Emakume
Log 2: Rie Y Llora
Todo es tan relativo
No es que recuerde, si no que no olvido
Eso es el perdon, recordar sin dolor
-
17:17 Zulu
Miami Jai Alai, Miami; Hialeah, Fl. USA
The place was pretty shady. The drive over from Opa-Locka Airport was long, and the neighborhoods they drove through made them nervous. Poor, dirty and industrialized, the fronton sat on a shitty piece of land that was surrounded by storage units and garages; the moving neon lights of Jai Alai players on the outside of the building were either broken or hard to see, overshadowed by the lights from the Pink Pussycat Club just ahead. Inside they were bombarded with the stale smell of cigarette and cigar smoke; the haze from it even worse. The mutual clerks looked bored, and the only ones inside where the court laid were degenerate gamblers and families of the players. Yeah, this place was pretty shady.
She slouched in her chair, noisily munching on some tasty fried treat she'd picked up from a vendor. She'd forgotten what it was called, chu-something or other.
Courtney glanced up at Wayne, he'd been on edge since they'd entered Hialeah, or rather, the section of Hialeah they were in. She could understand that though, the crime rate here was out of hand and the police officers assigned to the area were just as dirty as the people who lived in it. But he needed to lighten up.
In front of them the first game of the night was nearly over, she hadn't paid much attention to it, not after she'd spent the first five minutes trying to figure out where the ball was. It moved to damn fast and they sat too far away for her to keep an eye on it. Not that she understood what was going on anyway.
"I don't get this game," she blurted out, pieces of churro nearly flying out of her mouth.
"What is there to get? They just throw the ball against the wall and catch it," he didn't sound too impressed with what was going on in front of him.
"No shit Sherlock, but there's a point system that I can't figure out. And why the hell are the players wearing two different numbers?"
Wayne crossed his arms, "how the hell should I know?" He shifted in his seat, "so, where is this guy?"
"I dunno, Sonny Crockett said he'd meet us here at 17:00."
"Sonny Crockett? I thought his name was John Tuttle."
Courtney looked at him incredulously, "did you not watch Miami Vice?!"
"What's Miami Vice?"
She gave him a sideways glance that she was happy he didn't see before crumbling the wax paper bag in her hand. She sighed and opened the night's program she'd picked up on their way in and looked over the names and numbers, the averages and other statistics inside of it. Some of the names listed she didn't know how to begin to pronounce. Those weren't Spanish names.
"Oh my God...."
"What?"
"Wayne, look at this," she handed him the pamphlet and pointed to the names listed in the scratched section, "Michelena, Soroa, and Gernika.... those are the men who were-"she stopped talking as someone moved down the aisle in front of them.
The man was tall and lean, face a bit gruff but handsome. His skin was brown from the sun and he looked darker than he was in the low lighting of the room. He sat down in a seat just in front of them, sitting between the two really.
Sonny Crockett?
"It's a beautiful game, don't you think?" he voice was deep and smooth. "The fastest game on the earth."
"I dunno how it works."
"Too bad, bet on Cachin II there and you'll make bank. The guy never loses," he never looked back at them when he spoke. He just slouched down and rested his arms on the backs of the seats beside him.
They watched the players in silence. Each man on the concha moved and jumped with a fluidity that seemed unnatural; using the cesta as a weaved extension of their bodies. The crack of the pelota on the front wall and the swoop of their cestas was the only sound in the entire room. A player balked and the hand full of people in the room, including the man in front of them, clapped.
"Good game," he stated; he could feel the eyes of the man behind him burning a hole through his head. "It's a Basque game, Jai Alai, I mean. They brought it with them when they immigrated to this country.... Well, more like, gamblers brought the game here, the players followed with the promises of money and fame."
"Did they fulfill their promises?" Courtney humored him.
"In the 80's.... now, well, it looks like they're all getting knocked off, right?"
"Tuttle," Beach Head said matter-of-factly.
The man in front of them raised a hand and waved slightly.
"You took your sweet time getting here," his southern drawl sounded scolding.
John laughed, "I don't think there's a single person in this town that understands the concept of punctuality."
"That's not a sufficient excuse, Tuttle, if-"
"What information do you have for us, if you don't mind," Krieger cut Sneeden off to which he shot her a dirty look.
John shifted in his chair, getting himself comfortable and eyes fixated on the start of the second game. "Most of the men out on the concha right now are one of three nationalities: Mexican, American, and Basque. Most people don't know who the Basque are or where they come from, mostly because the people themselves can't even really claim to be who they are."
"That's because the Basque countryside is only simply that, they're not a sovereign nation."
