Moondogs - Alexander Yates [45]
Reynato reaches across the table and uses the edge of his spoon to cleave off a brittle duck leg. He pauses to chew, crunching charred fat and bone.
EFREM IS HUNGRY BUT EATS LITTLE. Queasily he turns down blood-dripping shank and pork-spoiled banana flower. He lets Lorenzo have his unopened beer and scans the table for a water jug. He swallows what he can, pushes his plate away and watches the three bruhos. Lorenzo eats with abandon, emptying his plate as fast as he fills it. He’s dressed oddly. On his head is a wide-brimmed straw hat; the kind mothers make for daughters old enough to bend daylight on the rice paddies. Around his shoulders is a plastic rain poncho, clasped below his chin with a copper button. Open and flowing, it dances in the fan draft like a transparent cape.
Elvis is coated in thin filth, his hair a net for twigs and rainwater. He drinks more than he eats, looking just as vacant at the table as he did among the trees. It’s not just an expression—his face is smooth, empty, featureless. Efrem can’t place his age. He could be a tired thirty or a tight-skinned sixty.
But Racha, the man with the gnarled hide, is the most interesting. Efrem realizes that Racha’s whole body is covered in scars. He’s given and received pain enough times to know what mutilation looks like, the different marks left by different attacks. Just by looking at Racha’s exposed forearms, neck and face, he can tell that he’s been shot, stabbed, burned, bitten, whipped, strangled, stung by jellyfish, beaten with a manual can-opener and possibly scalped. Among those dark inches he can’t find a scrap of healthy skin—Racha is all made of scar tissue. And what’s more amazing than the scars is the fact that he survived long enough to collect them all.
Lunch concludes with plates of leche flan and small cups of civet coffee. Reynato sighs contentedly and leans back against the wall, looking across the table at Brig Yapha, and at Charlie. “Well,” he says, “that was a treat. I hate to sour the afterglow by talking business.”
Yapha puts on a quizzical expression. “You have business? What business do you have?”
“Cute.” Reynato places his cigar back in the corner of his mouth. Still he does not light it. “What do you want for him?”
Brig Yapha and Charlie Fuentes exchange looks. “Well,” Charlie says, all soft and friendly, “Tony and I were talking about that a little, before lunch. And you know, it’s a hard, a tough loss for the Division, right? Because Efrem is