“

Morgan thought about that. It did just about sum things up. He even enjoyed himself sometimes, it wasn’t entirely a one way transaction.

“I think you could do something for me. For all of us. If you’re willing?“

“What d’you mean?“

“There’s this guy I know in Caracas. A South American businessman; and he needs to get a contract signed. He contacted me. Explained. He’s willing to pay to get it done.“

“But where do I fit in?“

“There is a guy who has to approve this contract, a lawyer. You know, the usual normal suit, works in a big office, married with kids. Probably kids your age. Anyway, that’s not important. Except it is.“

“Now you’re confusing me.“

“No, you’re a smart kid.“

Gregoire let his hand squeeze the boy’s thigh.

“This guy takes timeout to enjoy himself in gay clubs. Well, one club in particular, where the owner makes sure he gets what he’s after. Not a totally gay club, but, what do you call it? Free and easy?” The man grinned.

Morgan listened.

“So here’s the deal. You pick up the guy. Take him to one of the bedrooms. I’ll arrange things with the owner. You’ll be like, new in town, wanting a job.“

Gregoire winked.

“So you take him to one of the bedrooms. One we’ve set up with cameras. Your brother bursts in discovering what’s going on and threatening the guy with the police. You are fifteen, yes?“

Morgan nods.

“Good. So your brother and you get paid off and using the recording, I get the contract signed.“

He sat back against the wall feeling rather pleased with the whole game he’d just laid out.

“Everybody’s selling my ass,” Morgan grinned as he said that.

“But it’s a good plan, yes?“

“Yeah, yeah, sound. How much do you think it’s worth?“

“You get whatever you can from the guy and we split the payment for the contract.“

“How much?“

“The contract?“

“Yes, Gregoire, the contract. How much?“

“Two thousand dollars, American.“

“For us?“

“For you. Two thousand for you, two thousand for me. Okay.“

“I’ll talk to Clint.“

“No need. I already did. He’s good to go, as you Americans say.“

Morgan laughed.

“I’m outta here. Catch you later.“

He opened the door and closed it behind him, shutting away the dense claustrophobia.

Getting out of the tiny cabin was an escape of sorts. The endless deep bass pounding of the ships engines seemed to resonate inside his head, like a monotonous rumbling, not even comparable to a drum beat, it was simply a groaning sound.

He knew The Captain’s quarters very well, he’d been there often enough, and now he was left alone frequently. Either he was trusted, or more probably he couldn’t do anything wrong, because on a ship there’s nowhere to run.

Standing gazing out through the porthole Morgan watched as the sea rolled past, cresting in little white waves. Turning to look back in the room, he sighed, sitting down on the leather Chesterfield. He couldn’t even be bothered to switch the television on and drew his knees up to his chin, thinking about what could happen next.

The ship hardly gave any impression of movement, it was an endless voyage. Like a needle stuck at the end of a record, grating, and unable to lift itself up. That was exactly how he felt, but he sensed also a certain boredom had installed itself in The Captain, things were not quite the same.

La Guaira was not a big port, it was not even exotic, but for the boys it was like a breath of fresh air. An air that moved in a barely felt breeze, carrying the hint of the sea in its salty odour, yet promising something else with the screeching of the parrots. The three of them, Clint, Morgan, and Gregoire, were the last to walk ashore, except for The Captain who watched everything from the bridge. For some unknown reason Morgan stopped to look back, as if he were saying goodbye, which although he didn’t yet know it, he was.

They followed Gregoire to the far end of the dock yard and clambered over a low wall. There was no going through the gates, Clinton and Morgan had no papers. Once outside, which was not very difficult to achieve, they came to a colourful beach side park laid out in swirls with little bushes and a huge centre piece statue. A man on a rearing stallion dominated the area immediately in front of them and behind him the flags of half the world moved ever so slightly in the offshore breeze. Entering an open covered pavilion the three of them sat down on the broad stone steps. In front was a white concrete balustrade and beyond, the ocean. They were almost alone, apart from a couple leaning on the wall and looking out to sea.

The place was incredibly clean and not at all how Morgan had imagined South America would be like, but then he hardly had a clue as to where exactly Venezuela sat on the southern half of the continent.

“Bienvenido a Venezuela,” Gregoire grinned at them.

“So what now?” Clinton asked.

“I know a little pensión. It’s a short walk.“

“And?” Morgan wanted to know more.

“Well, we get settled into our room, get something to eat and drink. Then we’ll see. I will need to contact someone.“

“You mean the guy who wants this done?“

“Him, yes. But someone else, also, who has the camera to fix in place. Leave it to me.“

They had little choice, wasn’t this all too familiar, moving from one game play onto another, never really finding a way out.

“How long do we have here?” Clinton desperately wanted to get a handle on things.

“At least four days, maybe five, depending.“

“Depending?“

“Yeah, don’t worry.“

The pensión was, Morgan guessed, a small hotel or boarding house, but not run down, clean, if a little old. It was like nothing he’d seen before, because all the rooms gave onto a central rectangle open to the sky and filled with plants and an old fountain that no longer worked nor had any water in it. Their room was on the first floor, which had a covered corridor running all around and from where you could lean over the wooden balustrade and look down into the garden below. Or at least what once would have been an impressive internal garden.

A large ceiling fan moved the air slowly around the room. Morgan lay back on the bed and stared up at it, watching the large blades spin as the thing wobbled, wondering if it would stay attached, or spin off and fly through the room. He was reassured that it was turning slowly.

“I’ve got a funny feeling about all this,” Morgan told his brother whilst not taking his eyes off the ceiling fan.

“You always feel weird about everything. Forget it, We’re here aren’t we? Venezuela. You never imagined, huh?“

He didn’t reply. It was Clint’s usual way of being reassuring, trying to make everything sound as if it were somehow all part of a master strategy.

El Mirador was a mix somewhere between stark industrial and tropical chic, which means it had a concrete block entrance and large metal duct pipes running the length of the ceiling, but was awash with colour and had a VIP lounge with tables and plush seating. The dance floor in the centre was packed with a mixed crowd of young to middle aged, men and women, it was in no way an exclusively gay nightclub.

Morgan’s eyes, once adjusted, took in the scene and landed on a young couple swirling together off to his left. They were obviously gay, but then the couple next to them, an older man with a woman in a tight purple dress, were not.

“This way.“

Gregoire slid ahead through the crowds to find a table in the section of the place reserved for parties. That is groups who had, presumably, reserved. They were met by a handsome young man who immediately had a brief conversation with Greg that neither of them could hear.

He left and was back a few minutes later carrying a tray. Three tall glasses and three bottles of Zulia, a local beer which was quickly and efficiently set out in front of them on the table. The server pulled a bottle opener from his side pocket, flipped off the tops, smiled, and moved onto the next table. Sitting on the plush upholstered curved seat, they had a good view of the rest of the lounge as well the dance floor.

Gregoire poured his beer into the glass, sat back and savoured the cool liquid. Morgan was conscious that he was obviously too young to be here, but they’d got in with no trouble. Cautiously, he copied Greg and his brother, filled his glass and tentatively sipped the yellow liquid. He’d only ever sampled beer once before and hadn’t liked it. He still didn’t, and quickly put the glass back down on the shiny round table in front of them. The flashing lights bounced off the surface, reflecting the changing colours from the dance floor, moving in time with the beat of the music. It felt like being wrapped in a cacophony of sound, the people and movement lending the anonymity of a forest of bodies, obscuring their presence, aided by the low, ever changing lighting.

“He’s over there,” Gregoire touched Morgan’s arm and nodded.

Peering across the tables in the direction Greg had pointed, they saw a group two tables away, which looked to be three people, two men and a woman. Another, large, well built man was hovering, standing over the group.

“The guy standing is Juan-Jose, the owner of this place,” Gregoire spoke into Morgan’s ear. “He’ll come and get you and introduce you to that man he’s talking too.“

Morgan tried to make out the features of the man that Juan-Jose was leaning over, but it was impossible. Then he was caught out by the large man turning back to look in their direction. Suddenly there was a connection, as if there were a thread linking them across the people and tables in between. Juan-Jose gave a sign and Gregoire pushed Morgan to get up and move.

Apprehensively, the boy stood and walked carefully between the other tables towards Juan-Jose and the mark as Greg referred to him. He didn’t know the other man’s name or what might follow. As he reached the table the couple stood up and left, leaving Morgan, Juan-Jose, and the man, Eduardo Phillipe, alone. Juan-Jose wrapped a massive arm around the boy’s shoulder and hugged him to his side as he spoke to Eduardo. Morgan understood nothing, except the man’s name.

Juan-Jose pushed Morgan towards Eduardo: “Sit,” he told him, then turned and left.

Morgan sat down at the table, watching the owner make his way over to Gregoire and Clinton.

“You’re an American boy?“

Eduardo had the smell of expensive aftershave as he leant towards Morgan. Not that he knew what expensive aftershave smelt like, only that was the impression he got. Eduardo wore a suit and crisp white shirt that almost glowed blue in the lighting.

Morgan nodded and felt the palm of the man’s hand come to rest on the top of his leg.

“Are you nervous? Perhaps you would like a drink?“

All Morgan could focus on was the hand that gently squeezed his leg and slid over and around, creeping slowly upwards along the inside of his thigh. Before he could reply Eduardo’s fingers were touching his manhood which despite everything, was solidly erect.

“You’re excited and a little worried.” Eduardo looked him directly in the eyes. “Don’t be. I know you are new, but relax.” The man smiled.

“So Gregoire,” Juan-Jose was sitting next to Clinton, leaning across to talk. “Everything is set, with one small change.” He grinned.

