The Shadow of the Shadow Read Free Page B

crumbs for dinner. Then they go to
sleep on the countertops." The officers had spent the earlier part
of the evening drinking second-class aguardiente at first-class
prices in the ballroom upstairs. Obviously, they weren't familiar
with the house rules. Two different worlds made up the Majestic,
one upstairs and one downstairs. There was no love lost between
them and they didn't mix. Maria Conesa might be singing upstairs
for some high government minister while downstairs, when the
pool tables were really jumping, you might run across half a dozen
of the toughest, ugliest Spaniards that ever cursed the face of the
earth, and with more blood on their hands than the whole rest of
the city put together. And this was a city with a blood debt you
couldn't clear up in a very long lifetime.
    The Chinaman looked the officers over one by one. His
disdain could easily be misinterpreted as fear by the drunken men. It would be a big mistake.

    "Don't you officels have any medals?" he asked.
    "The Mexican Army doesn't need to put its honor on parade
for some slanteyes like you," scoffed one of the captains. Back at
the table, the poet and the journalist exchanged looks. Verdugo
got up and walked toward the bathroom, near the front door.
He unfastened two of the buttons on his vest and with the same
motion released the safety on his gun.
    "What about in youl house? Don't you have any medals in
youl house even?" asked the Chinaman, fixing the men with a
withering stare.
    "My friends here each have two citations for valor and a medal
for being wounded in the line of duty, you lousy Chink," sputtered
the lieutenant, feeling incomprehensibly trapped by the absurdity
of the Chinaman's question.
    "Tomas!" the journalist shouted from his seat at the table.
"Let's not have any bloodshed, please." He turned his back to the
bar and took over where the lawyer left off, shuffling the dominoes.
The poet kept his eyes on the officers.
    "You gentlemen ready to pay for your drinks?" the bartender
asked the three soldiers, well aware of what was about to happen.
    "I was only going to suggest you take youl medals and hang
them flom youl fucking mothel's asses," said the Chinaman.
    Tomas found himself obliged to deflect the lieutenant's fistwith
a quick chopping blow to the forearm. At his post near the door,
the lawyer drew his gun and shouted in a booming baritone:
    "Keep it clean, gentlemen. The first one who goes for his gun
is a dead man."
    The two captains turned to look at Verdugo while Tomas
smashed his fist into the lieutenant's face. Two bloody teeth
dropped from the officer's mouth and he staggered backward. One
of the captains hung back with his eyes on Verdugo while the
other went to the aid of his fallen comrade, who fell underneath
the bar spitting blood. The Chinaman stopped the captain in his tracks, butting him in the stomach with his head. The poet got to
his feet. Walking calmly to where the first officer lay on the floor,
he placed a foot over the hand slowly inching its way toward the
gun at the man's belt.

    Gripping his stomach, the captain dropped to his knees and
started to vomit. Then the Chinaman moved toward the third
man, who grabbed the bottle of Havana brandy off the bar and,
brandishing it in front of him, backed toward the door. But the
lawyer came from behind and brought the barrel of his gun down
hard on the man's temple. He fell in a heap on the floor.
    "Sorry to spoil your fun, Tomas, but I was afraid you were
going to hurt the poor guy," he said.
    The bartender came out and saved the rest of the bottle of
brandy from spilling onto the ground.
    Tomas walked back to the bar, rubbing his right hand.
    "You missed the party," said the poet to Manterola, who
continued to scramble the dominoes.
    "Not on your life. I turned around when the action started. I
was just keeping quiet a little for show. I've known Tomas for three
years now and I've seen him do this two or three times.