"You're right sir. However, culturally, genetically, and linguistically, they are not Spaniard or French, they are their own unique people. They were the Basque before Rome thought to invade Gaul, and defeated them when they did. Since Europe became what it is today they have pleaded to have their own land, to be their own country, but neither France nor Spain will give it to them."
"What is this leading to, Mr. Tuttle, if you don't mind me asking?"
"It all leads to this, Gorgeous. For nearly forty years the Basque have maintained a movement within their people, they have created what they call Euzkadi Ta Askatasuna-"
"Basque Fatherland and Liberty, but what does a terrorist organization in Spain have to do with Cuban gunboats?" The man hadn't quite piqued his attention yet.
"Everyone who's died out there was a citizen of either Spain or France. All in this country on work visas or had already been naturalized. All of which, were defective members of the ETA."
"I still don't see the connection," Courtney stated.
Tuttle was quiet for a moment; he was watching the game-taking place in front of him. He grinned as he looked at the score and down at his tickets. "In '98 the ETA declared an indefinite ceasefire to which they didn't oblige. The summer of 2000 was the bloodiest summer in the history of the ETA and every year is increasingly worse. Murder isn't the answer to getting what you want, but these people are on their last leg in finding independence."
"Are some sort of sympathizer?"
John laughed at Wayne's comment, "not at all. What I'm getting to is the fact that Spain cannot handle them anymore. They have too many followers now, they're getting far more violent then they were forty years ago. They have a new head, a second faction that is much more powerful and vindictive. A large number of separatists don't want anything to do with what they are trying to accomplish now. It's no longer about claiming their homeland, but just raw violence and take over."
"So their knocking off defectives to cover their ass...."
"Exactly, Beautiful. Those gunboats aren't Cuban, but they're a good cover," he winced as he watched the game, watched his bet loose. He quickly tore his tickets in half and dropped them on the floor. "However, that's all I know. If you need anymore information, start with the guys who played with Michelena, the Geotze brothers are a good place to start, they've played with him since '82."
-
22:32 Zulu
Locker room, Miami Jai Alai: Miami; Hialeah, Fl. USA
The locker room was filled with a mixture of sweat and soap, the steam from the showers making the dressing area humid and damp. The voices within it were confused in a strange mix of good humor and multiple languages, the metal crack of lockers being opened and shut louder than anything else. The last game of the night had been played only a short time ago, Cover Girl and Beach Head had sat in the arena awaiting the last game, the Geotze brothers were in the last doubles match and the pair had no choice but to wait. In the time that they spent sitting there an older gentlemen had been kind enough to explain the basics of the game to them, and though Courtney had found the talk enlightening Wayne could have cared less. He was more concerned with the mission at hand.
"Woman on the floor!" the announcement had sent some into a scramble to either put on their clothes or cover up with a towel, the rest didn't seem to care.
"Kent and Denny Geotze?" she saw two heads perk up when she said those names. "I'm assuming that's you two?"
"That's us," the man that answered was tall, about Wayne's height, but with a much smaller build. His thin dark hair was wet and hung limply on his head, his nose and angular features were distinctly Germen, but his dark eyes and complexion said otherwise. His skin was dark, though not from exposure to the sun. "I'm Dennis," he held his hand out to the soldiers in front of him, "this is my brother Kent," he indicated with a nod in the younger man's direction. "What can we do for you?"
Cover Girl looked up at Beach Head in a moment of loss for words before she turned back toward them.
"We understand that you and Kent here are good friends with Michelena."
"We went through Obrea Jai Alai together, played here and at just about every fronton in the US with him. He's a good guy.... So who are you and why are you looking for him?" there was something in his eyes that told her he was protective of his fellow Jai Alai players.
She took a breath, "We just need some information."
"You guys spooks?" Dennis questioned.
"Shit...." Kent grunted before moving toward his locker.
"He was scratched from tonight's line up, any reason why?" the two men cocked an eyebrow as the big man finally spoke.
"Yeah, he's on vacation with a few of the other players right now," Kent answered. He was a bit shorter than his older brother, his skin tawnier, and his hair lighter. Had they not been side by side she would have never guess them to be related.
She shoved her hands into the pockets of her tattered bomber jacket. Vacation? "Any idea as to where he was going?"
"He said something about it being a Basque thing, wouldn't let us in on it. Did he do something wrong?" she could see the concern lurking in those eyes.
Beach Head perked up, "Basque thing?"
"Yeah, they all kinda stick together. Survival technique I would assume."
"Is there anyone else who would know about this 'Basque thing'?"
The brothers looked at one another and shared a passing moment that only siblings can experience. Denny moved toward his locker as his brother stepped forward. "If there's one person who says they're more Basque than Obrea, then they're a friggin' liar. He still teaches at Amateur Jai Alai in NMB, find him and he'll prob'ly know what they were talking about."
