The Martini Shot by George Pelecanos Page B

his beer slowly, studying the couple seated at the bar. He considered taking some photographs, seeing that this could be done easily, but he decided that it was not necessary, as he was certain now that he had found Guzman. The man had ordered his second drink, a Teacher’s rocks, in English, drinking his first hurriedly and without apparent pleasure. He was tanned and seemed fit, with a full head of silvery hair and the natural girth of age. The woman was in her twenties, quite beautiful in a lush way, with the stone perfect but bloodless look of a photograph in a magazine. She wore a bathing suit top, two triangles of red cloth really, with a brightly dyed sarong wrapped around her waist. Occasionally the man would nod in response to something she had said; on those occasions, the two of them did not look in each other’s eyes.
    Eventually, the other patrons finished their drinks and left, and for a while it was just the stocky bartender, the man and his woman, and Moreno. A very tall, lanky young man with long, curly hair walked into the bar and with wide strides went directly to the man and whispered in his ear. The man finished his drink in one gulp, tossed bills on the bar, and got off his stool. He, the woman, and the young man walked from the establishment without even a glance in Moreno’s direction. Moreno knew he had been made but in a practical sense did not care. He opened his knapsack, rose from his seat, and headed for the bar.
    Moreno stopped in the area where the party had been seated and ordered another beer. As the bartender turned his back to reach into the cooler, Moreno grabbed some bar napkins, wrapped them around the base of Guzman’s empty glass, and began to place the glass in his knapsack.
    A hand grabbed Moreno’s wrist.
    The hand gripped him firmly. Moreno smelled perspiration, partly masked by a rather obvious men’s cologne. He turned his head. It was the lanky young man, who had reentered the bar.
    â€œYou shouldn’t do that,” the young man said in accented English. “My friend João here might think you are trying to steal his glass.”
    Moreno placed the glass back on the bar. The young man spoke rapidly in Portuguese, and João the bartender took the glass and ran it over the brush in the soap sink. Then João served Moreno the beer that he had ordered, along with a clean glass. Moreno took a sip. The young man did not look more than twenty. His skin and his hard, bright eyes were the color of coffee beans. Moreno put down his glass.
    â€œYou’ve been following my boss,” the young man said.
    â€œReally,” Moreno said.
    â€œYes, really.” The young man grinned. “Your Rastaman friend, the one you showed the pictures to. He don’t like you so good no more.”
    Moreno looked out at the road through the open glass doors. “What now?”
    â€œMaybe me and a couple of my friends,” the young man said, “now we’re going to kick your ass.”
    Moreno studied the young man’s face, went past the theatrical menace, found light play in the dark brown eyes. “I don’t think so. There’s no buck in it for you that way.”
    The young man laughed shortly, pointed at Moreno. “That’s right!” His expression grew earnest again. “Listen, I tell you what. We’ve had plenty of excitement today, plenty enough. How about you and me, we sleep on top of things, think it over, see what we’re going to do. Okay?”
    â€œSure,” Moreno said.
    â€œI’ll pick you up in the morning, we’ll go for a ride, away from here, where we can talk. Sound good?”
    Moreno wrote his address on a bar napkin. The young man took it and extended his hand.
    â€œGuilherme,” he said. “Gil.”
    â€œMoreno.”
    They shook hands, and Gil began to walk away.
    â€œYou speak good American,” Moreno said.
    Gil stopped at the doors, grinned, and held up