All Due Respect Issue #2 by Owen Laukkanen, David Siddall, CS DeWildt, Eric Beetner, Joseph Rubas, Liam Sweeny, Scott Adlerberg Page B

bars. Frank said he wanted a drink.
    “A rum and Coke. That would be nice.”
    “After I work off this meal,” Vera said.
    They walked by their hotel, and a dark figure crouched in the entrance hailed them. When the person straightened up, they recognized the chubby man who’d come to them last night, offering passage across the gulf.
    “You people,” he said. “Still going to Guatemala?”
    “Yes,” said Frank.
    “I can take you. Whenever you want.”
    “We didn’t forget. Don’t worry.”
    He and Vera continued on, leaving the center of town behind. The moon, a plump orange, lit the way, and the road skirted a stone wall built above a cliff. Past the wall was the sea; stars shone in the black water.
    “I love this spot,” Vera said, and she paused to enjoy the view.
    Frank reached out and grasped her hand.
    As they resumed their stroll, a pickup truck roared by. A few British soldiers stood in it wearing fatigues. None carried arms. They grinned when they saw Vera, and some of them called out to her.
    “Hop on. Room over here. Want to get married?”
    She didn’t acknowledge the men but spoke in a muted voice to Frank.
    “Goddamn pigs. Get out of the country.”
    “Don’t start,” Frank said.
    “Belize is supposed to be independent.”
    “It is.”
    “Guatemala isn’t going to attack.”
    “You don’t know that. With territorial disputes, anything’s possible.”
    “I just don’t see it happening.”
    “I’m sure that makes the Belizeans feel good.”
    Vera pouted and removed her hand from his grip. She walked quickly, glaring into the distance. Her sudden aloofness irritated Frank, but he checked himself from saying anything more. He didn’t want another political discussion. They’d been together for nearly three months and kept having these kinds of arguments.
    A wind was blowing. Its gentle current skimmed his face, and the sound of the waves lapping at the cliff soothed him. Head angled, he glanced at Vera. She did have a ripe, attractive body. And in this moonlight, when her sun-baked skin was copper-colored and her short-banged hair golden, how could he not be glad they’d met? His friends back home would rag him for having a white girlfriend, but none of them knew how depressing solitary travel could be. In northern Mexico, during the early part of the summer, he’d ridden the buses and trains alone, eaten meal after meal by himself. The journey had begun as a journey into loneliness.
    But still. You know it was a mistake. To do it without protection was risky enough, and you can’t say you don’t deserve this mess. Imagine if she wanted to keep the baby, though. That would be the worst.
    The road split into two branches, and instead of clinging to the coast, as they had the previous night, they turned inland. Past a bend, in a plot of weeds, a house on fat stilts appeared. It had a red tiled roof and gray shingled walls, and a man was nestled in the hammock on the porch.
    “Wait! I want to talk to you.”
    The man swung into furious motion and sprinted down the steps to the yard.
    “Wait!”
    Both Frank and Vera burst out laughing. Brusque salutations typified Belize’s informality and came as a welcome change of pace after the usteds and comprimisos of Mexico.
    “What’s up?” Frank said.
    The man was as thin and solid as a flagstaff. He had wooly hair, a dusky complexion, and pockmarked cheeks. As he loped through the grass he displayed a long stick, and Frank felt his lips curling inward, his smile fading. Vera had already gone rigid with tension.
    “Where you from?” the man asked.
    “The States,” Frank said.
    “But where, boy, where?”
    “New York City. The Bronx.”
    “Oh, the jungle.”
    “Jungle’s the word,” Vera said, shouting her agreement.
    “You from there, too?”
    “Thank God, no. I’m from Vermont.”
    “She’s the nature girl from Vermont,” Frank said, and Vera smirked at him. Well, why had she disparaged New York?
    Without drama,