-
Log 2: Rie Y Llora
Todo es tan relativo
No es que recuerde, si no que no olvido
Eso es el perdon, recordar sin dolor
-
17:17 Zulu
Miami Jai Alai, Miami; Hialeah, Fl. USA
The place was pretty shady. The drive over from Opa-Locka Airport was long, and the neighborhoods they drove through made them nervous. Poor, dirty and industrialized, the fronton sat on a shitty piece of land that was surrounded by storage units and garages; the moving neon lights of Jai Alai players on the outside of the building were either broken or hard to see, overshadowed by the lights from the Pink Pussycat Club just ahead. Inside they were bombarded with the stale smell of cigarette and cigar smoke; the haze from it even worse. The mutual clerks looked bored, and the only ones inside where the court laid were degenerate gamblers and families of the players. Yeah, this place was pretty shady.
She slouched in her chair, noisily munching on some tasty fried treat she'd picked up from a vendor. She'd forgotten what it was called, chu-something or other.
Courtney glanced up at Wayne, he'd been on edge since they'd entered Hialeah, or rather, the section of Hialeah they were in. She could understand that though, the crime rate here was out of hand and the police officers assigned to the area were just as dirty as the people who lived in it. But he needed to lighten up.
In front of them the first game of the night was nearly over, she hadn't paid much attention to it, not after she'd spent the first five minutes trying to figure out where the ball was. It moved to damn fast and they sat too far away for her to keep an eye on it. Not that she understood what was going on anyway.
"I don't get this game," she blurted out, pieces of churro nearly flying out of her mouth.
"What is there to get? They just throw the ball against the wall and catch it," he didn't sound too impressed with what was going on in front of him.
"No shit Sherlock, but there's a point system that I can't figure out. And why the hell are the players wearing two different numbers?"
Wayne crossed his arms, "how the hell should I know?" He shifted in his seat, "so, where is this guy?"
"I dunno, Sonny Crockett said he'd meet us here at 17:00."
"Sonny Crockett? I thought his name was John Tuttle."
Courtney looked at him incredulously, "did you not watch Miami Vice?!"
"What's Miami Vice?"
She gave him a sideways glance that she was happy he didn't see before crumbling the wax paper bag in her hand. She sighed and opened the night's program she'd picked up on their way in and looked over the names and numbers, the averages and other statistics inside of it. Some of the names listed she didn't know how to begin to pronounce. Those weren't Spanish names.
"Oh my God...."
"What?"
"Wayne, look at this," she handed him the pamphlet and pointed to the names listed in the scratched section, "Michelena, Soroa, and Gernika.... those are the men who were-"she stopped talking as someone moved down the aisle in front of them.
The man was tall and lean, face a bit gruff but handsome. His skin was brown from the sun and he looked darker than he was in the low lighting of the room. He sat down in a seat just in front of them, sitting between the two really.
Sonny Crockett?
"It's a beautiful game, don't you think?" he voice was deep and smooth. "The fastest game on the earth."
"I dunno how it works."
"Too bad, bet on Cachin II there and you'll make bank. The guy never loses," he never looked back at them when he spoke. He just slouched down and rested his arms on the backs of the seats beside him.
They watched the players in silence. Each man on the concha moved and jumped with a fluidity that seemed unnatural; using the cesta as a weaved extension of their bodies. The crack of the pelota on the front wall and the swoop of their cestas was the only sound in the entire room. A player balked and the hand full of people in the room, including the man in front of them, clapped.
"Good game," he stated; he could feel the eyes of the man behind him burning a hole through his head. "It's a Basque game, Jai Alai, I mean. They brought it with them when they immigrated to this country.... Well, more like, gamblers brought the game here, the players followed with the promises of money and fame."
"Did they fulfill their promises?" Courtney humored him.
"In the 80's.... now, well, it looks like they're all getting knocked off, right?"
"Tuttle," Beach Head said matter-of-factly.
The man in front of them raised a hand and waved slightly.
"You took your sweet time getting here," his southern drawl sounded scolding.
John laughed, "I don't think there's a single person in this town that understands the concept of punctuality."
"That's not a sufficient excuse, Tuttle, if-"
"What information do you have for us, if you don't mind," Krieger cut Sneeden off to which he shot her a dirty look.
John shifted in his chair, getting himself comfortable and eyes fixated on the start of the second game. "Most of the men out on the concha right now are one of three nationalities: Mexican, American, and Basque. Most people don't know who the Basque are or where they come from, mostly because the people themselves can't even really claim to be who they are."
"That's because the Basque countryside is only simply that, they're not a sovereign nation."