“What change?“

Gregoire had an air of tension in his voice.

“Our friend,” Juan-Jose spoke secretively to Gregoire and Clinton. “He wants both of them.“

He looked directly at Clinton.

“Both?” Gregoire questioned, surprised, not quite understanding the change to their plan.

“Both boys. You,” he was still looking at Clint. “You and your brother together. Go join them.” He said that with a tone that brooked no come back.

Gregoire nodded, and Clinton stood up. He moved through the tables to join his brother and Eduardo. Juan-Jose watched a moment before leaving Gregoire sitting alone. The music grew louder and the rhythm more frenetic, the dance floor was packed with the gyrating bodies of men and women swaying in time to the music. When he looked up from his beer and back to the other table, he saw that Eduardo and the boys were no longer there.

Chapter 6

“We got to talk about that.” Clinton spoke the words without looking at his brother.

“I …“

Morgan stared at the still night outside. They sat together on the back seat, the car was empty apart from the two of them. They were waiting.

“Yeah, I know, but that was… weird.“

Clinton turned his attention on his younger brother.

“I …“

Morgan started to speak, but failed to get any words out. His face moved to touch the cold glass of the car door. Clinton took him in both arms and turned him around. Tears had wet the boy’s cheeks. He didn’t, couldn’t, look his brother in the eyes.

“Sometimes,” Clint began. “Sometimes, there’s a backlash, a curve ball. We don’t expect it. The game plays out different. But kiddo, you got to face it.“

Morgan looked up.

“You… come on. You liked it too much.“

The boy blushed, his heart was beating against his chest, his mouth was dry.

“It’s okay. I love you.“

Clinton was still holding him.

“Like a brother,” he added.

“I … I’m sorry.“

A silent tear glistened as it slid across his cheek, caught in the final glow of the street lamp which switched off with the early light of dawn.

“You got nothing to be sorry about. Nothing at all. But we got to talk about it. I don’t mind. You’re my brother. I’ll always be here for you.“

Morgan nodded his head weakly and wiped away the tear.

“I know about you and Bennie, but this… It was different. It was that curve ball. I didn’t hurt you?“

He shook his head, but averted the gaze of Clinton.

“It’s okay, you being gay.“

He’d said it. Somehow, Morgan was just never going to say the word. But it was obvious. Beyond any doubt. Clinton knew it before tonight, but he locked it away in the back of his head. They never spoke much about The Captain, and whatever went on. He never questioned Morgan about Bennie, just let it drop. Told him, Ben could take care of himself. That was cold. Selfish. But he had to take Morgan with him. They’d always been together.

What happens now? He had no idea. The game was playing out different. It was nearly daylight as they sat, locked in the car, outside the luxury apartment block where Eduardo lived. He’d done what the guy wanted. Morgan hadn’t said anything. Morgan always did what Clinton told him, but he never reckoned on the lawyer wanting both of them. That was different. He never reckoned on what that would do to them. How it would change things.

“Is it? Morgan finally looked at his brother: “And you?“

Clinton smiled.

“I don’t know. It was a first. I guess I’ll take it as it comes.“

Morgan almost laughed.

“What’s so funny?“

“Take it as it comes. Don’t you mean give it.“

“Okay, cut it out with the double entendres.“

“Double what?“

“Meaning. You know, double meanings.“

Just then Miguel appeared, opened the driver side door and got in. He turned to look back over his shoulder: “We’re waiting for Señor Phillipe,” he said.

“When did you know?“

Clint ignored Miguel, continuing his conversation with his brother.

“I don’t know. Maybe, it could have been around ten or eleven. Definitely by eleven. But there was this boy Huey when we stayed with old MacPherson.“

“Huey? I don’t remember him.“

“Well it doesn’t matter. But anyhow, I think I had feelings for him. I had feelings for the little girl, Melissa. You remember her?“

“I’m not likely to forget that, am I?“

“Guess not. So yeah, I liked Huey and I liked Melissa.“

The car door opened again and Eduardo got in.

“Vamonos (let’s go),” he said.

It was light now as Miguel turned the ignition and they swung out into the deserted street. The car made its way through the city, a series of buildings and intersections that were a maze for Clinton and Morgan. They were trapped in an unknown place. The game had changed, Gregoire was gone, the last they saw of him was at the nightclub.

The choices they’d never had were gone, disappeared with Gregoire when Eduardo moved them to his apartment. How did that happen? Clinton had no idea, but he would now have to dance to the lawyer’s tune, and that looked like being a tango with Morgan. He felt like he was using his brother more than he ever had before, but then again he was also bending to the will of the man who rolled the dice.

“Boys,” Eduardo interrupted his thoughts. “I liked you two together. Last night was a definitely hot show. You’re lucky.“

He grinned and turned back, taking out a cigarette from the holder he’d slipped from his breast pocket. The smoke drifted backwards, rising slowly towards the tiny gap in the rear window that Morgan had open.

“We can play good.” Clinton replied.

Eduardo reached to turn the rear view mirror. He stared at Clinton’s reflection as he inhaled.

“Oh yes, I know. Your little brother there, he loves it.“

He smirked, turned the mirror towards Morgan, but the boy wasn’t looking. He heard it all and wondered what was next, but he preferred not to ask. Whenever he did, things didn’t get better, they only seemed like it. Nothing lasted. It fell back to what it was before. There was an endless need to escape that was never quite attainable.

The car took a sharp right turn into a narrow side street and pulled up. Miguel cut the motor and opened the door. He stepped around to the back and opened Morgan’s door.

“Come on kids. Get out. You’ve got work to do.“

They stepped onto the sidewalk and followed him through a metal door. The daylight disappeared and it was dark once again. Across the large room was a curved wooden bar behind which were shelves stacked with bottles reflected in a mirror. A heavily built guy stopped what he was doing behind the bar and emerged to talk with Miguel. Whatever that conversation was about, they had no idea, Clinton and Morgan simply followed him through a back door, leaving Miguel standing, watching.

“This is gonna be interesting. I don’t think he speaks English,” Morgan whispered, as they climbed up the stairs.

The dimly lit passageway smelt vaguely of stale tobacco smoke, although a little less strongly than on the floor below. At the end of the narrow corridor they finally hit daylight again, coming out into a small inner courtyard. It was shaded by tall walls and stood empty apart from a clothes line strung across one end.

The man led them back inside and up more stairs to what must have been the top floor of the building, because they could see through a wide archway which led to the roof. He opened an old wooden door.

“Tu cuarto (Your bedroom),“ he told them, and a voice from within replied.

“¡Qué carajo! (What the fuck!)“

“Los arreglas (You fix them up),“ the man grunted, then turned and left.

Morgan and Clint tentatively entered the room as the voice from the far end stirred, sat up and opened a window. More light filled the room and Morgan had to catch his breath. He was face to face with the most beautiful guy he had ever seen. The young man was half asleep and didn’t look happy, which somehow made him all the more appealing. Clinton nudged his brother to move, but didn’t fail to catch the reaction.

“Quien diablos eres? (Who the hell are you?)” the young man asked.

“We don’t speak Spanish,” Clinton replied.

Morgan just stared at the boy, who looked back at him not best pleased. They stayed like that for what seemed like forever to Morgan. His heart was beating, but nothing else in the room moved.

“Who are you?“

The boy spoke with a strong South American accent. They watched as he swung himself off the bed and stood up. Morgan couldn’t take his eyes off the slim tanned body with jet black hair and piercing dark eyes.

“Like what you see, chico?

The boy moved towards Morgan, who stood there as if fixed in place. That was until Clinton pushed himself between the two of them.

“What’s your problem?” Clinton said angrily.

“¡Nada! Nothing!” was the reply. “Forget it. It’s too fucking early.“

The boy sat back down on the bed and brushed his hands through his hair. Clinton decided he should ignore the initial reaction and be friendly. This boy was maybe their only link with what was going on; least ways, the only person they could understand, who spoke English. Apart from Miguel and Eduardo who had disappeared, leaving them here.

Morgan continued staring at the boy, his eyes resting on the long smooth brown legs, the faded boxers he had on, and smooth hairless chest.

“Javier,” the boy said, introducing himself with a faint smile and glancing back up at Morgan.

“You can take the other bed and that cupboard, but it doesn’t look like you got anything to put in it.“

“It’s a long story,” Clinton replied. “I’m Clint, Clinton, and this,” he took a hold of his brother, “is Morgan.“

“Hi, Clint,” Javier smiled. “Morgan?“

There was a little question in the way he voiced the name and the look he gave Clinton’s brother. They sat down together on the only other bed in the long narrow room. Sunlight shot across the empty space in a band of light catching little whisks of dust swirling in its beam.

“If you need a change of clothes,” Javier waved an arm towards the cupboard at the foot of his bed. “Help yourself.“

“What do you do here?” Clinton looked directly at Javier, trying to decide how much he could trust him.

“Serving. And other stuff,” he looked away. Not embarrassed, but rather disinterested.

Clinton looked around the room. It was pretty bare, but Javier obviously had the larger bed and Clint noted that.

“I suppose you’re the new boys?“

“I don’t know,” Clint turned his attention back to Javier.

“Okay. I see we need to sort things out.“

There was a silence, not uncomfortable, between the three of them.

“Sort out what?“

So far Morgan had not said a word. He was struggling with everything that had happened and with his emotions, which were tumbling around like clothes in a washing machine. Turning over and over, chaotically.

Javier looked at Morgan: “How old are you?” he asked.

Morgan didn’t answer he buried his head in his hands.

“It’s kinda been a long night.” Clinton replied for him. “He’s fifteen, if you want to know.“

“You’re brothers?“

“Yes.“

Clinton too felt tired. All He wanted to do right now was sleep. Javier seemed to pick up on this without more conversation. He stood back up off his bed.

