The Second Bat Guano War Part 18

"That all?" he asked.

I returned his gaze. "That's all."

"You no lie Hak Po?" he asked quietly. "You no want me make you nice sausage?" Another nick.

I stiffened. "Swear on my dead daughter's grave."

His eyes widened. "A terrible swear." He let go of me and stepped back. "You have dead daughter? What happen?"

I collapsed against the countertop, stuffed myself back into my pants. Sorry, Lili, I thought. A false oath d.a.m.ns a man how many times?

"I'd rather not say."

He shaved the back of a knuckle with the meat cleaver.

"Say." He frowned. "Say."

"It happened in La Paz," I mumbled. "She died." I put the cocaine on the counter and covered my face with my hands. "It was my fault."

Hak Po listened to me sob. He patted my shoulder. "I believe. Here."

He presented me the bag of sugar. Yay. Enthusiasm. Not. I dug my finger into the bag and shoved it up my nose. What remained of my septum went numb. So did the memory.

I sighed and licked my finger. "That's better. Thanks, Hak."

He bobbed his head, meat cleaver twitching at his side. "Price go up."

"Since when?"

"Exterminators expensive. Cost of business more."

"How much more?"

He smiled. "How much you got?"

I wiped my nose with my forearm. Now was not the time to negotiate. I stuck my hand down the back of my pants, dragged out a bundle of used American twenty-dollar bills. Pitt had given me the money that morning.

"Make sure you kill them all," I said.

"Not just kill." The meat cleaver hung low in his fist. "Exterminate."

He took the money, planted the meat cleaver back in the chopping board, started counting the wad of dirty bills.

I still held the bag in my hand. "Got something I can carry it in?"

"Do some shopping."

He twitched his head toward the opposite kitchen counter. Mountains of food threatened avalanche: kilo bags of white rice, boxes of black tea, powdered milk, canned tomatoes. A roll of plastic grocery bags sat to one side.

Hak Po flicked through the cash. I filled a shopping bag with the a.s.sorted goods on the counter.

I held up the bag of c.o.ke. "You got tape?"

"By your head," he said, still counting.

Attached to an upper cabinet at eye level was a clear plastic tape dispenser. I ripped off some tape and sealed the bag, nestled it next to the rice.

I fingered my shirt cuff. Hak was counting the money a second time. Was it worth the risk?

Come home without planting the bug, dude, and you're on the next plane back to the States. Drop a b.u.t.ton, win a prize! Pitt laughed at that. Carrot and stick, dude. I know it sucks. Don't blame me. This is Ambo talking.

"Been a while I see you," he said. "Where you get money?"

The kitchen floor was clean. It gleamed with a recent coat of wax. The b.u.t.ton was white, the floor black. There was nowhere to hide it.

"Rich uncle I know. Name of Samuel."

He c.o.c.ked his head to one side. "Samuel. That funny name."

I pinched the b.u.t.ton and stray thread, yanked.

"Isn't it, though?"

I coughed, dropped the b.u.t.ton to the floor.

Hak Po deposited the money into a hidden pocket of his ap.r.o.n. He looked at the floor, up at me.

"You drop something."

"What I drop?"

He walked over, poked the b.u.t.ton with his shoe. "You drop b.u.t.ton."

Think fast. I checked my shirt. "Isn't mine."

"No?"

He ran his fingertips along my shirtfront, touched the collar, lifted my wrists, turning them to show the b.u.t.tons. He grunted.

"Paranoia, dude," I said.

"Paranoia good for business."

Hak Po knelt and sc.r.a.ped the floor with the meat cleaver. He lifted the b.u.t.ton to eye level, the edge of the cleaver an inch from my nose.

"Better you take b.u.t.ton with."

He held the cleaver there, the thin line of the knife dividing his eyes from the rest of his face. He held my gaze, his eyes unwavering, studying mine. Tripe juice dripped on my shoes.

I laughed. "Don't know what your game is, dude, but I ain't taking what ain't mine."

The blade touched the tip of my nose. He frowned. "Really not you?"

I shook my head. "Really not me."

Hak Po stood straight, lowered the cleaver. The frown, however, stayed intact. "Someone else, then."

My head bobbed of its own volition. "Someone else."

