beckoned an FBI agent, who asked Tony to follow him. They went back of the tables to a makeshift office fashioned out of hospital screens. Two men sat at desks six inches deep in records. Cigarettes dangled from their mouths, and each sipped often from a coffee mug. They looked as if they were trying to mimic each other. The one on the left glanced through Tony’s medical file and then smiled at him, addressing him in Spanish.
“So what’d you do in Cuba, Tony?”
“Construction business,” said Tony Montana precisely—in English. Not even much of an accent.
“Where’d you learn English?”
“I go to the movies,” he said with a grin. He had studied two years with an old priest in the next cell. It was the first instance of self-improvement among the convicts that the priest had seen since the revolution.
“Got any family in the States, Tony?” asked the man on the right.
“No, nobody,” Tony said, abandoning the story of the wife and kids as being too complicated.
“Ever been in jail, Tony?”
“No, never.”
The man on the left slurped his coffee and checked a list in his hand. Dryly he asked: “You ever been in the crazy house?” Tony laughed contemptuously, not deigning to answer. And the man continued: “How about your sex life, Tony? You like guys? You ever dress up like a woman?”
“Fuck you,” said Tony Montana.
The two men laughed and lit cigarettes. They tilted back in their chairs, looking him up and down. Tony tried to think what power they had. They couldn’t send him back, could they? They couldn’t turn away refugees. That’s what America was for.
“So where’d you get the beauty mark, Montana?” asked the one on the left, trailing a finger down his own smooth cheek. “Eatin’ pussy?”
“Knife fight,” Tony said. “When I was a kid. You should see the other guy.”
The one on the right stood up, breaking the symmetry. He came around the desk and held out his hand, as if he meant to congratulate Tony. Tony made a move to shake, but the agent gripped his wrist and held it up. “And this?” he asked, pointing at a small tattoo between the thumb and forefinger. A heart with an arrow through it.
“That’s for my girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend, my ass.” He dropped Tony’s hand and turned abruptly back to the table. His partner looked puzzled. The one who had noticed the tattoo puffed with pride as he straddled his chair. He savored the notion of being one up on his fellow agent. “Some kinda code they use in the can,” he said. “I seen it when I was stationed down there. Some of ’em got these pitchforks on their hand. They’re the hit men. You can’t believe how much they kill each other—like animals. I never seen a heart before.”
“You want to tell us what it means, Montana?” the other asked briskly, furious at himself for his ignorance. “Or you want to continue this up at Fort Chaffee?”
“Listen, you got it all wrong,” said Tony smoothly. “All I was in for, see—they gimme two years for possession of American dollars. See, I was planning to get a boat and come across to Florida. I hate Cuba. You understand? I’m a political prisoner.”
The two men laughed, and the one on the left said: “That’s funny, that’s good. Real original.”
“It’s true!” cried Tony threateningly, stepping forward and slamming his hand on the desk. The two men didn’t move a muscle. “You gotta have dollars, or you can’t get anywhere. I want to make somethin’ of myself here. I got about two thousand bucks off a Canadian tourist, but it turned out to be a trap, see—”
“What’d you do, mug him?”
Till now there had been a certain back-and-forth, as if the three of them were involved in a highly delicate negotiation. In the end they might have let him go. But now Tony lost all sense of the game. He sneered at them, and he bit off his words like a snarling dog. “Hey, what’s it to you if I fuck Castro, huh? What would you do? They
“So what’d you do in Cuba, Tony?”
“Construction business,” said Tony Montana precisely—in English. Not even much of an accent.
“Where’d you learn English?”
“I go to the movies,” he said with a grin. He had studied two years with an old priest in the next cell. It was the first instance of self-improvement among the convicts that the priest had seen since the revolution.
“Got any family in the States, Tony?” asked the man on the right.
“No, nobody,” Tony said, abandoning the story of the wife and kids as being too complicated.
“Ever been in jail, Tony?”
“No, never.”
The man on the left slurped his coffee and checked a list in his hand. Dryly he asked: “You ever been in the crazy house?” Tony laughed contemptuously, not deigning to answer. And the man continued: “How about your sex life, Tony? You like guys? You ever dress up like a woman?”
“Fuck you,” said Tony Montana.
The two men laughed and lit cigarettes. They tilted back in their chairs, looking him up and down. Tony tried to think what power they had. They couldn’t send him back, could they? They couldn’t turn away refugees. That’s what America was for.
“So where’d you get the beauty mark, Montana?” asked the one on the left, trailing a finger down his own smooth cheek. “Eatin’ pussy?”
“Knife fight,” Tony said. “When I was a kid. You should see the other guy.”
The one on the right stood up, breaking the symmetry. He came around the desk and held out his hand, as if he meant to congratulate Tony. Tony made a move to shake, but the agent gripped his wrist and held it up. “And this?” he asked, pointing at a small tattoo between the thumb and forefinger. A heart with an arrow through it.
“That’s for my girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend, my ass.” He dropped Tony’s hand and turned abruptly back to the table. His partner looked puzzled. The one who had noticed the tattoo puffed with pride as he straddled his chair. He savored the notion of being one up on his fellow agent. “Some kinda code they use in the can,” he said. “I seen it when I was stationed down there. Some of ’em got these pitchforks on their hand. They’re the hit men. You can’t believe how much they kill each other—like animals. I never seen a heart before.”
“You want to tell us what it means, Montana?” the other asked briskly, furious at himself for his ignorance. “Or you want to continue this up at Fort Chaffee?”
“Listen, you got it all wrong,” said Tony smoothly. “All I was in for, see—they gimme two years for possession of American dollars. See, I was planning to get a boat and come across to Florida. I hate Cuba. You understand? I’m a political prisoner.”
The two men laughed, and the one on the left said: “That’s funny, that’s good. Real original.”
“It’s true!” cried Tony threateningly, stepping forward and slamming his hand on the desk. The two men didn’t move a muscle. “You gotta have dollars, or you can’t get anywhere. I want to make somethin’ of myself here. I got about two thousand bucks off a Canadian tourist, but it turned out to be a trap, see—”
“What’d you do, mug him?”
Till now there had been a certain back-and-forth, as if the three of them were involved in a highly delicate negotiation. In the end they might have let him go. But now Tony lost all sense of the game. He sneered at them, and he bit off his words like a snarling dog. “Hey, what’s it to you if I fuck Castro, huh? What would you do? They
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