“One of you take my bed. I’m going out. I’ll be back in a few hours and we’ll go get something to eat. He gave them both a weak, but genuine kind of smile. The sort of expression that said he understood.

Clinton got maybe an hour’s sleep, but was disturbed by Morgan in the other bed. His brother was animated in his sleep, tossing and turning, mumbling to himself. Having woken up, he silently slipped out of the room and wandered through the archway onto the small roof terrace. The sun was blazing down from an intense blue sky and the city seemed to buzz with activity which filtered up from the streets below. But all he could see, shielding his eyes from the glare, were the mixed shapes of rooves and the few windows of a taller building some way off. The twin steeples of a large church or maybe cathedral dominated one side, towering upwards. There was a tiny covered area to the left which was a bamboo lean-to, it housed a large rectangular sink with an old heavy looking brass tap. To the side was a shower, more or less open, with a hose pipe hooked up on the back wall. Two pairs of boxers and two t-shirts hung from a looping line of string. One of the t-shirts bore the faded emblem of something, but Clinton wasn’t sure what, it looked vaguely like a lion with a shield bearing the letters CBC and Leones written in large dark blue letters across the bottom.

He stayed there, sitting down on the concrete floor under the shade of the washroom lean-too, his back pressed up against the whitewashed wall. Idly he juggled the two dice between his fingers, trying, but failing, to figure a plan. He dosed off in the rising heat of the day. It was the church bells ringing in the hour that prompted him to get up and go check on Morgan.

Peering in through the slightly open door, he saw Javier sitting on the floor next to his bed. He could only just see Morgan’s upper half, which was enough to glimpse Javier delicately brush the hair back from his brother’s forehead with a slow movement of his finger tips. The long slender fingers matched the rest of Javier’s body and they appeared to calm Morgan’s restless sleep. Clinton actually thought Morgan smiled as he turned, his murmurs grew quiet. After a moment, Clinton silently entered the bedroom. Javier turned quickly and stood up, wiping a hand across his face. He looked at Clinton and wondered what he had seen.

“We should go get some food. I know a place nearby.“

“Javier…” Clinton didn’t know what he should say. “We have nothing. No money. Nothing.“

The young man held his gaze: “It doesn’t matter. I will pay.“

Clinton sat down on the bed with an air of exhaustion and a feeling of desperation. Javier joined him on the bed. They sat side by side.

“You want to talk?” Javier asked.

And Clinton, the guy who always took care of his brother, who managed everything, but never told. He did. He talked to this complete stranger. Why? Perhaps because there was nothing to lose. They talked quietly together for an hour. They shared their stories. If Clinton didn’t say everything, it was only because some things were personal to Morgan. He would have to decide if he wanted to reveal those things.

Morgan stirred and woke up. He looked across at his brother and Javier.

“How long have you two been here?“

“You know you talk in your sleep?” Javier told him, smiling.

Morgan blushed.

“I wasn’t sure you could talk,” Javier joked, and Morgan blushed deeper.

Clinton grabbed Javier playfully in a headlock, pulled him to his side, and messed up his hair before releasing his hold.

“Don’t make fun of my brother,” Clint laughed.

Javier stared directly at Morgan, a huge smile on his face.

Morgan’s heart skipped a beat.

“Come on Javier. Something to eat. Remember?“

Clinton stood up. Morgan crawled out from under the sheet, then realised he was just a bit exposed and covered himself with his hands. Javier laughed, stood up, and joined Clinton.

“Get dressed. We’ll be on the roof,” Javier winked.

Chapter 7

It was the first proper meal they’d eaten since disembarking the ship and the events which followed had been a whirlwind. When something starts to go wrong it has a habit of spinning out of control, which is exactly what happened. Clinton and Morgan finished up playing the game Eduardo wanted.

“Thanks, Javier,” Clinton looked at their new friend across the table.

Javier grinned: “It’s nothing.“

His leg knocked purposely against Morgan’s, who was sitting next to him. Morgan smiled and tentatively moved his hand under the table to poke Javier in the side. Javier jumped.

“Ouch!” He squeaked, laughing, and turned to grab Morgan.

“Can you two cut it out.” Clinton was also smiling.

Javier hung back and focused on Clint.

“Seriously, we need to find a way out,” Clinton was thinking that they had to leave, but how?

“I have a plan,” Javier stared straight at Clinton. “I’ve been thinking about this a long time, because I’m done with the life here. It’s no good. You two are like a sign.“

“Like a sign? What do you mean?” Clinton frowned.

“Your coming here. It’s a sign. An omen.“

“Javier, are you serious? How is two lost American kids, with nothing, an omen?“

“Don’t ask me to explain, but it is,” Javier told him.

There was an argument which had erupted inside the restaurant, raised voices which threatened to explode, and this distracted their attention. Javier got up and went back to the bar, where his uncle was calming a customer who was complaining.

“Let’s go,” he told them as he came back outside.

The brothers stood up and together they headed off along the street, leaving the still arguing customer and Uncle Pablo behind, their loud voices lost amidst the noise of the traffic. Javier pulled Morgan off the street through a wrought iron gate into the relative peace and calm of what looked like public gardens. Clinton followed, and they walked further into the greenery and shade, finding an empty seat to sit on and continue their conversation.

“I know a guy who is going North with a truck to a place called Delicias. We can get a ride with him.” Javier looked over at Clinton.

Morgan was sat between Javier and Clint, perched on the wooden bench, kicking the dirt with his feet and listening.

“And what do we do when we get to this place?” Clinton asked.

“He has work there.“

“Work?“

“Yes. They are building and need workers.“

“Where is this place?“

“I don’t know exactly. North. Next to Colombia.“

Clinton looked past Morgan at Javier.

“And he will just take us there. How far is it?“

“One day. Eighteen, twenty hours. We share the driving.“

“That’s it. Just share the driving?“

Clinton wasn’t convinced, not at all.

“You know Señor Eduardo, right?“

“Kind of,” Clint admitted.

“He runs everything, and it’s not just clubs. He’s very powerful, but not top dog.“

“Who is then?“

“Hector Agraz.“

“Hector Agraz?” Clinton repeated. It was the first time he had heard the name.

“Yeah. That’s part of the plan.“

“Man, I’m really lost now. You need to lay things out.“

“Okay,” Javier frowned, looking from Clinton to Morgan and back to Clinton. “It’s like this. Señor Agraz is a Colonel in the army. He runs everything. Ships drugs out of Columbia to America. Part of that is to build an airfield and truck the drugs across the border, then fly them to America, but I’m not sure how. The thing is, if we get to Delicias, we can find work.“

Clinton glanced at his brother, was he going to choose for them like always? Yeah, why not, he thought. Seeing as how Morgan’s got eyes for Javier and the feeling seems mutual. Javier’s got a way out, but he still hasn’t exactly laid all his cards on the table. Clinton didn’t doubt that. People spun webs like spiders, the trick was not to get stuck. Taking the trip to move on seemed the best play.

Clinton finally replied: “What about your uncle?“

“No problem. Don’t be concerned about him.“

“When do we go then?“

Javier stood up and leant over, bending to talk up close to both of them.

“You go back to the club. Can you find your way?“

Clint nodded.

“I’m going to sort things out.“

They both watched as he stood, turned, and walked out of the gardens. The screech of a parrot broke the monotonous background noise from the traffic in the distance. They sat looking at each other until Morgan spoke.

“What now?” He asked his brother.

“I’m not sure. Guess we’ll find out soon enough.“

“I guess,” Morgan repeated.

The club was more or less deserted when they got back. The boys went up onto the roof to wait for Javier. Morgan leant on the wall at the far end staring over the roof tops, listening to the sounds of the city that permeated up from the streets below like waves washing the shore. A sort of rhythmic sound that ebbed and flowed.

“Are we going with him?” He asked the question without turning, still staring over the city skyline.

“It’s what you want?“

Clinton walked over to stand next to him. He looked straight down at the street below, following a figure that moved swiftly along the sidewalk of the otherwise deserted street.

“When has anything I want been a choice?“

Clinton silently thought about that comment. He realised in that instant his brother was right, he never had Morgan’s choices in the equation. Clinton needed Morgan, but did Morgan feel the same? A shift was moving their world and he wasn’t sure how that would work out. His right hand found the two dice deep in his pocket. He touched them and they knocked together with their ever familiar click of ivory against ivory. These were real die, no cheap synthetic copy!

“We’re going now,” a voice interrupted as Javier appeared at the top of the stairs. “Get your stuff and meet me downstairs.“

The truck was parked up just outside the entrance, they both saw it as they squeezed past Javier and his uncle.

“Fuck!” Clinton let out an involuntary gasp. “That’s a Chevy.“

The beat up, dented and battered old beast was painted a deep green and proudly displayed most of the chrome lettering across the front. The guy in the driver’s seat was blowing smoke rings out the open window and tapping his hand on the steering wheel in time to the beat from the radio. When Javier had finished with his uncle he stepped out to join them. The guy spoke to Javier before they exchanged places.

“Throw your stuff in the back,” Javier gestured, and they duly deposited their bag in the back of the pick up. “Get in!“

Morgan came around the far side followed by Clinton. He slid onto the green leather upholstery that matched the colour of the exterior paintwork, and the three of them shared the bench seat, it was wide enough. Javier turned the ignition, put it in drive and pulled away.

“Change of plans,” he smiled. “Just the three of us.“

He’d answered the question before it was posed. Clinton looked straight ahead and said nothing, Morgan grinned.

