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Authors: Kent Harrington
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he’d been taught in school: Superior tactics, combined with overwhelming force, win battles.
He turned the pen light on the Greek’s face, then put the barrel of the gun on the Greek’s forehead.
“Wake up,” Russell said. He moved the pen light so the Greek could see that it was a pistol he had resting on his forehead.
The Greek had blue eyes. Russell hadn’t noticed that before. “I’m going to kill you unless you stop bothering those boys. Do you understand?” He pulled the hammer back for effect. It made a big sound. It was a sound the Greek would never forget. He would never learn empathy, but he had finally learned fear.
Russell glanced over at the Greek’s roommate. He was awake, and was staring at Russell. He was no friend of the Greek’s either, though, because he was smiling.
SIX
Ayoung Indian woman, dressed in a formal blue and white maid’s uniform, opened the heavy antique door to Carl Van Diemen’s colonial mansion. Van Diemen, Mahler had told Russell, had spent a fortune remodeling the place. It showed. The maid led Russell and Katherine out to the traditional courtyard, which was full of mostly young partygoers. Van Diemen, in his late twenties, had become one of the biggest dealers of Pre-Columbian antiquities in Europe, and was obviously making a killing, judging from the magnificent seventeenth century digs.
Russell and Katherine followed a hallway along a twenty-foot-high stone wall. Painted plaster saints, their white faces hit by spotlights, hung next to Mayan stone fertility figures. The juxtaposition of the two clashing cultures was dramatic and poignant. At the end of the hallway was a towering, Titianesque painting of the Last Supper—it had been pulled from the ruins of the city after an earthquake. Under the colonial-era painting, young women in tight jeans and exposed midriffs swayed to Dirty Vegas’s famous trance tune.
“You come. I’m so glad,” Carl said, pushing through the crowd to get to them. He was a big man, a little overweight, a little ripe and unctuous-looking, in the way of Europeans of a certain class. Van Diemen wore a black turtleneck shirt— the shirt untucked—and faded but ironed blue jeans. The young man’s face was round. He was very blond and very rich, and the two things seemed to come together perfectly in him. At least, that’s what Katherine had said on the walk to the house. She’d been to lots of Carl’s parties, she confessed.
Carl gave Russell a bear hug, then roughed up his hair. They had spent a week at the same hotel in Costa Rica once, and had gotten to be friends there. Carl was with his Costa Rican lover then, a well sun-blocked kid of maybe eighteen who wore an orange Speedo, even out to the clubs. Carl’s lover looked a lot like a girl, except for the package in the Speedo. In the streets people would yell maricon at them, real hateful. Carl and the kid were oblivious. Intrepidly queer, they didn’t seem to care.
Back then, Carl was always buying everyone around the hotel pool drinks, so Russell had decided Van Diemen had to be a rich kid, a gangster, or a fool. He liked Carl well enough. Most people did. He was the new kind of German, silly, pretentious, pacifist. He was the kind of German who wouldn’t go to war unless it was over a fashion statement, Carl had told Russell one night by the pool. His boyfriend stood in the shallow end, holding a fancy blue colored drink and looking at Carl like a girl. Russell had thought that was pretty funny. “Attack when you see Tommy Hilfiger,” he had said.
“I’ll only use laughing gas, and those little drink swords!” Carl had said.
Katherine said that Carl gave the best parties in Guatemala because he didn’t let in the squares. From the look of it, it was only hip people tonight, which in this country meant you could talk politics and art instead of soccer, and drink wine instead of whiskey.
“I didn’t know you knew Carl so well,” Katherine said,
He turned the pen light on the Greek’s face, then put the barrel of the gun on the Greek’s forehead.
“Wake up,” Russell said. He moved the pen light so the Greek could see that it was a pistol he had resting on his forehead.
The Greek had blue eyes. Russell hadn’t noticed that before. “I’m going to kill you unless you stop bothering those boys. Do you understand?” He pulled the hammer back for effect. It made a big sound. It was a sound the Greek would never forget. He would never learn empathy, but he had finally learned fear.
Russell glanced over at the Greek’s roommate. He was awake, and was staring at Russell. He was no friend of the Greek’s either, though, because he was smiling.
SIX
Ayoung Indian woman, dressed in a formal blue and white maid’s uniform, opened the heavy antique door to Carl Van Diemen’s colonial mansion. Van Diemen, Mahler had told Russell, had spent a fortune remodeling the place. It showed. The maid led Russell and Katherine out to the traditional courtyard, which was full of mostly young partygoers. Van Diemen, in his late twenties, had become one of the biggest dealers of Pre-Columbian antiquities in Europe, and was obviously making a killing, judging from the magnificent seventeenth century digs.
Russell and Katherine followed a hallway along a twenty-foot-high stone wall. Painted plaster saints, their white faces hit by spotlights, hung next to Mayan stone fertility figures. The juxtaposition of the two clashing cultures was dramatic and poignant. At the end of the hallway was a towering, Titianesque painting of the Last Supper—it had been pulled from the ruins of the city after an earthquake. Under the colonial-era painting, young women in tight jeans and exposed midriffs swayed to Dirty Vegas’s famous trance tune.
“You come. I’m so glad,” Carl said, pushing through the crowd to get to them. He was a big man, a little overweight, a little ripe and unctuous-looking, in the way of Europeans of a certain class. Van Diemen wore a black turtleneck shirt— the shirt untucked—and faded but ironed blue jeans. The young man’s face was round. He was very blond and very rich, and the two things seemed to come together perfectly in him. At least, that’s what Katherine had said on the walk to the house. She’d been to lots of Carl’s parties, she confessed.
Carl gave Russell a bear hug, then roughed up his hair. They had spent a week at the same hotel in Costa Rica once, and had gotten to be friends there. Carl was with his Costa Rican lover then, a well sun-blocked kid of maybe eighteen who wore an orange Speedo, even out to the clubs. Carl’s lover looked a lot like a girl, except for the package in the Speedo. In the streets people would yell maricon at them, real hateful. Carl and the kid were oblivious. Intrepidly queer, they didn’t seem to care.
Back then, Carl was always buying everyone around the hotel pool drinks, so Russell had decided Van Diemen had to be a rich kid, a gangster, or a fool. He liked Carl well enough. Most people did. He was the new kind of German, silly, pretentious, pacifist. He was the kind of German who wouldn’t go to war unless it was over a fashion statement, Carl had told Russell one night by the pool. His boyfriend stood in the shallow end, holding a fancy blue colored drink and looking at Carl like a girl. Russell had thought that was pretty funny. “Attack when you see Tommy Hilfiger,” he had said.
“I’ll only use laughing gas, and those little drink swords!” Carl had said.
Katherine said that Carl gave the best parties in Guatemala because he didn’t let in the squares. From the look of it, it was only hip people tonight, which in this country meant you could talk politics and art instead of soccer, and drink wine instead of whiskey.
“I didn’t know you knew Carl so well,” Katherine said,
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