The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [135]
He lost weight and after a month or so developed a cough that never seemed to go away. Was this the kind of life he wanted them to have? Working day after day on an ill-fated project. Even if they now managed to plant hundreds of bushes on a milpa that no one else wanted to cultivate, what did this prove? And then, what happened when the buyers lowered the price of the beans or when coffee flooded in from somewhere else? Because this was how it had always been. Every advance was blocked with setbacks. There were always new directives from the government or the governor. Always new agreements that were barely explained to the villagers but were guaranteed to make them poorer and their lives more difficult.
Patricio abandoned his bench and his caution and paced back and forth on the sidewalk. A growing number of customers were leaving Dakar and he sensed they were about to close. He could make out a bar through the window and there were still many customers crowded around it. He himself longed for a glass of mescal, to feel the stinging heat in his mouth and throat. In order not to tempt himself more, he hurried back behind the bushes and trees.
Suddenly he spotted a familiar figure. Patricio stepped back out of the shadows in order to see better. Surely it was the fat one who was waddling up the street? A man was walking next to him. He said something that made Slobodan Andersson laugh. Could it be the tall one? No, the man by Slobodan’s side was too young.
He laughs, Patricio thought bitterly. Rage shot up like bile into his throat and he had to control himself not to burst out of his hiding place and run across the street. He could have killed the fat one with his bare hands. He needed no weapon, his wrath was enough. Leave him lying there like roadkill, and Angel would be revenged at last.
The men arrived at Dakar, stopped, and discussed something. Slobodan looked even fatter than when Patricio had met him in Mexico. He can afford to eat well, the Mexican thought with hatred.
Suddenly, Patricio felt that it was God’s will that he escape from prison, and this made him happy for a brief moment. The escape had made it possible for him to take revenge.
Slobodan opened the door to Dakar, exchanged a few words with his companion, then entered the restaurant. Patricio took a couple of steps back as the other man passed on the opposite side of the street.
This opportunity had been lost, but the next time perhaps Slobodan would be alone. Then all he had to do was wait him out.
Slobodan Andersson nodded at Måns, looked around in the dining room, greeted some acquaintances, and, against his will, came to think of Lorenzo Wader. I hope he doesn’t drop by, Slobodan thought, and wondered if he should ask his bartender if he had seen the unpleasant gangster, for gangster was what Slobodan was convinced he was. But he said nothing to Måns, who poured a grappa and set it in front of him.
“How is Ms. Post Office doing?”
“Fine,” Måns said. “She’s doing a good job. I think Tessie is pleased. It’s a step up from Gonzo, at least.”
“Don’t remind me,” Slobodan said and raised the glass to his mouth.
In view of last night he shouldn’t have anything to drink, but the force of habit was strong. He could let himself have one glass.
“The dishwasher is a gem,” Måns said. “The waitstaff have much more time now.”
“What?! Is that bastard still here?”
Måns looked at Slobodan in astonishment.
“Yes, that’s good, isn’t it?” Måns said, clearly taken aback at this reaction.
“That little shit is out of here,” Slobodan said and got up with unexpected haste, went around the bar, and opened the door to the kitchen.
“Is the Mexican still here?”
Donald gave him a quick and angry look.
“Venezuela,” he said.
“What? That dishwasher, is he still here?”
Donald gestured at the dishwashing area with his head and sighed.
Slobodan walked out there with only a single thought in his head, to grab that blackmailer by the scruff of his neck and throw him out, but was