“There’s a map in the glove box.“

Morgan reached over past Clinton and pulled it out.

“I marked Delicias. You got it?“

They swung right into the main road, hitting the city rush hour. Slow traffic, punctuated by horn blasts and an odour of diesel, accompanied them through the streets. Javier glanced at Morgan who was unfolding and re-folding the map.

“Well?” Javier asked him.

“Yeah I got it.” Morgan confirmed.

“Then that makes you navigator.“

Clinton said nothing, thinking about what happens when they get there. This just wasn’t all pot luck and happy families. He was beginning to ask himself questions about Javier.

Once they negotiated their way through the heavy traffic, they soon joined the three lane highway that led them quickly away from the city and it’s maze of streets and sprawling tower blocks. As the old truck lumbered on they rounded a long sweeping curve, finding themselves out in the countryside. Trees and a sudden rural environment marking the start of a long journey.

Nobody spoke much. Clinton watched the miles roll by looking out the window. Morgan simply relaxed sat in the middle of the other two. It was almost a trance like journey to the heavy rumbling sound of the old motor which was reminiscent of being back in the cabin on board the Bomdomo. They were ten hours into the journey when it seemed the motor was complaining too much.

“We need to pull off and find a garage,” Javier slowed and took a left, direction Barinas.

“It’ll never get us where we’re supposed to be going,” Clinton spoke for the first time in ages, looking past his brother at Javier.

“No hay problema,” Javier told him, reverting to Spanish which he had a habit of doing when reality did in fact present a problem. It seemed the engine was growling out complaints and Javier was looking tense. Morgan spotted the sign, half hanging loose, garage automo, the rest was obscured.

“What you reckon?” He asked Javier, but Clint was included in the question.

Javier just nodded and swung a left up a narrow street that ended with an old hangar and a forecourt adorned with various broken cars and a tow truck.

“You got the cash to pay for this?” Clinton felt totally under the control of Javier, ever since they’d been dropped at his uncle’s place by Miguel, Señor Phillippe’s driver. He didn’t like the situation. He didn’t like what had happened that first night with Gregoire in the club he’d taken them to. He didn’t believe anything was what it appeared to be on the surface.

When Javier was off talking to some guy in the garage workshop Clinton turned to Morgan. “Kid, don’t trust him,” he told his brother.

“Why?” Morgan wanted to know.

Clint didn’t reply.

“You always say the same thing. Right back when we were kids, remember? They’re not our friends, you told me.“

“We’ve got each other and that’s all we got.” Clinton frowned, feeling uncomfortable.

“Javier’s okay. He got us out of the city.“

“Gregoire got us off the ship and look how that turned out?” Clinton was irritated and it showed in his voice.

“You agreed his plan,” Morgan snapped back.

His brother had no reply. Javier came back to interrupt things: “We will have to stay here. He can’t fix it till tomorrow.“

“So?” Clinton did not sound very pleased.

“We can stay here for tonight.” Javier repeated.

They got their stuff, what little they had, and left the truck in the garage.

“There’s a guest house. I’ve got the directions,” Javier told them.

The small town was different to the city. The contrast of buildings and people, less busy, less noisy, and less polluted. They found the large old house easily.

Santiago and Valentina sat at the table with their young daughter. Clinton, Morgan, and Javier, completed the guest list. Breakfast was served by the wife of the man who ran the place, they were both getting on in years and only spoke Spanish. The old lady moved slowly, pouring coffee into the cup in front of Valentina and moving next to Santiago. She smiled a lot and talked to the little girl. Santiago touched her hand and took the coffee pot as he said something to her which neither Clinton nor Morgan understood. They only watched. It was Santiago who passed the coffee across the table. He smiled a friendly greeting as the elderly woman left them to return to the kitchen.

“Americano?” He asked looking at the boys.

Clinton nodded and sipped the hot coffee.

“What are you doing in Venezuela?“

It was an innocent enough question, but it took Clinton by surprise. It was as if he were being interrogated by a policeman. The question wasn’t, are you on holiday, visiting, or something like that.

“Yeah, we’re visiting,” he told him.

The dining room resembled the elderly couple. Heavy carved wooden furniture imposed itself on the room. The light over the table and the lamp on the sideboard were brass interpretations of branches with their leaves surrounding the light bulbs. A delicate lace curtain adorned the lower half of the window and a picture of a bearded man walking, holding a branch and carrying a young child on his shoulder, took centre place on the opposite wall to the sideboard. Santiago was friendly and talkative and despite Clinton’s apprehension, he did not seem to find it strange that two American boys were travelling through his country.

“Where are you heading for?” He asked Clinton.

“To Columbia,” Clint replied. Then added: “We will probably fly home then.“

“How do you like our country?” Valentina turned her attention from her daughter.

“It’s not what I imagined,” Clinton smiled.

“I hope that is good?“

“Yes,” he nodded his confirmation.

Morgan glanced at Clinton who caught his expression. Well, what was he gonna say. Was it good? Certainly it wasn’t what he imagined, but then he had only one idea. He only ever had one idea. To get out. But where to?

By the time they’d finished breakfast they’d discovered Santiago and Valentina were visiting family before he had to get back to work. They were on holiday. What work he had to get back to, he didn’t say. Clinton had dealt with enough officials in his life that he was certain Santiago was another, but it didn’t matter. The pressing concern was getting the truck fixed and that was about to become complicated.

“I have to get the part,” the mechanic was telling Javier in Spanish.

None of this either Clinton or Morgan understood, they watched and waited. After he’d finished discussing the truck repairs Javier came over to join them. For Clinton it was an old garage, but he had to assume they knew what to do, and maybe the state of the place, the fact it was in a small town in the countryside, meant it wouldn’t cost so much. He hoped Javier had the cash. When he explained to Clinton it would take three days because they needed a part, Clinton just sighed.

“What can we do?” Was his question to Javier.

“Nothing,” was the answer he got back.

“And you got enough cash?” Clinton asked for the umpteenth time. It concerned him, relying entirely on a guy they hardly knew and who he personally didn’t trust. It wasn’t the same for Morgan. Perhaps because he had a thing for Javier. He didn’t seem to care, or maybe he thought Clinton was being paranoid.

Javier simply looked at Clint, then turned to leave. “I already told him to get the truck fixed. What you think we gonna do? Walk?“

Clint gave a weak grin.

Chapter 8

“I don’t know why you fixed things for Eduardo. Why bother? You should concentrate on Hector Agaze.” The Captain wasn’t really concerned, Gregoire was a Mr Fix-It, he’d been around nearly as long as he had himself, and the past three years together on the Bombomo. He arranged things for The Captain which suited him fine. He also took care of receiving the merchandise, stowing it, and offloading it when they reached their destination. All of which allowed The Captain to simply sail the ship and collect his commission.

Gregoire thought of himself more of a Personal Assistant to The Captain just the same as he was to Señor Phillipe. In a way he resented both men in equal measure and despised their same weakness for boys. He knew he’d struck gold when he brought the two boys onboard in Boston. It could work out to be exactly what he needed, his way out and retirement package.

“You weren’t complaining about the boy when you had him in your cabin.”

The Captain scowled at Gregoire. “Mind what you say,” he warned him.

“I’m only telling it how it is. Eduardo enjoys the same company. Keeping him happy doesn’t distract from our business.”

“Maybe,” The Captain begrudgingly replied. “But I believe Eduardo is making a move on his boss.”

“All the more reason to keep on his good side and know what’s going on.”

“So why all the story about signing a contract and working a con?”

“Huh? You know about that?” Gregoire was surprised.

The Captain raised his eyebrows. “I’m not stupid. There’s nothing goes on here I don’t know about,” “Juan-Jose told you. I get it.”

“So why the story? I’m curious.”

“It was a con. If you like. But like all good cons it was on the boys, not Eduardo.”

“Not sure I follow this.”

Gregoire smiled a self-satisfied smile. “Eduardo got his night of pleasure. The Americans got dropped at a little club owned by a guy, Pablo, who works for Eduardo. And right now Pablo’s nephew is taking them to somewhere near the border, although they don’t know any of this.”

“Where’s this all leading?” The Captain asked.

“It’s a diversion, of sorts. Hector Agaze wants Eduardo out. Eduardo wants control. The boys are the king pin, everything revolves around them. It’s beautiful, the best con I’ve ever manufactured.”

“Whatever.” The Captain turned, walked away and climbed up to the bridge. The cargo was almost finished loading and they’d leave tonight. In a little over twenty-six hours they’d be in Cartagena. Gregoire watched The Captain climb the steps, making sure he was where he should be and occupied. Quietly, he slipped away down from the deck onto the quayside. As he crossed the empty dock he glanced around left and right as he headed for Gate Two where Hernandez would be on duty and he could make the call.

There was no one about, but there was a light in the gatehouse. He stepped up and looked inside. Hernandez smiled and opened the door. “Hola, what do you want?” he asked.

Hernandez was an amiable man in his thirties. At least Gregoire guessed that was his age, only because he’d talked about his family life, getting married and the birth of their son. The boy was twelve and Hernandez had married when he was twenty after his military service.

“Hola!” Gregoire smiled. “I need to make a phone call.”

Hernandez returned the smile. “Go ahead.”

“Private,” Gregoire emphasised.

Hernandez moved past him and opened the door, closing it behind him. He stood outside smoking a cigarette. Gregoire picked up the receiver and dialled the number on the slip of paper he pulled out of his pocket. It took a moment before he heard the phone ringing and a few rings before it was answered.

“This is Gregoire in Caracas,” he announced to the person on the other end of the line. “I have a message for the Colonel.”

“Go ahead,” a deep voice replied.

“Tell him the American boys are on their way.”

