Angels in Heaven

three,” Benny said.
    “You gonna marry her?”
    “None of your business,” I said.
    “That’s what normal people do,” she
said. “They get it on, and then if they like getting it on and want to go on
get ting it on, they get married.”
    “Thank you, Emily Post,” I said,
turning over to let some of the scars on my back get some sun.
    There was another, welcome, pause.
Then Doris said, “Well?”
    “Well what?”
    “Well, are you gonna get married?”
    “Hell, how would I know?” I said.
“Anyway, she hasn’t even asked me yet.”
    “So what are you afraid of?”
    “Me?” I scoffed. “That’s a good one,
Doris—me afraid. I’ve only been afraid twice in my life, once was when the
dentist said, ‘Open, please,’ and the second time was when he whistled and then
asked me if I knew a good gum surgeon.”
    “That’s not what she says,” she said.
    “That’s not what who says?” Benny
said sleepily. “Evonne,” Doris said.
    “Ah,” Benny said.
    “Evonne says every time superdick
here gets even close to having to talk about marriage, he changes the subject
so quickly his mind stays dizzy for a week.”
    “My pet said that, did she?” I said.
“That’s rather well put. A total lie, but well put.”
    There was another pause, which I
filled by emptying my second beer. It was broken by Miss Nuisance of the Decade
saying “Well?” yet again.
    “Well, shut up for a change,” I said,
losing my legendary control for perhaps the third time in my life. “Well, what
do you want from me anyway? Well, why don’t you take a long walk somewhere
cool, like straight out into shark headquarters out there until that silly hat
you’re wearing, which I paid for by the way, floats, so don’t lose it.”
    “Which philosopher was it who opined
that for the thinking man, life is a comedy, but for the feeling, a tragedy?”
said Benny.
    “I neither know nor care,” I said.
“The only philosophy I have ever held was one which I learnt as a boy at my
father’s knee: to wit, everyone else’s philosophy is full of shit. Now come on,
the snack bar is a-calling with its old siren song. I’ll get another beer or two
and buy you two something especially revolting to snack on.”
    We picked up our leftovers and
departed. Then they snacked and I drank. Then we trooped upstairs, showered and
changed, met down by the pool again, and then headed off back up the hill to
the Rocamar and, fingers crossed, Big Jeff. On the way we passed several
open-sided, thatch-roofed cantinas in which merry tourists were busily taking
advantage of half-price happy hour booze.
    There was but one customer sitting in
the small outdoors patio bar at the Rocamar, but he sure looked like a Big Jeff
to me. He was tall—not as tall as me, naturally, but well up there in the
stratosphere—with a full black beard and drooping pirate’s mustache; fancy
Stetson with a hatband of Mexican silver dollars pulled down over his eyes;
high-heeled, hand-tooled boots up on an adjoining stool; buckskin cowboy shirt;
and a gold belt buckle featuring a pair of steer’s horns almost as big as a
real longhorn’s. He was smoking a twisted cheroot and sipping from a tall glass
of what turned out to be dark rum, soda water, and a dash of lime juice. In
case there was any lingering doubt, the words Big Jeff were embroidered
in rope lettering over his shirt pocket.
    And, sure enough, just as Benny had
recounted, behind the small bamboo-topped bar, Pepe the cook was fanning his
charcoal lire with a sheet of cardboard trying to get it started.
    Big Jeff peered through the darkness
as we drew near the lighted patio, and as soon as he spotted Benny, he shouted
“Amigo!” leapt up, and engulfed Benny in a huge embrace. Benny extricated
himself finally and introduced me and Sara, by our right names for once. Jeff
gave us both hearty embraces and loud kisses on each cheek.
    “Pepe!” he bellowed to the diminutive
cook, who must have been all of five feet away. “Refreshments pronto!”
    “ Ahora mismo,” said Pepe,
meaning “instantly.”
    “Sooner than mismo, you
heathen dog!”
    Big Jeff sank back into his seat, the
worn leather of which groaned audibly under the impact. He waved us into seats
opposite him. Pepe materialized beside us, tray in hand and broad grin on thin
mug, obviously well used to and completely unfazed by Big Jeff’s decibel count.
Sara announced she wanted something with tequila in it, ’cause she hadn’t had
any yet and