tell you all the time what to think, what to say. You wanna be a sheep, like everybody else? Puta! You gonna work your ass off fifty years and never own nothing? Whaddaya think I am? I’m no little puta of a thief. I’m Tony Montana, and I’m a freedom fighter got kicked out of Cuba. And I want my human rights just like President Jimmy Carter says. Okay?”
The two men turned to each other. They smiled sardonically. The one on the left offered the other a cigarette. They put their Winstons between their lips, then the one on the right flicked his Zippo and lit both. Each took a nice long drag. The one on the left nodded toward Tony. “Carter oughta see this human right,” he said.
“I’ll tell you somethin’, Tony,” drawled his partner. “We’ve heard all the crap before. We’re up to our knees in it. From what I can gather, Castro’s been cleanin’ out his sewers.”
“We’re gonna send you up to Fort Chaffee for a while,” said the first. “Let ’em do a little observation. See if they can figure out what rock you crawled out from under, before we let you loose with the other animals. Hey, Jack,” he called to the guard who was standing just outside the partition, “this one’s goin’ to summer camp.”
Tony stood tall and arrogant. “You send me where you like,” he declared. “Nothing you can do to me Castro has not done already.”
And he turned and joined the guard and strode out of the makeshift office like a king in exile. The two officials boiled inside as they watched him go, wishing they had the power to punish, like a proper inquisition. There was a ruckus as the next one was being brought in. He reached out and punched Tony’s arm. “Hey, cousin,” he said, as Tony spun around with both fists raised. It was Manolo. The two men laughed, though the guards restrained them from embracing. No words were necessary. Tony was led away, and Manolo stepped in to face the two men at the desks.
“I wanna go where he goes,” said Manolo, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.
“Don’t worry, pal,” said the one on the left, swilling a gulp of coffee.
Of one hundred and twenty-five thousand Marielitos who made it to Florida, it was discovered that perhaps one in five had a criminal record. At Fort Chaffee, Arkansas, where thousands were interned for several months, the whole ragtag bunch of them—perverts and murderers, liars and thieves—came to be known as “Los Bandidos.” As if they constituted some enormous gang about to be set loose on an innocent land, like a plague almost. The only thing the bureaucrats knew how to do was waste time, pushing their papers around and keeping the refugees contained while somebody in the State Department tried to think of a diplomatic way of sending the scum back home. Meanwhile, the ex-cons at Fort Chaffee began to band together, dealing and threatening and vying for power, the same way they had in the jails of Havana. In fact the place was very like a jail, except the facilities were better.
Every Saturday night they saw a movie, as if the brass at Fort Chaffee was trying to instruct them on how Americans conducted themselves on a weekend. There were other things to do besides brawling and stealing hubcaps. Thus they were herded together in the outdoor amphitheater. Popcorn and Cokes were passed out. Tonight they were watching The Treasure of Sierra Madre. Some dimwit lieutenant had decided it sounded vaguely south-of-the-border and thus might soothe the exiles. Unfortunately, the print was badly damaged, and anyway most of the Cubans had seen it before. So they yammered back at the screen and jostled and hooted among themselves. Bogart was all alone, talking to himself. In a minute the bandits would get him.
“Conscience,” Bogart said. “Conscience, what a thing. If you believe you’ve got a conscience, it’ll pester you to death. But if you don’t believe you’ve got one, what can it do to you?”
Manolo and Tony sat in the front
The two men turned to each other. They smiled sardonically. The one on the left offered the other a cigarette. They put their Winstons between their lips, then the one on the right flicked his Zippo and lit both. Each took a nice long drag. The one on the left nodded toward Tony. “Carter oughta see this human right,” he said.
“I’ll tell you somethin’, Tony,” drawled his partner. “We’ve heard all the crap before. We’re up to our knees in it. From what I can gather, Castro’s been cleanin’ out his sewers.”
“We’re gonna send you up to Fort Chaffee for a while,” said the first. “Let ’em do a little observation. See if they can figure out what rock you crawled out from under, before we let you loose with the other animals. Hey, Jack,” he called to the guard who was standing just outside the partition, “this one’s goin’ to summer camp.”
Tony stood tall and arrogant. “You send me where you like,” he declared. “Nothing you can do to me Castro has not done already.”
And he turned and joined the guard and strode out of the makeshift office like a king in exile. The two officials boiled inside as they watched him go, wishing they had the power to punish, like a proper inquisition. There was a ruckus as the next one was being brought in. He reached out and punched Tony’s arm. “Hey, cousin,” he said, as Tony spun around with both fists raised. It was Manolo. The two men laughed, though the guards restrained them from embracing. No words were necessary. Tony was led away, and Manolo stepped in to face the two men at the desks.
“I wanna go where he goes,” said Manolo, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.
“Don’t worry, pal,” said the one on the left, swilling a gulp of coffee.
Of one hundred and twenty-five thousand Marielitos who made it to Florida, it was discovered that perhaps one in five had a criminal record. At Fort Chaffee, Arkansas, where thousands were interned for several months, the whole ragtag bunch of them—perverts and murderers, liars and thieves—came to be known as “Los Bandidos.” As if they constituted some enormous gang about to be set loose on an innocent land, like a plague almost. The only thing the bureaucrats knew how to do was waste time, pushing their papers around and keeping the refugees contained while somebody in the State Department tried to think of a diplomatic way of sending the scum back home. Meanwhile, the ex-cons at Fort Chaffee began to band together, dealing and threatening and vying for power, the same way they had in the jails of Havana. In fact the place was very like a jail, except the facilities were better.
Every Saturday night they saw a movie, as if the brass at Fort Chaffee was trying to instruct them on how Americans conducted themselves on a weekend. There were other things to do besides brawling and stealing hubcaps. Thus they were herded together in the outdoor amphitheater. Popcorn and Cokes were passed out. Tonight they were watching The Treasure of Sierra Madre. Some dimwit lieutenant had decided it sounded vaguely south-of-the-border and thus might soothe the exiles. Unfortunately, the print was badly damaged, and anyway most of the Cubans had seen it before. So they yammered back at the screen and jostled and hooted among themselves. Bogart was all alone, talking to himself. In a minute the bandits would get him.
“Conscience,” Bogart said. “Conscience, what a thing. If you believe you’ve got a conscience, it’ll pester you to death. But if you don’t believe you’ve got one, what can it do to you?”
Manolo and Tony sat in the front
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