The other person repeated the message as if it were something in code, which made Gregoire smile. He hung up the phone and dialled a second number. As he waited for his call to be answered he watched Hernandez strolling up and down outside.

“Hi, Miguel.”

“Gregoire.”

“We’ll dock in Cartagena tomorrow night. Tell Señor Phillipe. You have three days before we sail.”

“No problemo!”

“Bueno. See you there.”

He hung up and opened the door. Hernandez dropped his cigarette stub and trod on it moving his foot to grind it out on the ground. The floodlights were just coming on, sending their golden glow across the entrance.

“How’s it going?” Hernandez asked.

“Good, and you?”

“Oh, you know, the missus hates me working nights.”

Gregoire laughed. “Yeah, I can see she would prefer you home in bed,”

Hernandez chuckled. “Guess you won’t be back for a while?”

“Three weeks, if nothing changes. But I’m not the boss.”

“Me neither. If I was I’d only have day shifts.”

Gregoire stepped outside and heard Hernandez click the lock. He walked swiftly back to the ship.

They had been a few days on the road travelling, but we’re now finally climbing up through the verdant hills in the direction of Delicias. The Rio Tachira and Columbian border were just the other side of the town, but the map indicated Las Lajas.

“We could stop in the town. What d’you think?” Morgan asked.

“No. We’re already days late,” Javier replied, an air of tension in his voice.

The Chevy chugged through the ever steeper slopes, climbing higher, away from the town. The light was fading as night approached and the sun took a slow nose dive below the horizon.

“Late?” Clinton ground out the word.

Javier took his eyes off the road, startled by the vicious tone, he glanced over. They bumped into a pothole, making him quickly return his attention to the route. It was sinuous and becoming difficult to navigate. Morgan also looked questioningly at his brother.

“Pull up!” Clinton shouted, leaning past Morgan to grab at Javier’s arm.

The truck skidded to a halt just as they reached the top, where the track levelled out onto a broad plateau. To one side the twinkling lights of Delicias far off and far below, indicated where the town lay. Wherever they were it appeared remote with no sign of life.

“Que pasa?” Javier was breathing heavily, suddenly nervous.

“You better tell us right now,” Clinton demanded.

“Tell what?”

“Fuck! I never trusted you!” He leant over Morgan and grabbed Javier, pulling him forward.

“Alright! Let go!”

Clinton relaxed his grip. “How the fuck can we be late unless…”

“Bueno quieres saber? (Okay, you wanna know?)”

Now Morgan, too, was staring at Javier.

“Señor Phillipe told my uncle he needed you both here.”

“Here? Where the hell is here?” Clinton was angry.

“You lied,” Morgan accused.

“Everybody lies.” Javier looked at him..

The silent darkness of the descending night engulfed them.

“What do you think you would have done? I had no choice. I went to work for my uncle because we needed money for medicine to keep our mother alive. I didn’t want my sister being a prostitute, maybe getting pregnant, who knows? My uncle owns his club and works because of Eduardo. I earn money because of both of them. What the hell am I supposed to do?”

Nobody said anything for what seemed like a long time.

“Tell us what’s going on,” Clinton asked. He was calm and composed, his previous anger had evaporated.

Javier was almost a mirror image of Clinton himself. Both boys knew they had to play the game and they knew how. Neither was ever in control, neither ever had a plan that totally won out. Perhaps more importantly they both knew you could lie best when you told the truth, but not the whole truth

“You know everything as well as I do,” Javier replied.

Morgan was about to say something, but Clint stopped him. “Not quite,” he grinned. Then changed tack. “We know everything you told us. In many ways we’ve lived similar lives. You do what you have to so as to get by. I even like you, and Morgan does too. But it’s the things you left out making me not trust you. And being fed a tale is not something I like.”

It was cold outside and getting colder. Morgan listened, but fixed his attention way off in the distance, staring through the dirty windscreen, up into the clear sky, which was full of stars.

“All I know that I never told you is that Señor Phillipe wants you in Las Lajas.”

“At the airfield?” Clint asked.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I have no idea, but I guess it’s got something to do with drugs.”

“That’s all you know?”

“Sure,” Javier insisted.

“So why not say that, instead of telling us you wanted to get away and we could find a job? All that crap.”

“It wasn’t crap!” Javier was upset. “It was my plan to get out. I didn’t tell you, because if you knew Eduardo wanted you there, you might say no. Maybe not, but I couldn’t take the risk. I had to get away and without you that wasn’t going to happen.

Clint relented. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Javier started the motor and shifted into drive. The old truck groaned on down the track, leaving the night sky and the stars behind them over the ridge.

The airfield was illuminated not by the strips of lights you might imagine to guide the planes, but by floodlights you would find on a sports ground. Large trucks and bulldozers moved around frenetically. It was obvious work did not stop when the stars came out. You could not see any stars, there was a halo of light spread over the plateau like a dome.

Clint was surprised that a woman took charge of them. Ana showed them to a hut, very basic, it had a tiny bathroom and two rows of hammocks, one each side, the beds slung between the upright posts that marched down the hut. For whatever reason they had three together at the far end. She left them to get some rest, telling them to come and find her first thing in the morning.

“So, I guess we’ve arrived,” Morgan threw his stuff under one of the hammocks.

Clint looked at him, then turned to Javier. “You know what happens tomorrow?”

Javier shrugged. “No. We got here late. Days late.”

Clinton climbed into the hammock next to his brother. There was no point questioning Javier further, it was late and he was beat.

The engine noise was a constant backdrop and it was not truly dark inside the hut. Even so they all fell easily asleep, exhausted by the journey and in part also by trying to work things out, mental Olympics.

The next afternoon they were summoned to meet Hector Agaze, the big boss, the godfather, the guy who ran the whole show. Clinton thought it pretty odd that the number one man, probably the richest man in Venezuela, was here in some God forsaken wilderness, on a plateau at the top of a mountain.

Colonel Agaze was not in uniform, although he was apparently the head of the air force and probably the second most powerful man in the country, behind the President. Even that was not definite, nothing in politics, especially as concerns South American republics, was stable, and things could change.

Clinton could rub shoulders with the best of them, and it was he who was the only one to actually speak to the Colonel. That perhaps should be listen, he didn’t actually get to utter a word, only nod his head, and try to look like everything was perfectly normal.

“That was some fucking experience,” he told Javier and Morgan. They had been relegated to waiting nervously outside. “This my friends is going to be where we part company.”

Morgan looked shocked, even Javier was surprised. It was not surprising Morgan would be hit by the announcement, he and Clinton had always been together. It was the one solid thing, they had each other if nothing else. Javier was different, what was he expecting anyway?

“So what happens now?” Javier asked.

Clinton smiled. “You get to drive over to Columbia to pick up some supplies. Don’t ask me why. You best ask Ana, she’s sorting that little trip out.”

“And you two?” Javier looked at Morgan.

“We wait for Eduardo to get here.” Clinton started to leave. He suddenly felt the need to be outside and think.

Morgan said nothing at all. He did wonder what was next, he kind of regretted Javier leaving, and nothing of any of this stopped him feeling nervous. Clinton he noticed was juggling the dice and that was not a good sign.

Chapter 9

It was more than twenty-four hours stuck doing nothing, waiting for Señor Eduardo Phillipe. It’s a crazy trick of life, Clinton thought, but everywhere we get stuck is noisy. Although that didn’t seem to bother his brother. The only thing on Morgan’s mind was Javier and Clinton’s plan. For once Clint had a plan. It used to be they only ever talked about needing one, but now he had put something together. How much of that was down to Clinton, and how much due to the Colonel, was up for debate.

“It’s clear then?” Clinton asked him for the umpteenth time. “Cos you’re on your own when Eduardo gets here.“

“It’s clear,” he replied.

Late that afternoon the noise, well most of it, ceased. Rather like turning off the music that had always been there in the background, now the sounds of nature came to the fore. Those sounds were mostly the wind, which was ripping through the encampment, seemingly gliding off the mountain tops.

Morgan was stood beside his brother, they both watched in tense anticipation as the small plane made it’s approach. The double propped fixed wing B55 making a broad sweep around the base, heading up towards the ridge they’d driven over to get there. The landing was tricky with the high winds, and the plane dipped dangerously to the side when a gust caught it. But the pilot was obviously experienced and it landed safely. The boys watched as the airplane taxied around and back towards them. Señor Phillipe stepped out, followed by two men neither Clint nor Morgan had seen before, but they both recognised Miguel, the last man out.

“You’re okay about going back with Miguel?” Clint looked at his brother with an air of worried concern.

“Sure. I mean I never really thought I’d see The Captain or that ship again, but what the hell. Seems like you’ve got it figured out.” Morgan added that last bit to counter his brother’s obvious nervousness. He knew full well that Clint didn’t have it figured out, he was rolling the dice and hoping for snake eyes.

Eduardo, Miguel, and the two other men with them disappeared inside the main building. Clinton turned to his brother. “There’s not much choice anyhow,” he admitted.

“That’s what I guessed,” Morgan smiled, if only out of a certain satisfaction in knowing he’d got that right.

Clinton slung his arm around him and pulled him close. “At least it’s not you going up in that tiny plane.“

“What happens when you get to Miami?” Morgan wanted to know.

“That is down to Ana. She’s taking care of things, I’m only along for the ride.” Now it was Clint’s turn to smile.

Morgan didn’t believe any of it, but he let things pass. Somehow he hoped this would work out and they’d end up back together in America, but that seemed a long way off, at least for him. And what about Javier? he mused. Where would he fit in?

After supper Miguel showed up in their hut accompanied by one of those other two men from the plane.