We looked at the b.u.t.ton resting on the side of the meat cleaver.

"Better throw away," he said.

He walked over to the sink and turned on the faucet, flicked the switch for the garbage disposal. The room filled with the growl of that insatiable mechanical demon.

"Wait." I crossed the room, caught the b.u.t.ton as it slid from the cleaver, my hand over the gaping maw of the garbage disposal. "Don't you want to know who put it there?"

Hak Po shut off the disposal, turned off the water. "What you mean?"

"Maybe it's a test. See if you'd notice."

"I notice. You see I notice."

I shrugged. "Maybe another customer. If you didn't notice, then they'd plant a real bug."

His eyes bulged from his head, his jaw clenched. "Find them."

"Yes."

"Who did it."

"Yes."

He went back to the wooden chopping board, seized the tripe and in great strokes slashed at the intestines, cleaver high overhead, thunking down onto the wood.

"Find them. Hurt them. Teach them."

"Teach them, yes."

"Not to-" Thwack! "-f.u.c.k with-" Thwack! "-Hak-" Thwack! "-Po!"

I pulled a piece of tape from the dispenser, pressed the b.u.t.ton to the sticky side. I held up the tape for him to see.

"What you do is this."

I pressed the tape to a cupboard at eye level, just over the stove. The white b.u.t.ton stood out as a blemish against the surface of the black cupboard.

"Yes," Hak Po said, slammed the cleaver into the wood. He slapped me on the back. "We teach them lesson."

"Wait for the guilty face."

"The guilty one, yes." His arm was tight around my shoulder.

"See guilty face," I said. "Hurt guilty face."

I winked at the b.u.t.ton. Hak Po saw the movement.

"You OK? Want some drops? I got drops. Drops right here."

"It's alright. Just something in my eye." I rubbed it with my finger. "It'll be fine. I should get going."

He pointed at the mess of food and soda on the floor. "But you eat nothing, Horse!"

I rubbed my stomach. "Not so hungry."

Hak Po shrugged his shoulders. "Insult chef. See I care."

"You know how it is."

"Too much snort-snort. Not good for you."

I scratched my nostril. "Never said it was."

Hak Po escorted me through the factory, past the presses and the cauldrons glowing orange, back to the dusty shop. He unlocked the front door. Held out a hand.

"Always pleasure do business with honest man."

I shook his hand. It was dry and leathery, as though the entire covering of skin was about to peel. I tried to smile, but the muscles refused to obey.

"What would I do without you, Hak?"

He inclined his head, and I stepped into the street. The evening darkness acc.u.mulated on street corners, and against the graffiti-stained walls. The damp smog cloaked me in welcome pollution as I walked down the street. A black-haired woman emerged from the sooty mist. A well-dressed limena. Must have been a beauty once. Now prematurely aged. My stomach revolted, and I bent over, vomited on her shoes, remnants of yesterday's junk-food binge coating her elegant patent-leather flats.

The woman gripped her purse tight. "Think I'd fall for that?" She stepped around me, marched off down the street, heels retreating. I sat there on my hands and knees for a long moment, the grocery bag at my side. The heels came clacking back. An explosion of pain made me double over. She kicked me in the stomach a second time, this time connecting with my still-broken rib.

"a.s.shole," she hissed.

Evening commuters stepped over me where I lay, another Lima b.u.m. When rush hour was over, I got to my feet, clutching the grocery bag at my side. At the corner I hailed a pa.s.sing mini-bus. I jumped the turnstile, thrust a few stained notes in the driver's direction. He cursed me for a gringo dog; I told him his mother was of dubious moral virtue. I squeezed down the narrow aisle and sat on the wheel hump. I ignored the grim faces of the other pa.s.sengers, each intent on his own losing struggle with life.

From time to time I looked out the back window. When the bus ground to a halt in the middle of downtown traffic, I hopped off. Outside a hotel I spotted a cab rank. A well-fed American with a double chin stood holding a door open. He wore a plaid check suit and a large Panama hat.

"I don't care if you're f.u.c.king the bellboy, honey, got to hurry now, or we'll miss our flight!"

I ducked under his arm into the back of the cab, fished a fifty-dollar bill from my rotting jeans, held the money over the seat to the driver. He grinned.

"Where to?"

"Miraflores. No rush."