row. Manolo chewed gum and wore dark glasses. His hair was slicked back like a punk. From the black market that flourished in the camp he had managed to acquire a pair of Levis and a tee shirt that said: “Fuck off and die.” Tony, beside him, sat hunkered down in his seat, riveted to the screen. He didn’t even hear the noise and catcalls erupting from the crowd around him. He still wore the same prison fatigues he’d arrived in, the arms of the shirt cut off at the shoulders, the pant legs frayed at the bottom. Most of the men at Fort Chaffee had accepted the bounty of one or another well-meaning church group, and now they were dressed in hand-me-down double-knits, golf pants and bowling shirts. The pure American Synthetic. Next to them, Tony looked like a revolutionary. Well-fed and muscular now, working out at the base gym every day, with his hair grown long and his scar to flash, he was a curious mix of dangerous forces. Half pop star, half guerrilla general.
Bogart died his lonely death, and the gold blew away like a dream across the shimmering Mexican desert. As the film flickered out, the crowd of convicts raced for the exits. Saturday night could begin in earnest now. Stashes of rum and PCP, weed and Vitamin Q, would be broken out of their hiding places in the barracks. The guards knew better than to enforce the letter of the law all the time, and besides, the guards had astral planes of their own to reach on Saturday nights.
Tony sat mesmerized in his seat, till the amphitheater was nearly empty. Manolo kept shaking his shoulder. Finally he stood and stretched, rolling his shoulder muscles like a panther, and the two men sauntered up the steps and out to the base proper. Manolo walked with his hands in his pockets, very laid-back, like a young buck out for a little action. Tony danced a bit like a fighter, shadowboxing the humid air. He seemed about to burst for nervous energy. Suddenly he went into a gangster slouch and punched Manolo’s arm.
“Thought you could screw Fred C. Dobbs, huh?”
The words curled out of the corner of Tony’s mouth. It was a near perfect imitation. “Well, you got it wrong, didn’t you? Ha ha ha!”
Manolo laughed back at him. “Me, I’d’a got away with the gold,” he said, cocky and young and uncomplicated.
“You see how he’s always lookin’ over his shoulder?” asked Tony, darting an exaggerated look behind him. “Just like Tony Montana, huh?”
“You’re a lot better lookin’, chico.”
“Don’t trust nobody, Bogart. Don’t trust women. Don’t trust his own gang.” Tony’s eyes narrowed to slits as he took in the noisy, crowded street before them. It was hard to tell if the impersonation was over or not. “Don’t got nobody,” Tony whispered. “Just himself.”
“Yeah, real paranoid,” retorted Manolo, starting to walk again. “That kind kills himself. Don’t matter who pulls the trigger.”
Tony caught up with him. He was all loose and relaxed now, like he’d just worked out. “Never happen to me, baby,” he said, nudging Manolo’s shoulder. “That’s one thing I’ll never be. Never be crazy.”
“Oh yeah? How do you know? Fuckin’ jungle out there, makes people crazy.”
“I know,” said Tony, “that’s all.” The mimic was gone from his voice now. He spoke as if all his treasure was here, in the real world. He was icy clear. The only reason Tony Montana looked over his shoulder was to make sure he was still far ahead of everyone else. And he always was.
The gray and tin-roofed barracks lined the street on either side. Lights out was officially eleven P.M. , but no one was watching the clock tonight. The summer air, not so much as a breeze for days, hummed with mosquitoes and a salsa beat. Clusters of men crouched in the dry grass strips in front of the buildings, tossing dice. Somebody was singing and playing a banjo, a sharp hot love song full of revenge. Various drunks reeled up and down the street, talking to
Bogart died his lonely death, and the gold blew away like a dream across the shimmering Mexican desert. As the film flickered out, the crowd of convicts raced for the exits. Saturday night could begin in earnest now. Stashes of rum and PCP, weed and Vitamin Q, would be broken out of their hiding places in the barracks. The guards knew better than to enforce the letter of the law all the time, and besides, the guards had astral planes of their own to reach on Saturday nights.
Tony sat mesmerized in his seat, till the amphitheater was nearly empty. Manolo kept shaking his shoulder. Finally he stood and stretched, rolling his shoulder muscles like a panther, and the two men sauntered up the steps and out to the base proper. Manolo walked with his hands in his pockets, very laid-back, like a young buck out for a little action. Tony danced a bit like a fighter, shadowboxing the humid air. He seemed about to burst for nervous energy. Suddenly he went into a gangster slouch and punched Manolo’s arm.
“Thought you could screw Fred C. Dobbs, huh?”
The words curled out of the corner of Tony’s mouth. It was a near perfect imitation. “Well, you got it wrong, didn’t you? Ha ha ha!”
Manolo laughed back at him. “Me, I’d’a got away with the gold,” he said, cocky and young and uncomplicated.
“You see how he’s always lookin’ over his shoulder?” asked Tony, darting an exaggerated look behind him. “Just like Tony Montana, huh?”
“You’re a lot better lookin’, chico.”
“Don’t trust nobody, Bogart. Don’t trust women. Don’t trust his own gang.” Tony’s eyes narrowed to slits as he took in the noisy, crowded street before them. It was hard to tell if the impersonation was over or not. “Don’t got nobody,” Tony whispered. “Just himself.”
“Yeah, real paranoid,” retorted Manolo, starting to walk again. “That kind kills himself. Don’t matter who pulls the trigger.”
Tony caught up with him. He was all loose and relaxed now, like he’d just worked out. “Never happen to me, baby,” he said, nudging Manolo’s shoulder. “That’s one thing I’ll never be. Never be crazy.”
“Oh yeah? How do you know? Fuckin’ jungle out there, makes people crazy.”
“I know,” said Tony, “that’s all.” The mimic was gone from his voice now. He spoke as if all his treasure was here, in the real world. He was icy clear. The only reason Tony Montana looked over his shoulder was to make sure he was still far ahead of everyone else. And he always was.
The gray and tin-roofed barracks lined the street on either side. Lights out was officially eleven P.M. , but no one was watching the clock tonight. The summer air, not so much as a breeze for days, hummed with mosquitoes and a salsa beat. Clusters of men crouched in the dry grass strips in front of the buildings, tossing dice. Somebody was singing and playing a banjo, a sharp hot love song full of revenge. Various drunks reeled up and down the street, talking to
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