“Never thought I’d see you again after what happened in Caracas,” Clint smiled.

“I’m just here to drive the merchandise to Cartagena,” Miguel told him.

“And my brother,” Clint added.

“Sure, that’s the deal.“

Morgan was suddenly listening. What deal? He asked himself.

“And Javier? He could have done that.” Clinton knew Miguel was more important than he appeared.

“Si, but Señor Phillipe wanted me.” Miguel turned to leave.

“Is he back?” Morgan asked.

“Javier? Not yet, but he won’t be too long. Be ready to leave first thing, it’s a long journey.” With that Miguel opened the wooden door and stepped out into the rapidly descending darkness.

“What exactly are you doing on the plane with Eduardo and Ana?” Morgan fixed his eyes on his brother.

“It’s insurance,” Clint told him.

“Sure, it’s more than insurance.” Morgan wasn’t going to push it. He trusted his brother, he always had. Turning around he clambered into the hammock.

Clinton stared at Morgan, several thoughts fixed themselves in his mind, each vying for control. Would he be okay? Would he persuade Gregoire, assuming he was still there? And The Captain? Too many questions. And right there at the back of his mind was how he thought about Morgan, his brother with Javier, with The Captain.

It was after midnight when Javier got back. Morgan was sound asleep, but not Clinton.

“It went okay?” He whispered.

Javier was climbing into his hammock. “I guess, I’m back.“

“Tomorrow you’re going with Morgan and Eduardo’s driver Miguel to Cartagena. You probably don’t know what’s planned.” Clinton watched him through the almost darkness of the hut.

“I know what’s planned. I’m beat. I need some sleep.” He lay down disappearing in the embrace of the hammock.

Clinton said nothing more, but he couldn’t fall asleep. The one thing that was certain was Morgan would be saying goodbye to Javier if he got back on the ship. Clint was banking on that. Never mind what else happened, Morgan had to be on that ship.

Finally, he did fall asleep. He drifted off on the thought that he’d convinced Eduardo they could all meet up in Miami. Had Eduardo really bought that idea? He doubted it.

As usual, everyone was up early, the hut was mostly empty when Morgan fell out of his hammock. Joining Clinton in the little washroom, he bent over the basin and started brushing his teeth. His brother stood behind watching him.

“You know what happened with Eduardo in Caracas, I can’t get it out of my head.” Clinton was talking to his back as Morgan spat into the basin.

“Well, that’s why he bought your plan to meet up in Miami.” Morgan stood up and grabbed the rough piece of material that served as a towel.

Clinton stared at Morgan, he didn’t reply, but stepped closer.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be okay,” Morgan assured him.

“You like Javier,” Clint changed topics.

“Yeah, I do, but…“

“But?” Clinton rested a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“But, I’m getting on that ship and Javier is… I don’t know what he will do.“

“I guess that’s for him to figure out. But you’ll miss him?“

“Clint,” Morgan looked his brother straight in the eyes. “I’ll miss you more.“

Clinton smiled. “It’ll work out and I’ll see you in Miami.“

They walked out together. Morgan had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he ignored it. He decided to be philosophical, it’d work out, or it wouldn’t, nothing much he could do either way.

The plane climbed steeply up before banking right and leaving the now almost completed airfield behind. As Clinton peered through the tiny window he saw the barren ridge and the road that descended towards Delicias. He’d imagined they’d be five on-board, that the two guys looking like bodyguards would accompany them. But they had gone with Javier and Morgan, two trucks, one driven by Miguel, the other by Javier. That was why they wanted him, and in each vehicle a minder riding shotgun.

He turned back to look across at Eduardo and Ana. She smiled. Señor Phillipe had a blank expression, stern and cold. “Don’t make any mistake,” he told Clinton. “You know what to say.“

Ana lightly touched Eduardo’s hand, her slender manicured fingers resting a moment. Clinton fixed his gaze on the gloss red nails.

“He’ll be fine, señor,” she whispered sexily.

“You said we might just walk through with no control.” Clinton’s voice betrayed his tension.

“We might, kiddo. But if not, your passport was stolen, got it?” Eduardo reached towards the mini bar on-board, he needed a drink. It wasn’t Clinton who was annoying him with his worrying, but what was going down between himself and Hector Agaze. He was certain there was something he’d missed.

The plane followed the river and border, they were low enough to see the countryside below, only blocked now and then by thin wispy clouds floating beneath like candy floss. Clinton let his mind drift, thinking about Morgan, he dozed off. It was the change of engine noise that jogged him back to the here and now. Looking out, all he could see was blue, blue sky and blue sea.

“Where are we?” He asked Ana.

“About halfway I think. Just about over Haiti. Would you like a drink?“

He brushed his hair back off his forehead and squinted, rubbing his eyes and stretching in his seat. “Yeah, thanks.“

She twisted the top off a tiny bottle of something, poured it into a glass and topped it up with some coke. Passing it across she regarded him. “Are you okay?“

“Sure,” he replied, taking the glass and bringing it to his lips. “Tired, I guess.” He sipped the alcohol. Rum and coke.

She returned to her book and he turned back to look out the window. Time seemed to crawl with nothing to do but sit and listen to the drone of the engines. The drink helped relax him, but he could never quite shrug off that uneasiness that had been a constant companion ever since he watched Morgan drive away earlier that morning. It would be three days before they met up.

Finally, they were descending. Clinton felt the tension returning, he was gripping the seat arms with both hands, taut like a violin string about to snap.

“It’s a private airport and a private club.” Ana looked at him sympathetically. “Try to relax.“

But he couldn’t. Then the plane suddenly dropped like a stone as they hit an air pocket. His stomach was in his mouth. He grabbed the little brown bag and held it to his lips.

The plane bounced, banked left, straightened up, and the rest of the descent was smooth. The next thing he was aware of were the wheels hitting the tarmac as they whizzed pass neat lawns and trees that looked as manicured as those on a golf course. When the plane had turned and taxied back to its allotted place, the steps came down and he followed Eduardo and Ana out onto the tarmac and across to the single story building above which a sign proclaimed, “Ocean Reef Club Airport.“

They were standing inside the building when a man in uniform approached them. “Mr Phillipe, would you follow me please sir?” he asked.

Eduardo had Ana at his side, he nodded and walked through the hall after the man, Clinton followed behind. A car was waiting outside and the chauffeur opened the door. For the first time it registered with Clinton how elegantly sexy Ana was. She glided into the rear seat, her silky smooth long legs disappearing inside in a single sweep, leaving Clinton standing looking at her.

The chauffeur waited a little impatiently for Clinton to join her and Eduardo, before he closed the door with a satisfying clunk.

It couldn’t be this simple, Clinton had to wonder how come there were no controls, how they could just swan into an airport, private or not. But the question didn’t last long in his thoughts. He looked through the smoked glass as they swung past a golf course and some other complex building, before he glimpsed the ocean.

The suite they were shown to would have blown Clinton away had he not had a taste of luxury back in Caracas at Eduardo’s apartment. He knew how the guy lived, just as he knew how the life style was financed.

“Take the first bedroom and keep out of the way,” Eduardo cut into his daydreaming.

Clinton turned back from the huge glass windows overlooking the ocean and quickly disappeared into the bedroom. He shut the door behind him and collapsed on the bed, sinking into the mattress that seemed to engulf him in a soft embrace.

He wasn’t going to get up, but had heard the door open and close. Either there were visitors or Eduardo and or Ana had gone out. He hesitated, the words of Hector Agaze played through his head, the instructions, this was one time he couldn’t fail. Clinton pulled the paper out of his pocket, unfolded it and looked at the address,1289 Southwest 185th Avenue, Homestead, FL, USA. How far was that?

Gripping the solid brass door knob, he turned it and opened the bedroom door, steeping out, he listened. Silence. There couldn’t be guests, so they must have gone out. Then he noticed his bag and one of the suit cases they’d loaded on the plane. He bent down and picked them up, returning back inside his bedroom where he left them. Going into the hall he walked towards the huge lounge with its panoramic ocean view. On the side table along the hallway he noticed a key card with a note underneath.

This will let you in and out. Get something to eat. You can charge it to the room. Ana.

It didn’t say anything about where they had gone, when they’d be back or what he was expected to do, if anything. He went back into the bedroom, dug down in his bag and pulled the envelope out. He took out the wad of notes, stuffed half into his pocket and the rest back in the envelope and his bag. He’d go now, he decided.

In the lounge he found the bar and poured himself a drink, Dutch courage. He sat on the edge of the Scandinavian sofa, looked out at the view and picked up the phone. “Yeah, hi. I need a cab to go to an address in Miami, Homestead.“

The concierge said it would be five minutes. Clinton smiled to himself as he finished his drink. How the fuck did I get us into this? He knew he was responsible for everything that happened, not only to himself, but to Morgan. Then he laughed, because sometimes it was Morgan who caused them trouble.

The phone buzzed. The taxi was waiting.

Chapter 10

Clinton wasn’t usually the sort of person to stress or succumb to anxiety, but as the taxi sped across the city he became more and more nervous. He had thought up lots of plans and schemes in his life, but this was the most risky.

The cab pulled into the curb outside a house which resembled all the rest in the street. It was what looked to be a nice area, neat lawns and driveways fronting detached residences. The mailbox hung off a stack of concrete bricks, it was open, the number painted on the side. One, seven, seven, eight, O. The O hung off the end like the box itself, leaning backwards. Two silver cars were parked in the drive, one darker than the other. He walked up to the front porch and rang the bell as the taxi pulled away.

A well dressed woman opened the door and ushered him inside, into the small lounge where two men in suits were waiting.

“Sit down,” the elder of the two men indicated the sofa.

