Read Online The Second Bat Guano War: a Hard-Boiled Spy Thriller by J. M. Porup - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J. M. Porup
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weight against the door. She let go. It swung open and I stepped inside. A short corridor. Mounted on the wall, a small black-and-white monitor. I could see the stairs, the street outside. To my right, at the end, a bathroom. The door was open. It looked clean. At the other end, to my left, windows. Sunlight shone in so bright I squinted.
The ever-present
garua,
the fog, was worse than San Francisco. When had I last seen the sun?
“The hell?” I said. “You got a red phone link to God?”
A big man blocked the light, hands on his hips. He was taller than me by a head. His long black hair, pulled tight in a ponytail, shimmered blue and violet in the light, announcing his Indian ancestry. The bulbous cheeks suggested a German parent.
“Echo baby, what’s going on?” he asked in Spanish.
I said, “Your parents called you Echo?”
She sighed, crossed her arms, heaved skyward her enormous, sagging tits. “Don’t start.”
I closed the door, stuck my hand out at the big man. “Name’s Horace. But people call me Horse. As in hung like a. Heard about your volunteering program.”
He flicked a switch on the wall. The sunlight died. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. His head was too small for his body, the shrunken trophy of Polynesian cannibals. His jaw was even smaller, drawn up into his head, giving him a pronounced overbite. His gut fought with the waistband of his brown corduroy trousers and won. On his feet, open-toed action-man sandals. A blue button-down dress shirt was his halfhearted kowtow to The Man.
“Sun lamps,” I said.
He shrugged, took my hand. It was big but soft, a limp bit of juicy steak. “The only way to stay sane in this horrible city,” he said in Spanish.
I smiled. It felt weird. I couldn’t remember the last time my cheek muscles managed that distinctive upward pull. “We agree on something, then,” I said. “That’s a start.”
He waved a hand at a metal chair covered in rotting green leather. I sat. The springs ground into the base of my spine. I crossed my legs, pressed down on one side, enjoying the pain.
I thought of Sergio. That was fucked up. What he does? To see him in the nightclub. And now again this morning, up close, firsthand.
Until today my punishment made sense. The cigarettes. The burns. Everything. A sudden darkness squeezed my chest. Was all of this a big mistake?
Goddamn you, Pitt,
I thought.
For everything.
The man said, “You want to volunteer?”
“Either this or the Foreign Legion.” I shrugged. “Never did like sand.”
I looked around the room. Aside from their laptops and sun lamps, the place was bare. No posters, no pictures, not even a jar full of paper clips or a box of pencils. In the corner lay a bunch of picket signs, upside down. Stake handles resting against the wall, the poster board clean, unbent. Unused. I bent my neck sideways to read them. Echo moved to stand in front of them, but not before I got a good look at a few.
No War For Ore.
Stop Bat Guano II.
Fuck the US.
“Subtle,” I said.
“How did you find out about us, Horace?” The shrunken head smiled, his eyes narrow.
“Friend of mine,” I said. “Met him in a bar. The Rat’s Nest, in Barranco. You know it?”
They nodded in unison, arms folded across their chests, but said nothing.
“Tell me about the bat guano,” I said. “What does that mean? Second helpings of bat shit?”
The Bavarian’s frizzy orange hair exploded, as though struck by lightning. “It’s about imperialist fascist pigs raping Bolivia, stealing their land. It’s about—”
A thick hand cut her off in mid-sentence. The man said, “The name of your friend, Horace.”
I pulled out the business card, extended it between two fingers. “Sho’ ’nuff,” I said. “Name was Pitt.”
They looked at the card. They looked at each other. The Bavarian fiddled with her bra strap. “Pitt?”
“Have a last name?”
I let my arm fall. “Watters,” I said. “Pitt
The ever-present
garua,
the fog, was worse than San Francisco. When had I last seen the sun?
“The hell?” I said. “You got a red phone link to God?”
A big man blocked the light, hands on his hips. He was taller than me by a head. His long black hair, pulled tight in a ponytail, shimmered blue and violet in the light, announcing his Indian ancestry. The bulbous cheeks suggested a German parent.
“Echo baby, what’s going on?” he asked in Spanish.
I said, “Your parents called you Echo?”
She sighed, crossed her arms, heaved skyward her enormous, sagging tits. “Don’t start.”
I closed the door, stuck my hand out at the big man. “Name’s Horace. But people call me Horse. As in hung like a. Heard about your volunteering program.”
He flicked a switch on the wall. The sunlight died. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. His head was too small for his body, the shrunken trophy of Polynesian cannibals. His jaw was even smaller, drawn up into his head, giving him a pronounced overbite. His gut fought with the waistband of his brown corduroy trousers and won. On his feet, open-toed action-man sandals. A blue button-down dress shirt was his halfhearted kowtow to The Man.
“Sun lamps,” I said.
He shrugged, took my hand. It was big but soft, a limp bit of juicy steak. “The only way to stay sane in this horrible city,” he said in Spanish.
I smiled. It felt weird. I couldn’t remember the last time my cheek muscles managed that distinctive upward pull. “We agree on something, then,” I said. “That’s a start.”
He waved a hand at a metal chair covered in rotting green leather. I sat. The springs ground into the base of my spine. I crossed my legs, pressed down on one side, enjoying the pain.
I thought of Sergio. That was fucked up. What he does? To see him in the nightclub. And now again this morning, up close, firsthand.
Until today my punishment made sense. The cigarettes. The burns. Everything. A sudden darkness squeezed my chest. Was all of this a big mistake?
Goddamn you, Pitt,
I thought.
For everything.
The man said, “You want to volunteer?”
“Either this or the Foreign Legion.” I shrugged. “Never did like sand.”
I looked around the room. Aside from their laptops and sun lamps, the place was bare. No posters, no pictures, not even a jar full of paper clips or a box of pencils. In the corner lay a bunch of picket signs, upside down. Stake handles resting against the wall, the poster board clean, unbent. Unused. I bent my neck sideways to read them. Echo moved to stand in front of them, but not before I got a good look at a few.
No War For Ore.
Stop Bat Guano II.
Fuck the US.
“Subtle,” I said.
“How did you find out about us, Horace?” The shrunken head smiled, his eyes narrow.
“Friend of mine,” I said. “Met him in a bar. The Rat’s Nest, in Barranco. You know it?”
They nodded in unison, arms folded across their chests, but said nothing.
“Tell me about the bat guano,” I said. “What does that mean? Second helpings of bat shit?”
The Bavarian’s frizzy orange hair exploded, as though struck by lightning. “It’s about imperialist fascist pigs raping Bolivia, stealing their land. It’s about—”
A thick hand cut her off in mid-sentence. The man said, “The name of your friend, Horace.”
I pulled out the business card, extended it between two fingers. “Sho’ ’nuff,” I said. “Name was Pitt.”
They looked at the card. They looked at each other. The Bavarian fiddled with her bra strap. “Pitt?”
“Have a last name?”
I let my arm fall. “Watters,” I said. “Pitt
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