Chapter 5 Six inch heels
A shorty
Disclaimers apply. Thomas Harris owns Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter. I'm just borrowing the personas for fun. No copyright infringement contemplated or intended.
"Well look at this will y'all? Fresh West Virginia ho!"
Franco and Jared whistled and Bernie looked her over, unblinkingly. "You dirty up pretty well Starling."
Jose moved away from the group and came up to Clarice as she took her beer from the bartender. He looked her up and down once. "Is good, very good" He forced a smile. "OK no hard feelings. Lets plan. Tonight is very important" He said this fiercely, looking up at Clarice from underneath a pair of frowning brows. None of this looked real to Clarice. It felt like some elaborate blooding ritual. The inevitability of it all, dragged at her guts. 'Make the best job of it you can, Clarice' How many times had she said that to herself in the last 3 years ?
Jose pulled a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and smoothed it out on the bar. It was a map of La Boca. He began his exposition. He sounded like an airport tourist brochure. "Caminito Street – named after a popular tango and well frequented by tourists during the day. Like an open air museum and recommended for a visit in quieter times. Outside of this – a poorer area with a waterfront with narrow streets. Some small squares with one or two cafes." Jose became expansive, describing the buildings, some with balconies, leaning in a little, permanently shaded during the day and black at night except for the occasional lamp, fixed to walls at corners and sometimes half way along a stretch of alleyway.
Clarice could feel her abdominal muscles contracting and ice running down her spine. Fine if you were with people you knew and trusted ..... but then, she had never faltered. No matter what she had been asked to do. That was part of the job – looking straight into the hurricane's eye.
Jose had laid a hand on Clarice's arm. "No walking or talking we just want you to sit at this café so you can see up this street" He indicated one of the lines with a nicotine stained finger "Someone comes to you – you tell them to go away, you are waiting for a trick – then the other girls won't bother you. We expect Diego at this house at 11 or 12. You drop your bag on the ground when you see him. OK ?"
"No wire, no radio ?" Clarice asked sharply
"No, too obvious, anyway, no need – we are right there"
"Special Agent Starling feeling a little exposed ?" This from Franco, he of the twisted smile and bitter tongue "You're not in the FBI now, Special Agent Starling. No battalions of backup boys. No fancy wires or mikes. Just your wits or in this case ..... tits" He flashed his teeth at Clarice. Zack laughed out loud and Jared with the pale blue eyes and almost hairless skin giggled.
Clarice quietly sipped her beer and listened to them discussing hookers they had taken, dealers they had wasted, bars they had trashed. Bernie watched her from underneath half lidded eyes. She returned his gaze unblinkingly. She felt almost completely dislocated from these men and this place.
Her mind began to wander. Why was flaying the flesh good for the soul? Would all this shit really make her feel any better? There was a thought beginning to uncoil unpleasantly at the back of her mind – that she had taken this job because she had lacked the courage to cut the cord and get out.
Jared was giggling. In the yellow light their teeth, the set of their heads on their shoulders – leaning forward over their drinks, looking at her, made her think of a clan of hyenas. "They eat corpses", she thought.
Jose was sweating freely, his eyes never still, sliding across the mirror behind the bar, flicking to right and left looking at the other tables but never resting on Clarice. Finally he said "let's go" He tipped the bottle to his lips and drained the dregs.
Jose took his bike. The others jostled themselves into one taxi and Clarice took another on her own. The driver was silent. Clarice sat back and watched the lights and let the wind through the open window dry the sweat off her face. She felt as if she had abrogated all responsibility to another place. She had felt this before, on high risk raids. "Drifting on the Styx" was what John Brigham had called it. A way to mentally prepare for battle.