Clinton sat and looked around nervously. Without thinking about it, his hand touched the dice in his pocket.

“Relax kid,” the same man continued talking. “You may be in deep shit, but if you play your part, it’ll be fine.”

The younger of the two suits, who had said nothing so far, produced a larger folder which he put down in front of Clinton on the coffee table. It was somehow familiar, at least in so far as he’d played out this scene before. His eyes fixed on the folder with his name typed across the little white label.

“It’s pretty simple really. You only have to meet your brother and put this,” he produced something in his hand, holding it up between his thumb and forefinger, “with the shipment.”

That sounded easy enough, at least if he got to meet his brother, and he wasn’t sure how he would work that.

“How the hell did you get involved in all this?” the older man asked.

Clinton stared up at him, but made no reply. He did start to think back about how he and Morgan had arrived there, but he quickly dismissed those thoughts and concentrated on what was happening now.

“Does it matter?” he asked.

“I guess not. But listen up. We know your whole history, where you’ve been what you’ve done. Hector Agaze thinks…” the man paused his explanation. “Thinks,” he repeated emphasising the word, “he is the top dog.”

“Beyond the law,” the man’s colleague added.

“We want you to go back to Venezuela.”

Clinton looked shocked. He had thought this was their ticket home. Suddenly these guys had changed the game, and this was a dangerous move.

“Look kid,” the elder man paced around, then fixed his gaze on Clinton. “You don’t get something for nothing. You have to bring Hector Agaze back here, to Miami.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

Now the two men finally sat down. Perhaps they had expected more resistance, or they were simply playing out their part. Either way, it didn’t much matter. They outlined what would happen next, what Clinton needed to do.

It wasn’t surprising that the club was chic, this was America, Miami. The bar made a curve around the far end of the salon, tables filled the space between. It was not busy, only a few patrons and guests spread out around some of those tables, or lounging in comfortable armchairs. Smartly dressed waiters with black trousers, waistcoat, and bowties, carried trays or stood attentively, their crisp white shirts with razor sharp creases, ironed to perfection.

A similar young man was at the far end of the glistening, polished, counter. Clinton noticed him immediately, he wasn’t sure, but there seemed something familiar about the figure who had his back to him. As the bartender turned around, it was obvious why Clinton had this click of recognition.

Bennie came walking towards him, an expression on his face halfway between a smile and surprise. “Clint!” Bennie’s smile lit up his face. “What the…”

Clinton stood the other side of the polished bar staring at Bennie. “What the fuck am I doing here?” He spoke quietly leaning forward. “I know, it’s weird. Small world, I guess.”

“Where’s Morgan?”

Clinton wasn’t surprised by the question. Those two had been very close.

“Morgan is on board a ship.” Clinton changed positions, looked around, confirming to himself that the place was almost empty. “I hope. He should be.”

“It’s the quiet time of day,” Bennie gestured towards the almost empty salon.

“Been a while,” Clinton grinned.

From the other end of the bar the voice of a young lady called softly, “Bennie!”

Bennie turned as she approached them. Clinton watched, taking in the slim young figure, the elegant dress, and the bright red lipstick.

“Two surprises in one day!” He laughed.

Bennie looked at him. The young lady gave them a half smile and batted her eyelids.

“Clinton!” she exclaimed in a silky voice.

“You two know each other?” Bennie seemed a little confused by the unfolding encounter.

“Yes, we do,” Clinton smiled. “Hello, Melissa.”

“Marcus needs you out front a moment. Get someone to take over here.”

“You’re staying a bit?” Bennie asked before leaving.

Clinton nodded.

“You seem to be at home here?” Clinton focused his attention on the young lady.

She smiled at him. “Your brother’s here too?” she asked.

“On his way, sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“Well yes, if he made his connections. You moved out of that little town then?” Clinton asked her, changing the topic.

“Oh yes, we did. It would be nice to see him again.”

Clinton raised an eyebrow. “It would? I thought we were only trouble back there in Foxton?”

She chuckled. “You were, but I’d still like to see him.”

She took a glass mat from the bar and a pen from somewhere on her person and wrote down her number.

“Call me,” she said, pushing the bar mat across the counter, “when he gets here.”

With that she turned and sauntered off back towards the end of the bar, dodging the newly arrived replacement for Bennie.

He watched her disappear, his eyes following her slightly swaying hips.

“Can I get you something, sir?”

Clinton turned to look at the bar man, another black and white penguin, but a rather nice looking one, with his jet black hair swept back off his forehead and a great tan.

He hesitated a moment before deciding. “Give me a Bud, please,” and he smiled at the young man.

The bartender fetched the bottle, opened it and poured out a glass, setting the glass down on a mat, he quickly added a tiny dish of peanuts.

Clinton looked at the glass, then back up at the young man. He took a sip of the cold beer and idly watched the bartender wander back along the bar to serve a large guy in a flowered shirt and bright blue shorts, who had perched on one of the barstools.

Morgan had seen The Captain once during the traverse to Miami, he had hardly acknowledge the two of them. This trip on board the Bombomo was very different to the last time. Apart from sharing a cabin with Javier and having Miguel there as some kind of minder, there was a palpable tension. They all felt it and it reached a peak when Morgan and Javier had Gregoire alone in their cabin.

The confrontation was inevitable, they were about to dock in the huge container port. The ship was gliding past Fisher Island and very soon they would have arrived.

“We’re all playing on the same side,” Javier stood close to Gregoire in the small space between the two beds.

“What are you going to do?” Morgan asked.

“If you two play your parts…” Gregoire looked from one to the other, “and your brother. No problems.”

“Didn’t you say that last time?” Morgan frowned, staring at him.

Gregoire grinned. “He threw a curved ball. This time it will work. I only have to get him to come here.”

“Here?” Javier was puzzled.

“Of course. The shipment gets offloaded here. Eduardo has to be here when everything goes down. He’s got to be connected directly.”

“And how you gonna get him to come here?” Morgan was not at all sure about what exactly Gregoire was proposing.

“Miguel is the key. He’s here to watch things. If we get him to call Eduardo…”

“Wait!” Javier said. “How exactly you will do that?

“Miguel has always worked for Eduardo. He’s loyal, but we’ve talked. Once he knows for certain Eduardo is out, what’s he gonna do?”

“He might just inform Eduardo and he won’t come here.” Morgan felt that Gregoire had no real plan.

“Look kid he’ll come through and it will work out. Now I got things to see to.”

Gregoire turned and opened the cabin door. He left the two of them together looking at each other.

“Do you trust him?” Javier asked.

“No, not really, but we’ve got no choice.”

Around thirty minutes later the ship was docked at port and the containers were already being unloaded. Morgan and Javier stood next to each other leaning on the rail watching the long rectangular metal boxes being lifted ashore. The air smelt vaguely salty, the sound of the water churned by the still running ship’s engines mixed with the noise of the cranes and an occasional truck.

Gregoire approached from the ship’s stern and wandered slowly along the gangway. “It’s all fixed,” he announced, which kind of surprised Morgan. “Come on up to The Captain’s quarters this evening. We’re celebrating, and you’re invited.”

“Are you sure this will work out?” Javier asked him.

Morgan smiled. “Why not?”

He knocked and they entered The Captain’s cabin. Morgan was immediately reminded of the time he had spent there. Briefly, a whole number of past events flashed through his mind.

“Welcome boys,” The Captain grinned.

Gregoire handed each of them a tall glass. Javier looked around at the plus he furnishings. Then The Captain raised his glass in a toast. “Success!” he said, and everyone drank. Javier caught Gregoire whispering something to Miguel, but he couldn’t hear what. He could only see the smirk on Miguel’s face. It was as though they had shared a private joke and it made him feel uncomfortable.

By the time he had almost finished his drink he was starting to get wobbly on his feet and decided to sit down on the sofa. Morgan joined him.

“That drink was very strong,” Javier said, turning to look bleary eyed at the boy next to him.

The other three people in the room ignored them and carried on talking amongst themselves.

“It’s perfect,” Gregoire was saying. “We will use the warehouse.”

“I think Señor Phillips will be pleased,” Miguel told them.

The Captain was not particularly interested and simply smiled. Gregoire had explained things to Miguel and he nodded. “You will have to help me to get them off the ship.”

He looked over at the boys who were passed out on the chesterfield. “And to get them strung up. We want Eduardo to come in and have everything ready for him.”

Gregoire really did despise that man, but even so, it amused him that Eduardo’s taste for boys would be his downfall.

Morgan woke up in a dark empty space. He was lying on his back, but strangely had his legs raised up in the air. He moved to look around and as he did so he felt his body sway. It was the exact same feeling as when they slept in hammocks at the airfield. A headache and grogginess did not help him focus, but slowly he became conscious.

He could move, but he was tied down, and the movement simply caused the hammock to sway a little. His wrists and ankles were firmly tied. A little chill reminded him he was also naked. Looking to his right he saw Javier, who was similarly tied up, only Javier was spread face down against a cross in the shape of a large X.

They were alone. In, from what he could see, a warehouse of some kind. It occurred to him they must have been drugged. He knew he should not have trusted Gregoire. It must have been him. The last thing he remembered was the drink and sitting in The Captain’s cabin next to Javier. Panic suddenly griped him. What had they done to him? Clinton had always said he had nothing to worry about with Gregoire, but what about The Captain and Miguel. What had they done?

“Javier!” he shouted into the dark empty space.

The boy appeared to stir, but there was no reply.

Chapter 11

“Bennie, what’s the deal with Melissa?” Clinton asked.

“She’s not bad, uh?” Bennie was smiling.

He leaned in closer. The place was still pretty much empty so no one could overhear their conversation. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone straight?”