"You're right sir. However, culturally, genetically, and linguistically, they are not Spaniard or French, they are their own unique people. They were the Basque before Rome thought to invade Gaul, and defeated them when they did. Since Europe became what it is today they have pleaded to have their own land, to be their own country, but neither France nor Spain will give it to them."
"What is this leading to, Mr. Tuttle, if you don't mind me asking?"
"It all leads to this, Gorgeous. For nearly forty years the Basque have maintained a movement within their people, they have created what they call Euzkadi Ta Askatasuna-"
"Basque Fatherland and Liberty, but what does a terrorist organization in Spain have to do with Cuban gunboats?" The man hadn't quite piqued his attention yet.
"Everyone who's died out there was a citizen of either Spain or France. All in this country on work visas or had already been naturalized. All of which, were defective members of the ETA."
"I still don't see the connection," Courtney stated.
Tuttle was quiet for a moment; he was watching the game-taking place in front of him. He grinned as he looked at the score and down at his tickets. "In '98 the ETA declared an indefinite ceasefire to which they didn't oblige. The summer of 2000 was the bloodiest summer in the history of the ETA and every year is increasingly worse. Murder isn't the answer to getting what you want, but these people are on their last leg in finding independence."
"Are some sort of sympathizer?"
John laughed at Wayne's comment, "not at all. What I'm getting to is the fact that Spain cannot handle them anymore. They have too many followers now, they're getting far more violent then they were forty years ago. They have a new head, a second faction that is much more powerful and vindictive. A large number of separatists don't want anything to do with what they are trying to accomplish now. It's no longer about claiming their homeland, but just raw violence and take over."
"So their knocking off defectives to cover their ass...."
"Exactly, Beautiful. Those gunboats aren't Cuban, but they're a good cover," he winced as he watched the game, watched his bet loose. He quickly tore his tickets in half and dropped them on the floor. "However, that's all I know. If you need anymore information, start with the guys who played with Michelena, the Geotze brothers are a good place to start, they've played with him since '82."
-
22:32 Zulu
Locker room, Miami Jai Alai: Miami; Hialeah, Fl. USA
The locker room was filled with a mixture of sweat and soap, the steam from the showers making the dressing area humid and damp. The voices within it were confused in a strange mix of good humor and multiple languages, the metal crack of lockers being opened and shut louder than anything else. The last game of the night had been played only a short time ago, Cover Girl and Beach Head had sat in the arena awaiting the last game, the Geotze brothers were in the last doubles match and the pair had no choice but to wait. In the time that they spent sitting there an older gentlemen had been kind enough to explain the basics of the game to them, and though Courtney had found the talk enlightening Wayne could have cared less. He was more concerned with the mission at hand.
"Woman on the floor!" the announcement had sent some into a scramble to either put on their clothes or cover up with a towel, the rest didn't seem to care.
"Kent and Denny Geotze?" she saw two heads perk up when she said those names. "I'm assuming that's you two?"
"That's us," the man that answered was tall, about Wayne's height, but with a much smaller build. His thin dark hair was wet and hung limply on his head, his nose and angular features were distinctly Germen, but his dark eyes and complexion said otherwise. His skin was dark, though not from exposure to the sun. "I'm Dennis," he held his hand out to the soldiers in front of him, "this is my brother Kent," he indicated with a nod in the younger man's direction. "What can we do for you?"
Cover Girl looked up at Beach Head in a moment of loss for words before she turned back toward them.
"We understand that you and Kent here are good friends with Michelena."
"We went through Obrea Jai Alai together, played here and at just about every fronton in the US with him. He's a good guy.... So who are you and why are you looking for him?" there was something in his eyes that told her he was protective of his fellow Jai Alai players.
She took a breath, "We just need some information."
"You guys spooks?" Dennis questioned.
"Shit...." Kent grunted before moving toward his locker.
"He was scratched from tonight's line up, any reason why?" the two men cocked an eyebrow as the big man finally spoke.
"Yeah, he's on vacation with a few of the other players right now," Kent answered. He was a bit shorter than his older brother, his skin tawnier, and his hair lighter. Had they not been side by side she would have never guess them to be related.
She shoved her hands into the pockets of her tattered bomber jacket. Vacation? "Any idea as to where he was going?"
"He said something about it being a Basque thing, wouldn't let us in on it. Did he do something wrong?" she could see the concern lurking in those eyes.
Beach Head perked up, "Basque thing?"
"Yeah, they all kinda stick together. Survival technique I would assume."
"Is there anyone else who would know about this 'Basque thing'?"
The brothers looked at one another and shared a passing moment that only siblings can experience. Denny moved toward his locker as his brother stepped forward. "If there's one person who says they're more Basque than Obrea, then they're a friggin' liar. He still teaches at Amateur Jai Alai in NMB, find him and he'll prob'ly know what they were talking about."
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