there had been three who had become truly important to him. They had gone from the occupation of a few weeks to that of a few months to several years. Those three alone had had the potential to become true acolytes. As the ancient Greeks knew, the intellectual intercourse between learned men and the young boys in their charge, and the physical consummation of said relationships, was superior to any other bond. While many men thought women and the offspring they bore were the path to immortality, Don Ramon knew that the vitality that sprang from his mentorships was the true road.
But those three opportunities had passed bitterly. One of the catamites had perished by his own hand. Even now Don Ramon could remember the pale morning light in the room when he discovered the young man hanging by his bed sheet. The second, regrettably, had been a disciplinary accident. And the third, perhaps the most regrettable of all, had merely disappeared, escaping into the wind, never to be heard from again. He had probably perished in the desert. The distress these endings caused Don Ramon had almost been enough to discourage any further attachments. But then he felt the march of time and the cobwebbed fingers of death reaching out for him, and he knew that he needed to continue. The call to become the evolved, the truly Platonic man, would not quiet within him.
So a few years back he had begun the lengthy search for the next in a line of magical consorts who would keep him forever beyond the grave. Despite the establishment of a complex infrastructure (for the truth was that his gift in the organization of businesses was real, and even in this, a profit-generating enterprise was of paramount importance), and despite the dozens of spiders he had crawling all over the earth on his behalf, each working with great energy to bring him the special individual he sought, he had nearly given up hope of finding him. That is, until the rubio had been delivered unto him.
Don Ramon sipped his rioja. It was a bit sharp. He didn ’ t prefer his wines so young. Though he didn ’ t know the rubio ’ s name, as he never learned their names, and he didn ’ t know where he was from, that information did not matter to him, either. He only knew that this one glowed. Some might have suggested that Don Ramon was blinded by the fair hair and fair complexion, but that was foolishness, the kind of superficial assumption that an uncomprehending world was all too happy to make. It was another, inner quality that this one possessed. Don Ramon had spent long hours sitting in the dark with the rubio. Conversation was difficult due to their languages, but beyond that, words were wholly beside the point. There was an aura one could feel from another that told the whole story. In this case the tale was one of eternity. Even when sitting in the same room, simply sharing the same air, he could feel the rubio ’ s healing youth. Remaining chances were few, though. This time there could be no mistake. And so Don Ramon had been exceedingly cautious with him, saving him, waiting for the sign of acquiescence that would signal the beginning of the physical union that would heal him. It had been many months and he didn ’ t know how much longer he could wait. He had turned to several of the others for relief of his corporeal urges, and as always that had left him feeling incredibly youthful and vigorous, yet disgusted. He hadn ’ t wanted to spoil the rubio with that. No, with the rubio he needed nothing less than complete acceptance. If he could achieve this, Don Ramon felt he could truly live forever.
Don Ramon ’ s musings were interrupted by the arrival of another on the veranda. There was the telltale cough, whether an attempt at politeness or a chronic condition, Don Ramon was unable to tell. Then came the shuffling of feet on the tile, the sound of thin, cheap shoes. Don Ramon could only put the choice down to poor taste, as he certainly paid his employees well enough for them to buy quality goods. It was Esteban.
Esteban Carnera stepped out from around the potted plant and, seeing that the meal was finished, advanced.
“Don Ramon,” he began, his raspy voice scraping the adobe walls around the courtyard. Whatever he lacked in social graces, Esteban made up for in utility. He was tall and stringy-muscled like a fighting bantam and walked on the balls of his feet. His face was deeply pocked and scarred so that there was little value in his protecting his looks when it came to physical matters. Over time, Don Ramon had come to learn that this was of great advantage.
“Yes, Esteban.”
“There are men in town, going to all the places.”
“Yes?”
“They do not buy, they just look, and ask for other things.”
This in itself was not worrisome to Don Ramon. There were many kinds of clients and many ways in which they behaved.
“What kind of men? ї Clientes? ”
“No sй, Don Ramon. Ellos son gueros. ”
THIRTY-FOUR
It had been two more days of looking around, two more nights of drinking. They figured they had seen the last of Victor. Now Behr and Paul passed the day flat on their backs in their dingy motel room, drinking the dwindling water they ’ d brought, considering their diminishing funds, and watching a national soccer game that seemed to go on for hours and hours and hours on the minuscule television set. Their stomachs rumbled, but food was not an option.
“That mescal ’ s got some kick,” Paul said, not for the first time.
“Like a damn mule,” Behr agreed.
They sent a halfhearted maid away and went in and out of sleep, interrupted by the chants and shouts of college kids across the motel engaging in a drinking game, turbo quarters or beer pong, it sounded like.
Finally the light coming in through the patchy curtain started turning color from bright yellow to pale and they began to stir.
“I ’ m hitting the shower,” Paul said, standing.
“I ’ ll go after you.”
There was a hammering at the door. They looked at each other and Behr got up. He put his gun at the small of his back in the waistband of his pants.
“їQuiйn es?” he said.
“Policнa,” came the answer. Behr swung the door open. There was a stout man in his mid-thirties standing there. He chewed tobacco and wore a straw cowboy hat, and he had a. 45 on his hip. His partner waited back in the distance in a dirty patrol car.
“їSн?” Behr asked.
“We speak English,” the cop said, “it ’ s more easy.” Behr nodded.
“I am First Sergeant Guillermo Garcia. They call me ‘ Gigi, ’ or also, Fernando.” He patted his big gut and smiled. “Now tell me what are you here for in the ciudad?”
“For the tequila mostly, it seems.” Behr smiled, blanking the cop with his eyes.
“Tequila is good, huh?” It was clear Fernando wanted more.
“And to see the sights, of course,” Behr added.
“Maybe the girls, too?” Fernando said.
“Maybe. We haven ’ t decided,” Behr said. Now Fernando ’ s face changed.
“Ah, you know prostitution is illegal here? This is an important thing.”
“We didn ’ t know,” Paul said, from the bed.
“Is that a fact?” Behr asked.
“Yes. A big crime,” Fernando said. “But it is possible to get a license. Then you do what you want.”
“Huh. Sounds like we need one,” Behr said, already reaching for his money roll. He kept it in his pocket as he peeled off a hundred-dollar bill wrapped around the outside. He handed the bill to Fernando.
“This is good. Now you have no problem,” Fernando said. “My boss will get his mordida — you know what I say?” Behr did, and it wasn ’ t because of his Spanish, but rather that almost everyone in law enforcement was familiar with the term. It translated to “little bite,” as in everyone up the chain took his. Behr had often wondered at the productivity that would result if all the organization and effort that went into the systemic corruption were applied to a useful enterprise. “Oh yeah, but this license,” Fernando held up the bill “it expire tomorrow. Understand? If you stay, I got to come back.”
