JOHNNY GONE DOWN by Karan Bajaj Page A

right hand, and a volley of bullets struck against the flat, wooden board and went through it, narrowly missing us. The man who I had pulled down took out a revolver from his pocket and began shooting in front of him while I held up the board awkwardly. Suddenly, without warning, hethrew aside the revolver and tugged me forcefully into the café, shutting the tin door behind us.
    A scream rent the air as a few more shots ricocheted against the door. I cowered against the far wall while the café owner and the tall, powerfully built black man who had just pulled me in leaned against the opposite wall. I began to feel suffocated in the tiny, airless café, uncomfortably reminded of Cambodia.
    I covered my right ear with my hand and pressed the left tightly against the wall as the bullets continued to pound against the door, and tried to calm myself with slow breathing. Not again, please, not again. I will go back to the monastery, I will serve the Buddha’s cause, I will…
    Suddenly, the bullets stopped.
    I stayed where I was. The man sat down on his haunches after a while, his muscular body tense with anticipation as he crouched against the door. He peered through a crack and then turned to us, his brow creased.
    ‘The dogs have gone,’ he said, running his hand through his closely cropped curly hair.
    He walked over to the woman who had served me the beer. She was sitting against the wall.
    ‘Lucia, bitch,’ he growled at her. ‘You told them I was here, didn’t you, men?’
    She shook her head fiercely and opened her mouth as if to say no.
    He shot her twice, in the soles of her outstretched feet. In the spaghetti Westerns I’d seen, the victim took the gunshots silently - and heroically. But Lucia probably didn’t share my taste in films because she let out a piercing scream.
    He pointed the gun at her forehead.
    ‘Did you tell Baz?’ he asked.
    ‘No, you bastard,’ she shrieked. ‘I didn’t tell anyone.’
    He lowered the gun, apparently satisfied with her response.
    ‘Get out,’ he said, and she limped to the door, howling in agony. She let out what seemed like a stream of expletives, though my Portuguese wasn’t sophisticated enough to understand any of it. I stared at her receding figure as she opened the door of the café and limped out into the setting sun.
    He had shot her for no reason, I thought, yet he showed not a bit of remorse. What would he do to me?
    He turned and pointed the gun at me. The muscles in his tattooed arms tensed, beads of sweat forming on them. He was about my age, but his easy familiarity with the gun made him appear formidable.
    I felt nothing. There was just the vague thought that my soles already hurt from walking, so it would be better if he shot elsewhere.
    ‘Who are you?’ he asked.
    A tough question for me to answer at any time, more so at gunpoint.
    ‘Nick.’
    He looked me up and down. ‘Why are you dressed like a bobo, men?’
    ‘I don’t understand bobo,’ I said.
    ‘Idiota. Joker.’
    ‘I am not an idiot. I’m a monk,’ I replied.
    He stared at me in incomprehension, and came closer. ‘I could shoot you, you know,’ he said, pointing the gun at my forehead.
    ‘I saved your life,’ I said softly.
    He guffawed so hard that he doubled up.
    ‘You are right, men,’ he said, flashing a smile. ‘I forgot.’
    He acted like a man who was used to shooting someone every day.
    Just then, three or four men with large black guns came running into the café. I stiffened.
    ‘Behind you,’ I shouted and he turned around immediately.
    I expected them to shoot him. Instead, they aimed their guns at me.
    ‘Stop, don’t shoot, you bastards,’ he told the men. ‘While you midget fuckers were busy chasing women, he saved my life.’
    He looked at me. ‘Bom,’ he said, ‘you are a good man. I’m Marco.’
    ‘Nick,’ I said again as he shook my hand.
    The others put down their guns and shook my hand one by