Rescue

a little ‘home-shopping network’ with the telephone.“
    “Don’t get you.“
    “For your revolver.“
    “Can I advance you some cash?“
    “Let me call around first. Go ahead.“
    I went up to the door—two massive, wooden doors actually, with carved panels in a geometric pattern—and knocked. One was opened immediately, as though someone had been Waiting there for me. A petite Latino woman, in a uniform like a nurse or housemaid might wear. “Please to come in.“
    The entry hall faced onto a sweeping staircase to the second level, giving an airy, atrium affect to it. Tiles rather than carpeting on the floor, more geometry in the wall hangings between back windows showing a small sailboat moving along against a light chop. From the gate, I hadn’t realized house was waterfront.
    The woman said, “Please to follow me.“
    She led me through the hall and under the staircase to a rear, French-doored area that gave onto a patio, the evening air pleasant now, the sun and humidity packing it in for the day. There was a lot of expensive-looking pipe furniture in white and flamingo pink arranged like a living room set. A man was standing and turned to us, waving me on as he spoke into a portable phone in his hand.
    Justo Vega hadn’t changed much. A little heavier, a little darker from year-round sunshine. Still the crooked smile, the dazzling white teeth, the shoulders that seemed to yaw like a boat at anchor on the sea, as though his body heard music inside independent of his head and always was moving to it. He wore slacks and one of those white cotton tennis sweaters with a V-neck in red and blue that I hadn’t seen in years. |
    He pushed a button on the phone and came over to give me a bear hug. “John! John, it is great to see you again.“ |
    “Hope I wasn’t interrupting anything.“
    “What, the phone? Nothing. Besides, down here, you want to talk confidential, you cannot use a cellular, it is just radio waves someone else can pick out of the air. No, you want to be secure, you must use a land line, you know it?“
    Security, again. “So, how are you, Justo?“
    “I am well, John. Very well. But not such a good host, I leave you standing on my patio for so long without offering a drink. What will you have?“
    There was a tall, half-full drink with a lime section in it on the round table. “What are you having?“
    “Gin and tonic.“
    “Could you-make a vodka tonic?“
    “Done.“
    The petite woman disappeared into the house while Justo patted a seat for me. The waterfront was more waterway, boats parked against the concrete sides of it like too-large trucks in too-small spaces.
    I said, “Quite a place.“
    “For a poor immigrant, I have done well for myself.“
    He said it lightly. I motioned behind me. “Maid, your ‘men’.
    “Man, actually. Pepe is the only ‘house security.’ We tend to say ‘one of my men’ down here so the person you are speaking to, or others listening in, believes you are somewhat... stronger?“
    “Security that big a problem, Justo?“
    He rolled his lower lip under his upper teeth for just a heartbeat. “Worse than ever. Too much unemployment, too much drugs, too much immigration—though that is a hell of a thing for me to be saying, eh?“
    I shrugged.
    The maid came out with my drink and a fresh one for Justo, taking away the unfinished one he hadn’t touched since I’d joined him. As she withdrew, he raised his glass, “To absent friends.“
    We clinked. “Funny you should say that. I just visited... I just went to the Wall.“
    A nod. “Your... first?“
    “Yes. I can’t see going back again, somehow.“
    “Me, too. I had business in D.C., I went out there, figure to see it quick, just so I would know what it really felt like. I was there almost two hours. You?“
    “Not quite as long.“
    Vega fiddled with his drink. “You talk much to other vets, John? About being over there, I mean.“
    “When it comes up.“
    “Same here. I cannot really talk about it, still. Or ever, probably. Oh, the parties and the stupid stuff, the drinking bouts, sure. But not... not the war, itself.“
    “Remember the Coco-butt night?“
    “The Coco... ? Oh, sure, sure, the wrestler thing. God, What a headache that gave me! Worse than any hangover.“
    “Came in handy, though. Just a while ago.“
    Justo looked at me strangely. “The drinking?“
    “The Coco-butt.“
    “I don’t get you.“
    “We ‘secure’ to talk here?“
    Justo’s look went