Moondogs - Alexander Yates [19]
When Efrem turned nine his arthritic mother gave him permission to go along. He still remembers how his older cousins, wise about the city, brought him to that outdoor movie house. The slick feeling of dropping two long-saved pesos into the palm of the shirtless usher. The wooden benches were full, so he sat cross-legged in the grassy aisle. His cousins explained what a double feature was. They pinned him when the projector sputtered up, alive, and his instinct said run. A man made of light stood before the crowd like a giant. It was Reynato Ocampo, played by a younger Charlie Fuentes, tall and dashing and mean as a motherfucker. For three hours he defended women on the screen and children in the audience from kidnapping kingpins. Efrem shielded his face from splinters as Old Snaggletooth kicked down a brothel door, Truth in hand, and gut-shot the fattest pimp so that his belly exploded into the hair of screaming topless go-go girls. He clapped and cheered at the finale when Reynato tied the kidnapper’s head to rail tracks, extracting a confession just before a freight-and-passenger came roaring through his ear. Tough cop for a tough world.
As the brief credits rolled, as the crowd lingered in the bloody afterglow, the usher made his way up to the stage and reminded everybody to come back next month for the premiere of Ocampo Justice XIII: Reynato travels back in time to castrate Jap invaders!
“HELLO,” CHARLIE SAYS, cracking a warm smile. “So, you’re the one I’ve heard about?”
Efrem is unable to speak. But that’s fine—he’s not supposed to.
“This is him,” Brig Yapha says. “He’s our boy.”
“Good to meet you, son,” Charlie says. He offers his hand to shake. Efrem finds it surprisingly soft, and moist, melting pleasantly between his fingers. He tries to say “Hi” but it comes out as just a sigh. There’s an empty canteen in his chest. His heart slows intolerably. His knees actually bounce together.
“Don’t sweat it,” the short, homely man says. “Charlie gets that look all the time. From ladies.”
Everybody laughs at this and Efrem flushes at being so quickly embarrassed in front of his hero, but he doesn’t dare snap back. The jokester, for his part, seems to realize he’s riled. He stares at Efrem intensely, as though trying to read foreign words tattooed across his face.
“Well, let’s go ahead and get this over with,” Charlie says, turning to the idling caravan of jeeps.
Brig Yapha, still gripping Efrem’s elbow, leads the way. They cross the stretch of empty grass and pass the officers without a word. A murmur goes up as the Boxer Boys notice Efrem among the important men, and it makes his bones tickle. “You’re doing fine,” Yapha whispers. “This won’t take long.” When they reach the caravan he sets Efrem loose, rummages through the lead jeep and produces an electric bullhorn. He throws his arm around Charlie’s shoulders and turns to face the division. The few reporters jostle for space, framing their shots so as to include both speakers and crowd.
Yapha greets the assembled soldiers several times before realizing that he has to hold the switch down, but once he does, his “Good morning Boxer Boys!” echoes across the green. “I’ll keep this short, especially because I know it’s not me you’re excited to hear from.” He pauses to wink, though Efrem can’t tell if it’s at the cameras