"Good night, Grigori." I end it and feel the corridor close around me again, the fluorescent light suddenly toobright. I pocket the phone, slide my shoulder off the wall, and walk downstairs.
Outside, it’s still hot; music blares from all sides, and the scents of food waft from every corner, mixing and mingling.
The bar I choose has plastic chairs, a TV with soccer highlights, and a bartender who keeps his opinions on ice. There are two American tourists at the end of the bar, red as shrimp, and three locals playing cards under a slow fan that seems to be purely decorative.
I order tacos and a beer and make small talk that sounds like it belongs to a softer man.
"You alone here?" one of the Americans, Billy, asks.
I shake my head, "No, my wife is at the hotel."
The two men nod knowingly at each other and me. "Surgery?"
How the fuck do they know that? All my alarms go off, but Omar, the other American, looks wistful, "Yah, mine had her nose done, and Billy's her tits and ass."
The pieces slowly fall together. These men brought their wives here for plastic surgery because it's cheaper. I stare at the two losers. It's bad enough to support surgery that most likely wasn't needed, but to have it done on the cheap? Suddenly, Oksana's voice pops into my head,spoiled much? Taking a sip of the beer, I swallow my annoyance down and grin at the two men in what I hope looks like commiseration. Also, I hope they don't noticemy suit, which probably costs more than their wives' surgery. "Yeah, boobs," I respond, grinning, thinking of Oksana's perfect breasts, an image that makes my fingers itch to feel them again. So soft, so pliant. My mouth waters at the thought of sucking on those nipples again, and my cock turns instantly hard as a rock. Damn.
If she hears this, she'll be furious, but what the heck? When was the last time I had some fun?
"From this," I indicate a flat chest, "to this." I make my hands into bowls. The men whistle in appreciation.
"Nice."
One of the locals perks up from his card game and grins. "La tuya?Boob job?" He cups an invisible pair and laughs into his beer.
I let my mouth go wolfish. "Sure," I say. "Let’s call it that."
It buys me what I came for, normal conversation, a slab of anonymity. We circle the weather, soccer, and the price of gas. I let them lead and then, when the table loosens, I nudge.
"So while my wife is recuperating, what's here for a man to see or do?"
Billy taps the rim of his paper cup. "Couple of poker games if you're into that, the buy-in’s light till midnight, heavier after that."
I shake my head. "Can't leave the missus at night. I only snuck out now to," I make air quotation marks, "get some food."
The men nod in commiseration. Then Omar suggests, "The duomo, the market, you can buy her some nice earrings there." He winks.
One of the Mexicans—Ángel, the one with the cracked knuckles and the Saint Jude medallion—leans in, keeping his voice low like he’s sharing contraband. "Locals go to the old salt sheds past the cannery. Guys fry sardines on drum lids and pass around contraband grappa. No tourists. You want quiet, that’s where it lives."
"That's where it lives," Billy repeats, amused. "Or dies."
I let them chatter for another few minutes, then toss my pebble into the water. "What about that old army base I heard about?" I keep it casual, a man with a hobby and time to burn. "I’m a military history buff. Wouldn’t mind seeing it."
The laughter falls off a cliff. One of the card players shakes his head once, slowly. "No es para ti," he says.Not for you.
"People don’t come back," the bartender adds, wiping a clean glass. "Bad business."
"Cartel?" I venture, casual as a cigarette.
Nods. Eyes go anywhere but mine. "Mala gente," a man murmurs.Bad people. "They bring the storm with them."
I finish my beer and leave a tip fat enough to make my questions forgettable. Outside, the night has cooled just enough to pass for mercy. I stand in the doorway and watch the street do what streets do—carry sins past men who learn not to stare—and think about an old base and a woman upstairs who kisses like a promise she doesn’t know how to keep.
Wife.The word fits in my mouth like it plans to stay.
Back at the hotel, I ease the door open. She hasn’t moved. I sit in the chair by the window and text Ettoro:
Me:
