bartender scowled but he grabbed the bills and stuck them in his apron. From his reaction, he acted as if Hector had insulted him rather than tipped him.
Hector lifted the can of beer and took a swig, grimacing at the stale, bitter taste. With nothing better to do, he directed his gaze at the huge flat screen hanging over the bar. A major league ballgame was in progress, the local Texas Rangers versus the Kansas City Royals. As if the game absorbed his total attention, he kept his eyes trained on the game while taking token sips of beer.
Behind him, the front door opened with a thud. He gripped the bar so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He wanted to turn around and stare, hoping it would be Pérez. But he forced himself to keep his gaze on the ballgame.
"Hey, Leonard," a voice shouted over the hip-hop lyrics, "who's Jag is that?"
Hector cringed inwardly, and he wished he could sink into the greasy tiles underfoot. Maybe a trip to the men's room was in order.
The bartender, who must be Leonard, glanced up and shrugged. The man who had asked about the Jag approached the crowd at the bar and whispered something. As if Hector was wearing a sign proclaiming him as the car's owner, all heads turned toward him.
Time to go. He didn't want to wear out his welcome. And Pérez could go to---.
The front door swung open again. He froze, praying it would be Paulo at last. The crowd noted the newcomer and returned their gaze to the ballgame. Hector relaxed a fraction. But when a hand clapped him on the back, he jumped.
"¿Cómo esta, mi amigo?" The gravel-toned voice of Paulo Pérez asked.
"Not so damned good," Hector replied. "Why this place, Paulo? Is my Jaguar still out there?"
Paulo chuckled, a sound closely akin to concrete being mixed. "You watch too much television news, Hector. That stuff makes a person edgy." He raised his raspy voice a notch or two. "This is a fine bar with interesting patrons. Is it not so, Leonard?"
"Yes, sir, Mister Pérez. A fine bar," Leonard agreed readily, setting a glass of Dewar's on the rocks in front of Paulo without being asked.
Hector stared at Leonard. The bartender had just undergone an amazing metamorphosis from surly waiter to impeccable attendant.
"Please get my friend one too, Leonard," Paulo directed.
The Bud can disappeared to be replaced by another Dewar's. Hector fingered the smudged glass and took a sip. His gaze met Paulo's over the rim.
And then he understood.
Paulo had used this place as a subtle form of intimidation. And that didn't bode well for the outcome of their meeting. Hector was pretty sure he knew what was coming.
Clinking glasses and slapping him on the back, Paulo drove straight to the point, "You owe us a great deal of money, mi amigo . And I'm tired of playing phone tag with you."
"I know, Paulo, but if you could just extend---"
"You already had one extension, mi amigo , and what do I have to show for it? Not even a gift for the wife. Not even an invitation to one of your society parties. Mi esposa loves parties. Ones where she can dress like a movie star and get her name in the society columns."
Hector stared at him, but he knew when to roll over. "I apologize for not thinking of it before, Paulo. My family would be honored to sponsor you and your wife. The Crystal Charity Ball is coming up and---"
"We'll expect an invitation, amigo mío ," he cut him off. "But that's just between friends, you understand." He paused. "I have partners, though, and their wives aren't so easily diverted. Hard cash is what interests them. ¿Tu entiendes? "
Hector nodded. "Of course, of course." He hoped his out of control perspiration hadn't stained his Armani sports jacket.
" Bueno, bueno . Then we understand each other." He smiled and revealed a gleaming gold-plated bicuspid.
"How much?" Hector asked.
"At least the first interest payment."
Hector gulped. The stock market lay in the doldrums, neither up nor down. With it like that, no one made money,
Hector lifted the can of beer and took a swig, grimacing at the stale, bitter taste. With nothing better to do, he directed his gaze at the huge flat screen hanging over the bar. A major league ballgame was in progress, the local Texas Rangers versus the Kansas City Royals. As if the game absorbed his total attention, he kept his eyes trained on the game while taking token sips of beer.
Behind him, the front door opened with a thud. He gripped the bar so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He wanted to turn around and stare, hoping it would be Pérez. But he forced himself to keep his gaze on the ballgame.
"Hey, Leonard," a voice shouted over the hip-hop lyrics, "who's Jag is that?"
Hector cringed inwardly, and he wished he could sink into the greasy tiles underfoot. Maybe a trip to the men's room was in order.
The bartender, who must be Leonard, glanced up and shrugged. The man who had asked about the Jag approached the crowd at the bar and whispered something. As if Hector was wearing a sign proclaiming him as the car's owner, all heads turned toward him.
Time to go. He didn't want to wear out his welcome. And Pérez could go to---.
The front door swung open again. He froze, praying it would be Paulo at last. The crowd noted the newcomer and returned their gaze to the ballgame. Hector relaxed a fraction. But when a hand clapped him on the back, he jumped.
"¿Cómo esta, mi amigo?" The gravel-toned voice of Paulo Pérez asked.
"Not so damned good," Hector replied. "Why this place, Paulo? Is my Jaguar still out there?"
Paulo chuckled, a sound closely akin to concrete being mixed. "You watch too much television news, Hector. That stuff makes a person edgy." He raised his raspy voice a notch or two. "This is a fine bar with interesting patrons. Is it not so, Leonard?"
"Yes, sir, Mister Pérez. A fine bar," Leonard agreed readily, setting a glass of Dewar's on the rocks in front of Paulo without being asked.
Hector stared at Leonard. The bartender had just undergone an amazing metamorphosis from surly waiter to impeccable attendant.
"Please get my friend one too, Leonard," Paulo directed.
The Bud can disappeared to be replaced by another Dewar's. Hector fingered the smudged glass and took a sip. His gaze met Paulo's over the rim.
And then he understood.
Paulo had used this place as a subtle form of intimidation. And that didn't bode well for the outcome of their meeting. Hector was pretty sure he knew what was coming.
Clinking glasses and slapping him on the back, Paulo drove straight to the point, "You owe us a great deal of money, mi amigo . And I'm tired of playing phone tag with you."
"I know, Paulo, but if you could just extend---"
"You already had one extension, mi amigo , and what do I have to show for it? Not even a gift for the wife. Not even an invitation to one of your society parties. Mi esposa loves parties. Ones where she can dress like a movie star and get her name in the society columns."
Hector stared at him, but he knew when to roll over. "I apologize for not thinking of it before, Paulo. My family would be honored to sponsor you and your wife. The Crystal Charity Ball is coming up and---"
"We'll expect an invitation, amigo mío ," he cut him off. "But that's just between friends, you understand." He paused. "I have partners, though, and their wives aren't so easily diverted. Hard cash is what interests them. ¿Tu entiendes? "
Hector nodded. "Of course, of course." He hoped his out of control perspiration hadn't stained his Armani sports jacket.
" Bueno, bueno . Then we understand each other." He smiled and revealed a gleaming gold-plated bicuspid.
"How much?" Hector asked.
"At least the first interest payment."
Hector gulped. The stock market lay in the doldrums, neither up nor down. With it like that, no one made money,
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