What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [77]
Festus leaned forward. “Whoa.”
A man emerged from the building as they pulled up to the house. He ignored Liam’s car, choosing instead to stare off into the unknown distance as a slight breeze picked up and toyed with his long, flowy black hair. He came down the stone steps to the driveway slowly, giving each the time and attention it deserved. He had no shoes and his jeans were ragged and well-worn. He wore a loose, white linen shirt. Buttons were, apparently, not his forte – he’d only managed a couple. The top portion of his shirt therefore hung open, revealing a glistening expanse of chest, if you’re in to that sort of thing.
“Hhhello,” he said, nearly swallowing the first part of the word. He pronounced his ‘H’s from the back of his throat, sounding almost like he was about to spit something nasty onto the ground. “My name is Ramón.” His words dripped with passion, sexiness, and whatever the hell else makes fat old ladies buy romance books at grocery stores. He refused to make eye contact with either Festus or Liam, opting instead to stare at Lola with his smoldering eyes and the kind of tough-guy-staring-into-the-sun look that actors and famous soccer players make when cameras are around.
“Um, hi,” said Lola.
“Jou are here to talk about the Baphomet?” He tossed his hand back dismissively, as if he were discarding some trifling, unsexy thing, and tilted his head to regard them out of the corner of his eye. “Jes?” he asked, with kind of a half-cocked, knowing smirk. Lesser men would have looked stupid making that kind of face, but lesser men weren’t Ramón.
Liam and Festus exchanged a “WTF?” look.
Lola pulled out a pen and notepad and dove in. “Ramón, you know about Project Baphomet?”
“Jes. Whell, maybe. Hwhat do jou want to know?” He scratched absentmindedly at his chest, tugging the edge of his shirt a little to reveal a chiseled and, apparently, waxed pectoral muscle. Lola’s eyes bugged out. She turned her head and coughed to stop from laughing.
Festus interrupted. “Wait, what did he say?”
“Jes,” smoldered Ramón.
“He means ‘Yes,’” Lola explained.
“Jes,” said Ramón. “Jes!” He held his hands out, palms up, as if that explained it. He looked Festus up and down and scoffed. Estupid idiota, he thought.
Festus made a smirking face of his own. Only his came off looking uncomfortable and showing that he had way more chins than was really absolutely necessary. Stupid idiot, he thought.
“Festus, you’re not helping, so shut up, and go sit over there.” Lola pointed to a sharp rock. She turned back to Ramón, who stood there looking vaguely tragic. “Tell us what you know.”
“Whell...” Ramón ran his hand through his hair, closing his eyes and pursing his lips as he did so. “It was a lot of, yo no se, how do you say... cabras?”
“I don’t know Spanish.”
“Goats,” volunteered Festus, from where he sat perched on his uncomfortable rock.
“Jes. Cabras,” said Ramón. He shrugged as if it were absurd to suggest that there could be a CIA program that didn’t have something to do with goats.
Lola let her hands, pencil and notepad drop down by her sides. “What on Earth do goats have to do with anything?”
“Los matan. They kill them.” He shrugged again. What the hell else do the CIA do with goats?
“What?” she asked. This was going nowhere.
“They kill them… con their cabezas.” He pointed a finger and tapped his noggin.
“With their heads? What?” Lola turned a dismayed looked at Liam. He shrugged.
“Hey,” said Festus. “I think I read about this once.” He turned to Ramón. “It’s real? They really killed goats with their minds?”
“Jes. Sus cabezas,” said Ramón. Lola mouthed something at Liam, so Ram