Red Jungle by Kent Harrington

kitchen. There was a maid’s bell. He rang it.
    “I’m starving,” Russell said. “Have you seen Gloria?”
    “She was here earlier,” Carl said. Carl sat back down.
    “Have you eaten, then?” Russell asked.
    “No,” the Dutchman said. “We were waiting for you.”
    Russell looked into the kitchen, annoyed that dinner wasn’t ready. The kitchen was tidy but empty. He’d called and asked that dinner be waiting for him. He walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and looked inside. There was German beer Mahler had bought, lots of it. He took a can and called to Carl and asked him if he wanted one.
    Russell walked back out into the dimly lit living room that smelled sweet, like old books. “I don’t know what happened to the girl. I just hired her. I told her to have dinner ready by eight,” Russell said, handing Carl a can of beer. “You want a glass or something?” Russell asked.
    “Yes. Thanks.”
    Mahler stepped out of one of the hall bedrooms then. Russell caught a glimpse—for just a second—inside the bedroom. A bedside lamp was on. He saw the girl pulling her skirt over her head. She’d been naked.
    Mahler pulled the bedroom door closed and came out of the shadows of the hallway. He was smoking a joint. He crossed the room and gave Russell a nod without saying a word. Russell could smell the sex on him.
    “Did you get the cigarettes I asked for?” Mahler asked, patting him on the back and offering him the joint. Dressed now, the girl came out of the bedroom, her head down, obviously embarrassed, and went straight past them into the kitchen.
    He could see Carl’s horse struggling to climb up the riverbank, wanting to leave the hard going of the river. Carl was yanking back on the reins and kicking the animal at the same time. Russell swore under his breath, turned his horse around, and trotted back down river toward him. His mother had had him riding as a child, on the plantation. She’d made sure he’d learned horsemanship with one of the cowboys at a cattle ranch they owned. He’d spent weeks with the cowboys during his summers, learning their trade, everything from roping and branding to shooting long rifles at poachers from horseback. When he fell from his horse in the beginning, when they were roping in the corral, he would often begin to cry, his hands and knees in thick green cow shit. The men would only laugh and tell him to pick his sorry ass up, and quit being a faggot. After a week he stopped expecting sympathy. It hardened him in a good way. In the end, he’d learned to love the lasso, the way he could bring down a calf, the way he could get his horse to step back and tighten the lasso. The war had just started then, and some of the cowboys started carrying M-16’s. A mercenary who had come to train the cowboys taught him that automatic weapons torque when you fire them. He was twelve.
    Russell knew, watching him, that Carl was doing everything he could to confuse his horse. He wiped his wet face. “Fuck,” he said out loud. He shouted for Mahler to stop as he approached Carl. But Mahler didn’t hear him. Russell pulled his shotgun over his head and was about to fire in the air to signal Mahler to stop and wait, but stopped himself. He realized that the shot might be enough to get Carl’s horse— already frantic—to buck him off.
    The girl had been embarrassed when she’d seen Russell looking at her as she stepped out of the bedroom.
    “Buenas noches, Patron,” she said.
    “Buenas noches,” Russell said. Mahler was still standing next to him, the joint burning pungently in his hand. The girl came across the room and explained that she’d had dinner ready in the stove, and that they were just waiting for him to arrive.
    Russell turned to look at Mahler. “What’s going on?” he said in English.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Don’t fuck with me. What’s going on? I hired her. I’m responsible for her.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous,” Mahler said. “She’s