It wasn’t a real question, he knew what went on at the home. Yet still, he wanted to know if the thing between his brother and Bennie meant anything.

The boy blushed and looked a little embarrassed.

“I know you did stuff with Morgan,” he added, moving back and looking at him.

“What are you doing here anyway?” Bennie changed the subject.

“I don’t know if you’d believe me even if I said.”

“Ah ha! That’s a classic. Try me.”

It was Bennie’s turn to look at Clinton. He studied the guy, wondering both what Clint was up to and how he’d turned up here, with his brother, he supposed, due in the port.

Before anything could be explained Ana walked in and finding Clinton at the bar informed him Eduardo wanted him. Right away, she insisted, before turning and strolling off across the lounge. Both boys watched her exit.

“Another friend of yours?” Bennie raised an eyebrow.

“Gotta go. Catch you later,” was the only reply he got.

Clinton went to find Señor Philippe.

He knocked and waited for Eduardo to open the door. The man beckoned for him to come in as he continued a conversation in Spanish on the phone. Clinton looked around at the room and took in the view from the large windows. He waited for Eduardo to finish.

“We’re going in an hour. You and Miguel will drive the goods from the docks.”

The ship must have arrived and Morgan with it. Clinton felt a little relief, but now the next part of the game would play out, and that could be tense.

“And my brother?” he asked, which made Eduardo grimace.

“I’ll take care of him,” he grinned. “You take care of business and you can play happy families after.”

Clinton bit his tongue. He had the urge to lash out, but made no reply.”

“Okay, get out,” Eduardo told him. “Wait for me in the salon, in an hour.”

It was 19:05, Clinton looked at the red figures of the little digital clock. He left the room.

Picking up the phone he pressed the numbers to make the call and waited while the familiar tones played their digital tune. It rang.

“Clinton,” he said, when someone picked up. “In one hour I’m supposed to pick up the consignment from the ship. I think Eduardo is coming. He mentioned taking care of Morgan when I asked.”

Clinton felt nervous again. It was all coming together, but in some vague way out of his control. An uneasy feeling made him tremble involuntarily.

“The interception will be on the causeway as planned. One hour,” the voice confirmed and the line went dead.

The uneasiness lay on his stomach like a weight. He felt sick, and the only thing he could think to do was calm himself with a drink. But not downstairs at the bar. He didn’t want another conversation with Bennie, nor did he want to bump into Melissa. Clint opened the door to the little fridge and took out a tiny bottle of whisky. Unscrewing the cap he emptied the contents into a glass tumbler, then sat on the bed looking at the glass. He swallowed the chilled liquor.

It was dark as they crossed the causeway onto the island. The place was massive from what Clinton saw, but mostly a vast expanse of tarmac with few buildings other than open hangars. Eduardo pulled up at the far end of the quay. He recognised the colours and shape of the Bombomo and stared up at it through the glass window. A figure stood watching at the top of the metal stairs, flood lights cast their broad swathes of light over the quayside.

“Get out,” Eduardo commanded impatiently.

As he closed the door behind him, he watched the car make a broad U turn and drive away.

Clinton climbed the steps and was met at the top by Gregoire and Miguel.

“You go with Miguel,” Gregoire told him. “And follow him out of the port.”

“Where is Morgan?” Clinton asked.

“Don’t worry, you’ll see him when you get back.”

But Clinton was worried. Still, if the plan worked out he should be back here quickly. Only Eduardo had disappeared and he had no way of knowing where.

“I thought Eduardo was supposed to take care of this?” Clinton tried to make out Gregoire’s expression in the dim light.

“I’ll take care of him,” he said.

Miguel was looking at him, gesturing him to follow, which left no choice other than to go back down the steps after him. He led Clinton to two white vans parked near the ship. Miguel handed him the keys and got into the first vehicle.

Eduardo entered the warehouse and walked across the empty space towards the two boys. Morgan looked at the figure approaching. Javier could see nothing, tied face down on the cross. It seemed a long time before Eduardo was standing near enough for Morgan to recognise him. He walked up close to Morgan and smiled. It appeared to Morgan like a wicked smile and he shivered at the touch of the palm of Eduardo’s hand on his bare skin.

Eduardo turned away and Morgan watched him move over to Javier. The boy strained to see what was happening and who was there, but he could not see. The man bent down behind Javier and picked something up. Javier felt something touching his skin, sliding down his back and across his buttocks. Whoever was behind him, was playing with him. Nothing was said.

The two vans sped through the deserted docks, past idle cranes, hangars, and almost empty car parks next to the odd building which were all dark. It must have been around ten o’clock and there was practically nobody about.

The van in front of him came screeching to a halt halfway across the bridge. Clinton slammed his foot on the break as he saw the red lights in front of him and watched the leading van swerve. Flashing blue lights appeared in both mirrors. This was it.

“Turn off your motor and get out of the vehicle!” The message was load and clear. The flashing lights reflected off the water on each side of the road. There was no escape. He watched as Miguel got out of his van and he did likewise.

“On the ground! Hands behind your head!”

His heart was beating fast and loud, thumping in his chest. He was pushed to the ground, cuffed and yanked up onto his feet. They were both hauled away. Clinton saw Miguel shoved into a police car, it’s lights flashing wildly. He felt a hand on his head as he was pushed into another car.

They sped away through the chaos around them, lights flashing, sirens blaring.

Morgan was screaming as Eduardo prodded him sending electric shocks through his body. He struggled, swaying in his harness, but unable to escape. The phone rang. It was incongruous, A metallic ringing became the only sound in the empty building. Eduardo stopped the torture and moved away. The ringing stopped. Morgan strained to see what was happening and thought Eduardo must have been called away. He saw him moving quickly and heard a door sliding open.

“Javier!” he called out, “you okay?”

“I think so,” came a nervous reply.

They were still trapped, tied up naked. There was still no way to break free. What if he comes back? The idea horrified him, but there was nothing he could do.

“You alright?” Javier shouted.

“I guess.”

They both heard the footsteps, but it sounded like more than one person. Morgan was scared and Javier was trembling. Someone ran towards him.

Morgan breathed a sigh of relief. “Clint! Jesus! Thank god!”

“Got here as soon as I could. Are you okay?”

Morgan nodded. Clinton looked quickly over at Javier where the two men who had accompanied him to the warehouse were untying the boy. He got to work releasing his brother. Then he helped Morgan to his feet and looked around for his clothes. Clinton noticed some marks on his brother’s body and on Javier as well.

It wasn’t difficult to imagine what might have gone on before they got there, he only hoped things hadn’t gone too far, but it did seem they had arrived in the nick of time. The men who had accompanied Clinton wanted to know if Eduardo was in the warehouse and how long ago he might have left.

“Stay here and someone will come and pick you up” the younger of the two told Clinton.

They left them, having made sure there were no serious injuries, and rushed out of the building.

“Launch the fucking boat!” Eduardo shouted at Gregoire, but the man didn’t move.

They were standing facing each other on the open deck next to the container hold which was now empty.

“Do as he says,” The Captain’s voice boomed out as he climbed down from the bridge.

Eduardo waited impatiently, his hand on the weapon in his jacket pocket. As The Captain arrived next to them Eduardo pulled out the semi-automatic pistol and pointed it at Gregoire.

“Launch the boat,” The Captain repeated, ignoring the gun pointing in their direction. “It’s loaded with the goods,” he told Eduardo.

Gregoire turned and pulled the release lever. The boat swung out over the side of the ship. Eduardo carefully clambered in, still pointing the gun at Gregoire. The Captain didn’t move, he watched the scene play out. They could hear sirens approaching and the white light from the flood lighting was tinged with a flashing blue. Gregoire hit the large green button and the boat started to descend towards the water.

“You can tell the colonel to go to hell,” Eduardo shouted up at them.

The Captain pulled Gregoire back from the side of the ship. “Leave it. Let him go. He made his getaway at gun point. Got it?”

Gregoire frowned, but being rational he knew The Captain was making sense. The sirens and flashing lights arrived at the ship and several uniformed men with helmets and heavily armed came charging up the steps. The Captain watched the boat launch and speed away out towards the ocean. At the same time they heard the sound of rotor blades as a helicopter swung over the ship, it’s search beam highlighting the deck and picking them out.

“US Customs!” the voice bellowed through a loudhailer.

Clinton, Morgan, and Javier were ushered into a car outside the warehouse. Morgan and Javier slid into the rear seat, Clinton took the front. The journey out of the port was silent, the boys staring out the windows into the night. They sped across the causeway, past a couple of police vehicles, the only remaining sign that anything had happened.

It didn’t take long before they pulled up outside the hotel. Clinton was surprised, thinking they would be taken to a police station or something, but as he thought about it things became a little clearer. Perhaps not all these guys were from the DEA. Anyhow, he couldn’t think about that right now. What was important was Morgan.

“We’ll need to see you in the morning,” the driver told them as he dropped them off. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Clinton thought that was kind of funny. Where were they going to go?

They entered the lobby and went up to Clinton’s room. Javier asked to take a shower, Morgan flopped down in an armchair, looking around at the plush hotel suite.

“Nice,” he said.

Clinton turned towards his brother. “I know you remember, we talked about it a while back.”

Morgan looked curiously at Clinton, “what?”

“It was years ago, but that girl in the red polka dot dress, Melissa, is here, so is Bennie. I don’t know what any of that means for you Morgan. I guess we’ve got a chance, I know I’ve got a plan.”

“Clint, you’ve always got a plan,” Morgan smiled.

That was true, but only one thing was certain, Morgan had Clinton, Clinton Morgan, and for both that was more than most.

The End.