Post by The Exodus on May 18, 2013 21:49:10 GMT -6
Carmen Vega
The flight from Malaga had done nothing for Carmen’s nerves. The trip to her hometown was not restful or pleasurable, as she had hoped it to be. Upon arrival, Carmen had been accosted by the head of shipping at Reyes International with official figures and some under-the-table numbers he’d crunched. The fishing industry had taken a small dip; their other cargo earned them more than enough to make up for the losses. Carmen walked around the once-familiar docks in search of familiar faces. It seemed the older she got, the more foreign “home” was. It would have been a quiet and soothing vacation – lounging on the beach between meetings, eating dinner at restaurants she grew up knowing to be too pricey. But her sister had sought her out and the family reunion had not been welcome. Carmen could still smell the stale and antiseptic odor of the hospital on her skin. She’d showered since then and smoked a whole pack of Marlboros, but she was almost certain nothing could mask hospital-smell.
The sun still hung around, bloated in the orange sky. Carmen both loved and hated summertime. She was a creature who craved warmth and darkness. The late sunsets made her feel more vulnerable, the heat made her restless. A bad combination. Her blood boiled through her veins. She’d reported back to El Jefe in her official capacity, but couldn’t bring herself to tell Diego that his father had been hospitalized. Might be dying. He was her boss – everyone in the gang’s boss – but he was also her cousin. She’d lost her own father when she was twenty. Diego had left his for dead. He wouldn’t want to know; Carmen didn’t want to tell him.
Some things were better left alone.
She’d left Diego’s company an hour ago. They’d had an early dinner together in a gastropub in the Marais, near his apartment. They sat in a backroom, all by themselves, talking in hushed Spanish about el costo, farlopa, and el caballo. Drugs that they sold, but never took for themselves. They talked about the guns they bought, sold, and kept for themselves: the Barrettas, the Smith and Wessons. The sniper rifle Carmen had special ordered for a picky client. Not hospitals or dying fathers or family.
“Blood is thickest when shed together,” he said when they parted. It was a greeting and parting among Gardunas; a sober reminder that their family could be found scattered on the streets and back alleys of Spain and France and not on the Ortiz-Vega family tree. She was now free to resupply their dealers. She had to resupply a couple of their boys in Le Peripherie; was meeting one of them in a bar Las Gardunas practically owned. A couple years ago, they’d established Le Silencieux as Garduna territory. A couple months ago, Diego cemented that relationship through one of the bartenders. It was need-to-know information that Carmen didn’t apparently need to know beyond knowing that she was more than safe here. She sat up at the bar and ordered.
“Bacardi Gold, neat,” she told the bartender. Not Diego’s friend, unfortunately. Some scruffy geezer, whose skin was made of tanned leather. He’d been here as long as Carmen could remember, but his name had never interested her. He nodded wordlessly and poured her a shot. But Carmen wasn’t at ease until she’d watched him prepare the drink, until it was in her hands. She rested the shot glass against her cheek and took a deep breath. Then, toasting to no one in particular, she said, “Salud” and tossed the shot back in one go.
The rum was sweet and the fire of the alcohol hit her at the back of the throat only a few seconds after she took the shot. Carmen smiled. But her blood still simmered; she’d only stoked the flames under her skin. She craved more interesting assignments than playing gopher for El Jefe, she craved the excitement she once knew on the mean streets of Spain. She itched for that stupid dealer to show up and pay her for the goods, which he would sell at a marked up price. She itched to fight or make love or do something more interesting than play delivery girl.
But right now, she’d settle for another drink. She flagged the bartender down.
The flight from Malaga had done nothing for Carmen’s nerves. The trip to her hometown was not restful or pleasurable, as she had hoped it to be. Upon arrival, Carmen had been accosted by the head of shipping at Reyes International with official figures and some under-the-table numbers he’d crunched. The fishing industry had taken a small dip; their other cargo earned them more than enough to make up for the losses. Carmen walked around the once-familiar docks in search of familiar faces. It seemed the older she got, the more foreign “home” was. It would have been a quiet and soothing vacation – lounging on the beach between meetings, eating dinner at restaurants she grew up knowing to be too pricey. But her sister had sought her out and the family reunion had not been welcome. Carmen could still smell the stale and antiseptic odor of the hospital on her skin. She’d showered since then and smoked a whole pack of Marlboros, but she was almost certain nothing could mask hospital-smell.
The sun still hung around, bloated in the orange sky. Carmen both loved and hated summertime. She was a creature who craved warmth and darkness. The late sunsets made her feel more vulnerable, the heat made her restless. A bad combination. Her blood boiled through her veins. She’d reported back to El Jefe in her official capacity, but couldn’t bring herself to tell Diego that his father had been hospitalized. Might be dying. He was her boss – everyone in the gang’s boss – but he was also her cousin. She’d lost her own father when she was twenty. Diego had left his for dead. He wouldn’t want to know; Carmen didn’t want to tell him.
Some things were better left alone.
She’d left Diego’s company an hour ago. They’d had an early dinner together in a gastropub in the Marais, near his apartment. They sat in a backroom, all by themselves, talking in hushed Spanish about el costo, farlopa, and el caballo. Drugs that they sold, but never took for themselves. They talked about the guns they bought, sold, and kept for themselves: the Barrettas, the Smith and Wessons. The sniper rifle Carmen had special ordered for a picky client. Not hospitals or dying fathers or family.
“Blood is thickest when shed together,” he said when they parted. It was a greeting and parting among Gardunas; a sober reminder that their family could be found scattered on the streets and back alleys of Spain and France and not on the Ortiz-Vega family tree. She was now free to resupply their dealers. She had to resupply a couple of their boys in Le Peripherie; was meeting one of them in a bar Las Gardunas practically owned. A couple years ago, they’d established Le Silencieux as Garduna territory. A couple months ago, Diego cemented that relationship through one of the bartenders. It was need-to-know information that Carmen didn’t apparently need to know beyond knowing that she was more than safe here. She sat up at the bar and ordered.
“Bacardi Gold, neat,” she told the bartender. Not Diego’s friend, unfortunately. Some scruffy geezer, whose skin was made of tanned leather. He’d been here as long as Carmen could remember, but his name had never interested her. He nodded wordlessly and poured her a shot. But Carmen wasn’t at ease until she’d watched him prepare the drink, until it was in her hands. She rested the shot glass against her cheek and took a deep breath. Then, toasting to no one in particular, she said, “Salud” and tossed the shot back in one go.
The rum was sweet and the fire of the alcohol hit her at the back of the throat only a few seconds after she took the shot. Carmen smiled. But her blood still simmered; she’d only stoked the flames under her skin. She craved more interesting assignments than playing gopher for El Jefe, she craved the excitement she once knew on the mean streets of Spain. She itched for that stupid dealer to show up and pay her for the goods, which he would sell at a marked up price. She itched to fight or make love or do something more interesting than play delivery girl.
But right now, she’d settle for another drink. She flagged the bartender down.
